Page 125 of Murder at Donwell Abbey
“I suppose two sets of eyes are better than one, but you mustn’t say a word to my father. And I’ll tell Mr. Knightley if we find anything, agreed?”
Her companion beamed at her. “I promise I won’t let you down. Oh, should I take notes? I have a pencil and a scrap of paper in my reticule. I should be happy to write down any observations we might make.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Emma firmly replied.
She marched Miss Bates up the path to the south porch of the church, doing her best to avoid thinking about the future with Miss Bates as her stepmother and, apparently, her partner in pursuing justice.
Miss Bates tried the door. “It’s locked. Do you want me to fetch Mr. Barlowe?”
Emma bent down to try to wriggle out a brick that was part of the door trim. “I hardly think Mr. Barlowe would wish us snooping around his church.”
“You make it sound so exciting, Mrs. Knightley! I cannot imagine what Mr. Woodhouse would think if he saw us now.”
Nothing good, of that Emma was sure.
“Come loose, you silly thing,” she muttered as she wrestled with the brick.
“Mrs. Knightley, what are you—”
“Ah, finally,” Emma triumphantly exclaimed.
After pulling the brick fully out, she reached into the hole and extracted a key.
Miss Bates regarded her with wide eyes. “How did you know that was there?”
“It’s where the caretaker stows an extra key. I saw him put it there one day when I brought flowers to the church.”
Emma opened the door and quickly ushered in her companion. It wouldn’t do to linger where they might be seen.
On an overcast winter’s morning, the old church was shrouded in silence and shadows. Even the stained glass windows held barely a hint of color, the figures a muted reflection of their usual glory. The stone monuments mounted between the windows seemed to blend into the walls, and the lack of light made everything appear flat and lifeless. It seemed as if the old church was hibernating as it waited for the warmth and color of spring.
It was also so cold that Emma couldn’t repress a shiver.
“It is quite drafty, isn’t it?” said Miss Bates in a worried tone. “Perhaps we should leave. It wouldn’t do for you to catch a chill.”
“I’m fine. Anyway, we won’t be long.”
Emma led the way to a staircase in the back corner.Lifting their skirts, they climbed the narrow, twisting stairs, ducking their head under the low doorframe when they reached the belfry.
The top of the tower was a tall, narrow space, with the center taken up by the frame that supported the bell and wheel. The noble old bell was not particularly large, so its timber frame left the perimeter of the room clear for storage. Emma hadn’t been up in the tower since she was a girl, but remembered it had been used for storage of broken furniture and other detritus collected by vicars over the years.
Now, though, the tower was empty and surprisingly free of dust. The floor looked like it might have been recently swept.
“My word, it’s very clean, isn’t it?” said Miss Bates. “When my father was vicar, he used to store all manner of things up here.”
“Hmm,” Emma muttered as she began to make her way around the room.
She was trying to make out what seemed to be odd-looking marks on the floor when a ray of winter sunlight streamed in through the high windows.
“Ah, that’s better.” She crouched down, running a hand across a mark scored into the floor.
Miss Bates joined her. “What is it?”
Emma pointed. “Does this not look like something was dragged across the boards?” She glanced toward the door and pointed. “But not over there.”
“How odd. What do you make of it?”
Emma straightened up. “It would appear that some object or objects were dragged away from the wall.”
