Page 132 of Murder at Donwell Abbey
He scoffed. “I’ve never met a man more God-fearing and upright in my life. It was a barmy notion to think he’d take such a risk, much less betray Mr. Knightley. If you’ll remember, ma’am, I was on the coroner’s jury. It seemed pretty clear to me that your take on the matter was the right one. Mr. Larkins was set up for a fall. But as that pompous blowhard—I mean, Dr. Hughes—pointed out, our job was to decide if murder had been done, not who did it.”
“So until this incident with Larkins, you’d heard nothing of any recent import about smuggling nearby?” Emma asked, to be sure.
“Mayhap one or two things, but nothing I paid much attention to. I’ve certainly heard no tale of farms being used for depots, or farmers being threatened.”
Emma sighed. “We were hoping you’d heard something.”
“I haven’t, but I know someone who might be able to help.”
She perked up. “Yes?”
He lumbered up from his chair. “I’ll fetch him now. Won’t take more than a few minutes.”
As he exited the room, Emma and Harriet exchanged a surprised glance.
“I wonder who it is?” said Harriet.
They didn’t have long to wait for Mr. Mitchell’s return. Only a few minutes later, they heard the rumble of masculine voices. Mr. Mitchell re-entered the room, followed by another man dressed in rough working clothes.
“Mr. Curtis,” exclaimed Emma. “How nice to see you again.”
The weather-beaten, middle-aged man flashed a broad grin. “And you, Mrs. Knightley. But it’s just Dick, ma’am. There be no need to be fancy with the likes of me.”
Dick Curtis was a local laborer who’d fallen on hard times after injuring his hand in a farming accident. Thankfully, the Mitchells had taken him under their wing, giving him as much work as he could perform. Emma and George had also had occasion to help him in the past, earning Dick’s undying loyalty.
“Mrs. Martin, you’re lookin’ well,” he said with a genial nod. “And I’m happy to be helpin’ you in any way I can, Mrs. Knightley. Mr. Mitchell’s explained to me about them bastards—” He grimaced. “Beggin’ your pardon, ladies. What them varlets are doing to your friends.”
“Have you heard reports of anything like that?” Emma asked.
“Not exactly, but I’m fair certain I had a run-in with them same smugglers just a few months ago.”
Emma’s heart skipped a beat. “Truly? Do you have any idea who they are?”
“Sorry, Mrs. Knightley. It was night, and they were all but disguised. That don’t mean I didn’t take note of some things, though.”
Mr. Mitchell tapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t keep the ladies waiting, man. Tell her what you told me back then.”
Dick scoffed. “I’m gettin’ there, never fear. Anyway, it was like this, Mrs. Knightley. I was walkin’ home from the Crown one night in November. I was almost there when two blokes came out of the bushes at the end of the lane. Surprised me something fierce, they did. Had no idea they were there, and by the looks of them, they were up to no good.”
“How did they look?” asked Emma.
“Well, they had scarves wound up round their faces and their hats pulled down round their ears. It weren’t that cold a night, so there was no reason to swaddle themselves up like that.”
“They didn’t want to be recognized,” Emma replied.
“You got it, missus.”
“So, you had a run-in with them. What did they want?”
“For me to work for them on some runs. Help them transport goods through Surrey to London.”
Harriet stared at him. “They just came up to you like that and asked you to work for them?”
“It’s not that unusual,” interjected Farmer Mitchell. “Smugglers sometimes approach farm laborers in the winter months, when work is scarce.”
“And you only spoke to them outside in the lane?” Emma asked Dick.
“Aye. I sure wasn’t gonna let the likes of them into my cottage.”
