Page 161 of Murder at Donwell Abbey
George nodded toward his brother. “John came up with a very effective strategy that had the effect of loosening Plumtree’s tongue.”
Isabella gazed adoringly at her husband. “I’ve always said that John is quite the most clever barrister in London.”
John flashed his wife a smile as he affectionately took her hand. “It was nothing, my dear, really.”
“Dearest, you are being much too modest, as you always are.”
As happy as Emma was to see Isabella and John restored to their usual state of domestic bliss, she was anxious to hear what this strategy actually was.
“So, what did you suggest?” she asked with a hint of impatience.
John tore his gaze away from his wife. “What? Oh, I suggested to Plumtree that he wasn’t in his right mind when he murdered Prudence, and that such might be a useful defense at trial. Under the Criminal Lunatics Bill, one can escape the gallows if found to be of unsound mind while committing the crime.”
Miss Bates scrunched up her face. “I suppose that makes sense. No sane person could throw that poor girl out the window. Prudence was so terribly kind and sweet.”
“But do you think a court would truly find him insane?” asked Emma. “He struck me as exceedingly calculating. And he certainly was sane enough to fool the rest of us.”
And yet, there’d been a coldness and cruelty about him that had been distinctly unnerving. It had crossed her mind in those terrible moments that night that he’d lost his grip on reality.
John shrugged. “It’s a high bar, I’ll admit, but it’s the only chance he’s got. I offered to help his father find a barrister skilled in such cases in exchange for talking to us.”
Emma sighed. “Poor Squire Plumtree. You saw him today, as well?”
“We did,” George replied in a grim tone. “The poor fellow is devastated, and he blames himself. By neglecting his duties at Plumtree Manor, he allowed his son to come to such a state.”
Mr. Weston scoffed. “Nonsense. I had to send Frank away as a child, and he’s a capital fellow. Guy’s simply a villain who deserves all the punishment coming to him.”
“Did he tell you how he killed Prudence?” Emma asked her husband.
It was thehowthat she still found so perplexing.
“Perhaps it’s best to start at the beginning,” George replied. “With the smugglers, and how they ended up at Donwell in the first place.”
“Harry explained that,” Emma pointed out. “They needed a safer place to store their goods. When you decamped to Hartfield, that gave them the opportunity they were looking for.”
Father flapped an agitated hand. “And a good thing George moved to Hartfield. It would have been dreadful if he’d been forced to live at Donwell with smugglers coming and going at all hours of the night. Who knows what they might have done to him.”
“Father, it was George’s move to Hartfield …” Emma shook her head. “Never mind. Go on, dearest.”
“Harry was only one spoke in the wheel,” George continued. “An important one, but the history of this particular gang goes back further than Harry’s role in it. Thanks to Mr. Weston’s quick thinking, we were able to identify one of their most important depots along the route to London—an inn from which they’d been operating for some years.”
Mr. Weston waved a self-deprecating hand. “Just an old military tactic, old fellow. Divide and conquer.”
“It worked,” George said. “Directing two of your footmen to follow the smugglers on that last run from Donwell was a bit of genius.”
“How brave of those footmen! And how wise of you, Mr. Weston,” exclaimed Miss Bates. “Were those terrible smugglers captured?”
“They were,” Mr. Weston replied. “The smugglers holed themselves up for the day at the inn, thinking themselves safe. My lads alerted the local authorities, who caught the blighters dead to rights.”
“Once Mr. Weston alerted me about that,” said George, “I notified Mr. Clarke. Events moved quickly after that.”
That was certainly true. The first thing Emma had done after Constable Sharpe arrested Guy Plumtree that dreadful night was to pen an urgent note to George. At first light, one of Hartfield’s grooms had set off for John’s house in Brunswick Square. George and John had arrived back in Highbury by midafternoon and, after reassuring themselves that their respective family members were all well, had launched into the investigation. The past three days had been a flurry of activity involving meetings with lawmen, runners, and revenue agents. Fortunately, most of that had taken place at Donwell, sparing Father and Isabella constant disruptions to their peace.
“Poor Mr. Clarke,” said Miss Bates with a sigh. “To be called from his sickbed to deal with such a dreadful situation.”
“He’s recovered fairly well,” George replied. “And he’s happy to see the resolution of this case. The Trotman Gang has been operating in these parts for years along the roads up from the coast, and it has now been thoroughly dismantled.”
Emma blinked. “Trotman. As in …”
