Page 94 of Murder at Donwell Abbey
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” she exclaimed. “Larkins would never purchase smuggled goods.”
The steward looked grim as death. “That’s what I said. But Sharpe, here, he’s insisting to nose around in my things.”
Emma tsked. “How very rude.”
“It makes no difference if it’s rude,” the constable retorted. “I’ve got a duty to follow up on the information, especially in light of yesterday’s discovery.”
“This supposed information sounds very fishy to me,” she shot back.
Constable Sharpe bristled like a terrier ready to go down a rat hole, but George held up a restraining hand.
“We have set that matter aside for the moment,” he said. “As we know Larkins has nothing to hide, I have convinced him to let you search the cottage—under my supervision.”
“Just as you say, Mr. Knightley,” Constable Sharpe stiffly replied.
“That’s very accommodating of Mr. Larkins,” Emma said. “I will keep him company while you conduct the searchunderMr. Knightley’s supervision.”
The constable scowled. “There’s no need for you to be present, ma’am.”
“None the less, I will remain.”
“Well, then, I certainly won’t have a child at my crime scene,” he blustered.
“This isnota crime scene,” George austerely replied. “I agree, however, that Henry should return to Hartfield.”
“But Mr. Larkins is my friend,” their nephew protested.
Emma stroked his hair. “Your mother will be wondering where you are, dearest. I promise to come straight to Hartfield once we’re finished here.”
The lad reluctantly nodded. “All right. Goodbye, Mr. Larkins. Thank you for everything.”
Larkins crouched down to meet Henry at eye level. “It’s I who should be thanking you, Master Henry. Give my best to your mother, and here’s wishing you safe travels back to London.”
“Off with you,” Emma said, giving her nephew a gentle nudge.
He sighed and trudged off toward Highbury.
“Are you finished now, Mrs. Knightley?” the constable asked in a sardonic tone.
Not deigning to respond to his rudeness, Emma swept past him and into the cottage. The warmth inside made her sigh with relief. It was a dreary, cold day, and although engaging in a frac tious debate with someone as stupid as the constable may boil one’s brain, it did little to heat the limbs.
The estate steward’s domicile was an old stone cottage with thatched roof. Although not large, it had been lovingly maintained over the decades, and its current resident had made a number of improvements. The walls were painted a cheery yellow, while comfortable furniture adorned the main room, with the living area set off from a small pantry and basic kitchen. A door to the side of the fireplace led to a nicely sized bedroom,and a steep set of stairs in one corner climbed up to a tidy garret. All in all, the cottage was just right for a bachelor— perfectly cozy and comfortable, and near enough to Donwell to attend to work yet far enough away to provide a spot of privacy.
Emma moved to the cheerfully blazing fire to warm her hands. A kettle hung off to the side, ready to be heated. A plate of scones, along with tea-making necessities, were at the ready on a small kitchen table.
“Can I get you a cup of tea while you wait, ma’am?” Larkins asked.
The poor man looked exhausted. His color was high, likely from arguing with their idiotic constable. Lines scored his face, and his eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed. His gaze seemed haunted, as if something unbearably heavy was dragging on his spirit.
Prudence.
“I’m fine,” she said, “but it looks like we interrupted your breakfast. Please do have your tea, Mr. Larkins.” She leaned in a bit. “You look like you could use a cup.”
He dredged up an answering smile, and Emma could feel the effort he made in doing so.
Larkins jerked his head toward the constable making a show of searching the cottage, even crouching down to look under the small sofa. “I’ll have a bit once his worship is done and gone,” he said.
Predictably, the constable glared at him. “You won’t be getting rid of me that easily, laddie boy.”
