Page 95 of Murder at Donwell Abbey
George narrowed his gaze to irritated slits. “His name is Mr. Larkins, Constable.”
Sharpe’s only response was to mutter something aboutbloody Irishmenunder his breath.
That wasnotgood.
When she cast a significant gaze at George, he gave her an unhappy little nod. Larkins had encountered his fair share of bigotry when he’d first been hired, but that had mostly evaporated over the years. Unfortunately, it seemed that the old hatred against the Irish still lurked beneath the surface, at least for Sharpe—who happened to be in a position of authority.
They stood in tense silence while the constable continued to conduct a thorough search. He even thumped down his booted foot on sections of the floor, and once he got on his hands and knees to inspect the floorboards. When he dug through the firebox, looking for heaven knew what, Emma could no longer keep silent.
“Good heavens,” she exclaimed. “You can actually see what’s in there, sir—just kindling.”
“I know my business, Mrs. Knightley,” the constable snapped, apparently finished digging. “I’ll thank you to let me get on with it.”
“And may I point out that you didnotfind anything in the firebox, which is no surprise.”
“Emma,” her husband warned.
“Really, George, it’s all quite absurd. And why is he inspecting the floor like that? One would think Constable Sharpe might be about to effect repairs on a loose board or two.”
The constable failed to bristle up, instead giving her an odd little smile, and it sent a chill slithering down her spine.
“An interesting comment about the floorboards, Mrs. Knightley,” he said.
“There’s nothing interesting about floorboards,” she replied.
“We’ll see about that.”
“Constable, are you finished in this room?” George asked in a long-suffering tone.
“I am, sir. For now.”
“Then I suggest you move into the bedroom so we can put this matter behind us as quickly as possible.”
The constable stalked off to the bedroom. George followed.
Emma glanced at Larkins, who’d moved to stand by the fireplace. His arms were crossed over his chest as he gazed absently into the flames.
“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” she said. “This is just a silly misunderstanding.”
“I know, ma’am,” he calmly replied. “I was that upset that Sharpe made such a fuss and bother in front of Master Henry. That’s what set me off more than anything.”
“I don’t blame you.” She lowered her voice. “The constable can be quite annoying. I’ve had more than one run-in with him, I’m sorry to say.”
Larkins seemed about to reply when a triumphant exclamation sounded from the bedroom.
“What in the world?” Emma said.
She hurried over to the door to see Sharpe once more on the floor. He’d somehow removed a floorboard—it must have been loose—revealing an open space.
“I told you, Mr. Knightley,” the constable crowed.
Larkins slid past Emma into the room. “What are you about, man? Why are you taking up my floor?”
Sharpe reached down and extracted a small package, holding it up and waggling it. Emma’s heart plunged down to the pit of her stomach.
“A tidy stash you have here,Mr.Larkins,” the constable said. “Smuggled tobacco it is, hidden under a loose board. That is exactly the information I received.”
He reached down and extracted a second package. Both were identical to the one Emma had found in the bushes off the old footpath.
