Page 97 of Murder at Donwell Abbey
“I’m no smuggler,” Larkins gritted out.
“Constable Sharpe,” said George, “I wish to see that note as soon as possible. In the meantime—”
“In the meantime I’ll be arresting Larkins for smuggling,” Sharpe cut in. “Especially in light of the information you gave me the other day, sir.”
Emma could practically feel Larkins vibrating with repressed fury.
“George, surely that’s not necessary,” she hastily said. “All this shows is that Mr. Larkins’s home contained smuggled goods. And although that would certainly be regrettable, possession is hardly a capital crime. As Mr. Weston said the other day, it’s a fairly frequent occurrence.”
Her husband nodded. “I agree.”
“Sir, I swear I don’t know where those packages came from,” Larkins protested.
“And I believe you,” George calmly replied. “We are simply making the point that simple possession of these items does not justify an arrest.”
Larkins grimaced. “But people will already be talking about it. It’s my good name that’s on the line, and if folks around here think I’ve been taking in smuggled goods, well, that reflects badly on you too, Mr. Knightley.”
“You’re not to worry about that now, Larkins.”
Emma patted Larkins’s arm. “The most important thing is that Mr. Knightley and I believe you. You’ve not done anything wrong, and there’s no reason to arrest you.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Constable Sharpe said in a queer sort of voice.
He was still on his knees on the floor. He’d been silent for a few minutes, as he continued to search under the boards.
Carefully, he extracted what looked like a scrap of fabric from the hole. Was that a … pink ribbon in his hand?
“What is that?” asked George.
Holding the items with great care, the constable rose to his feet. Then he held them up to the light coming in from the window over the bed.
Emma found a sense of dread creeping over her.
“It’s a mobcap, like the kind a maid would wear,” the constable said. “And a hair ribbon.”
George swiftly took the mobcap from the constable. The plain white cap was indeed the sort of thing a maid would wear as she went about her day. It would fully cover her hair, with minimal trimming.
George turned it over, exposing the other side, and Emma’s stomach lurched sideways. She had to struggle to force out the words.
“Is that … ?” she whispered.
“Blood,” George tersely replied.
Larkins breathed out a groan. Every ounce of color had drained from his ruddy complexion, leaving him as pale as a corpse.
Constable Sharpe aggressively elbowed George out of the way. “William Larkins, I’m arresting you for smugglingandfor the murder of Prudence Parr.”
CHAPTER19
Emma marched into her husband’s study. “George, was it truly necessary to ship poor Larkins off to the Guildford gaol? Why could he not be confined here at Donwell until further investigations were made?”
He rose from his desk to meet her. “My Emma, come sit by the fire. You must be chilled to the bone from the walk back from Hartfield.”
“My fury with Constable Sharpe has kept me warm enough, I assure you.”
George led her to the sofa in front of the fireplace, and Emma gratefully sank down onto the cushions. Shewasfeeling a trifle worn out—it had been a very trying day.
When Sharpe made his dramatic pronouncement, Emma had kicked up a tremendous fuss. Surely any self-respecting murderer wouldn’t keep a damning clue like a bloodstained mobcap in his house. It seemed obvious to her that the anonymous note-writerhad placed them there in an attempt to frame Larkins.
