A tall man in a shabby greatcoat, seated near the back, jumped to his feet. “Parr has it right. You can’t trust them Irish. Papists and criminals, the lot of them, and Larkins ain’t no different. It’s clear as day he killed the poor girl.”
For a moment, the room froze in a shocked tableau. Then it exploded into a maelstrom of voices, with the remaining friends of Larkins jumping to their feet to admonish the man in the greatcoat. Others did the opposite, proclaiming their agreement that the Irish could never be trusted. Even the dreadful Anne Cox added to the din, loudly stating to the room at large that everyone knew Mr. Larkins was adodgy one.
Fortunately, Mrs. Cox promptly employed her velvet muff and whacked her daughter into silence.
“Order, order,” shouted Dr. Hughes, “or I’ll be forced to have Constable Sharpe read the Riot Act!”
He might as well have been yelling into the void.
Emma’s father tugged on her sleeve. “My dear, you must sit down! These dreadful people might hurt you!”
By now, George was on his feet. He held up an imperious hand, looking every inch the stern magistrate.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called out in a commanding tone. “You will cease this commotion immediately. If not, Constable Sharpewillread the Riot Act. We will then remove people from the room and apply the full force of the law under the Act.”
“Just say the word, Mr. Knightley,” barked the constable, “and I’ll be happy to oblige.”
The combined threats did the trick, and the room was restored to order with astonishing speed. Emma couldn’t help notice, though, that the man in the shabby greatcoat took the opportunity to slip out of the room.
Not from around here.
“Good riddance,” she muttered.
Her husband grasped her wrist and pulled her back down into her seat. “Emma, I would prefer you not be arrested, either.”
She grimaced, now rather appalled by her loss of temper. “I apologize, but I couldn’t let Larkins be so besmirched.”
“I understand. Nevertheless, you must make allowances for Mr. Parr’s grief. I’m sure he doesn’t realize what he’s saying.”
Emma glanced at the man, who was still glaring at the jury. Grief might have driven him to say what he did, but she also felt sure he didn’t regret a word. And even if he did, the damage was done.
Now that calm had been restored, Dr. Hughes dismissed the witness. Emma was struck by the fact that the coroner declined to ask the jury if they had any questions for Mr. Parr, which was their right. Most likely he was afraid of another outburst, either from the Mr. Parr, the spectators, or …
Me.
The next witness was Constable Sharpe, who unfortunately made it clear that he believed Larkins had murdered Prudence. After very briefly discussing the anonymous note that had tipped him off, he described the discovery of the smuggled tobacco packets, the mobcap, and the pink ribbon with what she considered distasteful relish.
“George,” she whispered to her husband when the coroner moved on. “This is dreadful. Sharpe has quite glossed over that business with the anonymous note.”
“Patience, love,” he whispered back.
After the constable finished, Dr. Hughes asked the jury if they had any questions. Mr. Weston, the jury foreman, raised his hand. “Does Constable Sharpe know the identity of the person who wrote the note regarding Mr. Larkins’s alleged culpability?”
Emma had to swallow a smile. Clearly, her husband and Mr. Weston had chatted at some point.
Constable Sharpe’s pinch-face grew surly. “As I said in my testimony, the note wasanonymous. So obviously I don’t know who wrote it.”
“How would the person who wrote even know that Mr. Lar kins was in possession of these items, or where they were hidden?” Mr. Weston asked. “Is it not possible that this anonymous person also planted the items under the floorboards so as to divert suspicion from someone else onto Mr. Larkins?”
“A good point, sir,” called Mrs. Wallis, the baker’s wife. “Seems mighty strange, all this anonymous business.”
Some in the crowd rumbled in agreement.
“Remind me to place averylarge order with Mrs. Wallis next week,” Emma whispered to George.
He snorted under his breath.
“Order,” rapped Dr. Hughes. Then he turned to the constable. “Please answer the question.”
