“Hmm.”
Harriet tilted her head. “What are you thinking, Mrs. Knightley?”
She remembered that when the smugglers approached William Cox, they did so quite openly in a tavern. These men, however, had been a great deal more circumspect, and she couldn’t help wondering about the difference.
“It’s not important at the moment,” she replied. “What did you tell them, Dick?”
He looked sheepish. “Something that ain’t proper to say in front of ladies.”
Emma had to laugh. “The gist of it was no.”
“It definitely was, ma’am.”
“Good for you. Now, what else can you tell me about them? From their voices, for instance, might they have been locals or strangers?”
Dick crossed his arms over his burly chest. “I could have sworn I recognized one voice, but now I’m not so sure.”
Emma pounced on that. “Someone local?”
“Aye, but I’m sure it weren’t no Mr. Larkins, I can tell you that.”
“You’re certain.”
“Aye.”
“What about the other one?”
Dick held up his good hand. “Now, he was interesting. Better dressed than the other fellow, and I was thinkin’ he wasn’t a workin’ bloke or a farmer type. He tried to disguise his voice by talking low, but I could tell he weren’t no country folk.”
Emma’s brain spun for a moment over that tidbit. “That’s interesting. Could you tell anything else about him? Tall, broad-shouldered, short—anything like that?”
Dick frowned. “Not a brawny fellow, I can tell you. Average, I guess. He was wearing a greatcoat, so it was a bit hard to tell.”
Emma pondered how to phrase the next admittedly sensitive question, but then decided to take a page from Harriet’s book.
“Dick, this may seem like a strange question,” she said, “but do you think either of these men could have been Mr. Barlowe?”
Harriet squeaked and Mr. Mitchell’s jaw sagged, but Dick simply frowned.
“Who’s Mr. Barlowe?” he asked.
Drat.
“He’s Highbury’s curate.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Knightley,” Dick apologetically said. “Don’t know him. I’m not much for churchgoin’ these days.”
“Or at all,” Mr. Mitchell tartly commented.
“Happens you’re right,” Dick replied with unimpaired calm. “I haven’t been much for church ever since old Mr. Bates was vicar. And then when my dad passed on … I used to take him, you see.”
“I understand,” Emma said with a sigh. “I was just taking a bit of a wild guess.”
Mr. Mitchell cast her a shrewd glance. “You’re thinking of what happened to that prevention officer, and the lights in the bell tower.”
“You heard about the lights?”
“I expect everyone in the village has by now.” Mr. Mitchell tapped his chin. “I’ll say this, though. If Barlowe does have his nose in this, he wouldn’t be the first clerical gent to get involved with freetraders.”
