George thought for a few moments. “They must have wanted to be visible, to attract Mr. Clarke’s attention.”
The puzzle piece dropped into place.
“So they could set upon him and make it look like a robbery.” Emma huffed in disgust. “Which was the conclusion drawn by Constable Sharpe, naturally.”
The curate pressed a hand to his mouth, looking both ill and ill at ease. Emma couldn’t shake the sense that the man was still withholding something.
“Mr. Barlowe, why did you ask Mrs. Stokes to remove the casks instead of coming to me?” asked George.
He had the grace to look ashamed. “I know it was very wrong, but I was frightened of what you and others might think. I worried it might affect my position here in Highbury.”
“You don’t know my husband very well, do you?” Emma dryly responded.
“I don’t know anyone here very well, Mrs. Knightley,” he stiffly replied.
“Which I would suggest is your fault, sir.”
He started to huff when George interrupted him. “So Mrs. Stokes simply agreed to take your request to remove the casks?”
Mr. Barlowe struggled to calm himself. “No, she was most unhappy about it. But I managed to persuade her. I suppose she took pity on me.”
George glanced at Emma and rose, extending a hand to help her to her feet.
“Is there anything else you can tell us, Mr. Barlowe?” asked George. “If so, I would strongly advise you to do it now.”
The curate came unsteadily to his feet, as if his knees were knocking. “I know nothing else, sir. I promise.”
“And I’ll hold you to that promise.”
Mr. Barlowe morosely trailed them to the front door.
“If you think of anything else at all, send me a note immediately,” said George in his best magistrate’s voice.
Mr. Barlowe shifted nervously from one foot to the other. “You may be sure of it, sir. You have my word.”
Then he ushered George and Emma out the door, banging it behind them.
“I suppose we must cross him off our list of suspects,” Emma said with a sigh.
“I never had him on it,” George replied. “The man seems frightened of his own shadow, and is certainly too frightened to be a smuggler.”
“True. Yet, I cannot help but feel he’s withholding something.” She grimaced. “I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“While Mr. Barlowe is obviously not forthcoming by nature, I believe we put the fear of God into him. I cannot imagine him withholding anything of value at this point.”
“I hope you’re correct,” she said as they started to walk briskly up Vicarage Lane. “By the by, are you thinking we should pop in on Mrs. Stokes?”
Her husband’s glance was amused. “How did you know?”
“Unlike Mr. Barlowe, I know youverywell.”
“I’m happy to hear it. And, yes, I feel a visit to Mrs. Stokes is in order. Although I believe her to be innocent of smuggling, I cannot forget her reaction to Mr. Clarke at the inquest. If you recall, she seemed most uncomfortable at the suggestion that some in Highbury might be in receipt of contraband goods.”
“I had forgotten that. I hope you’re correct that she’s not involved.”
“I feel certain there’s no direct involvement. Still, she might be able to provide us with useful information. Innkeepers often know more about the contraband trade than anyone.”
By now they were approaching the Crown Inn. It was quiet at this time of day, as both tradesmen and laborers were still at work. Although a coaching establishment, the Crown never had much traffic in that regard, since Highbury was fairly out of the way.
