“And you’re truly convinced he has nothing to do with the smugglers?” asked Emma.
“I’d stake a week’s worth of receipts on it, Mrs. Knightley. He’s too timid, for one thing. And for another, he didn’t ask me for a shilling to take those casks. He just wanted them gone.”
Emma waggled a hand. “I can’t help feeling he’s hiding something.”
“I think he’s just afraid, ma’am,” said Mrs. Stokes. “He’s worried the smugglers might want to use the church again to store their goods. What happened to Mr. Clarke put the fear of God into him, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
Emma supposed she had to agree. Mr. Barlowe was not temperamentally suited to dangerous ventures such as smuggling, and for all his odd behaviors he seemed to take his duties as curate very seriously.
“Mrs. Stokes,” said George, “I was also wondering if you could shed any light on the charges against Mr. Larkins.”
She scoffed. “Larkins is no more guilty of smuggling than I am. The poor man’s been set up—by the real smugglers, I reckon.”
Emma rewarded her with a smile. “It’s good to know that not everyone in town thinks him a criminal.”
“Larkins had dinner at the Crown on the night of Prudence’s death, did he not?” asked George.
“He did. I told Constable Sharpe that. But Larkins didn’t stay late. He wanted to be near the abbey in case he was needed.” She grimaced. “I wish he’d stayed longer, so I could have vouched for him.”
“How did he seem that night?” asked Emma.
She shrugged. “Quiet and polite, same as he always is.”
“Just a few more questions,” said George. “Has any information come to your ears about this smuggling gang? Rumors or gossip from either regulars or those passing through?”
“There’s gossip aplenty, but it’s all nonsense.”
She paused for a few seconds, considering them with a shrewd gaze.
“When my husband was alive, he allowed freetraders to use the Crown as storage on their way to London,” she added. “He was paid in spirits—top-drawer French brandy and Holland gin, mostly. My Joe were a good man, but we almost came to blows more than a few times over it. Couldn’t talk him out of it, though, so I did my best to ignore it.”
“That wasn’t particularly unusual during those war years,” George replied in a sympathetic tone.
Emma leaned forward. “Did you ever meet any of these smugglers?”
“Just once, after my husband died. Six years ago, now. One of the varlets came sniffing around, wanting to keep the same deal.” Her expression grew hard. “I sent him off with a stiff word, I can tell you.”
“Did you recognize the man, perchance?” asked George.
“Never saw him before, sir. He weren’t no local man, that I know. I thought he was a London fellow by his accent.”
Emma couldn’t help being curious. “What did he look like?”
“I recollect that he was an older man, with a bit of polish to him. Very sure of himself, as if he’d been running a rig for a long time.” She huffed out a laugh. “The fool tried to intimidate me. I told him that if he ever showed his face at the Crown again, he’d find the barrel of my pistol shoved in it.”
Emma regarded the innkeeper with newfound respect. “How did he take that?”
“He knew I meant it. I never saw him again.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Stokes,” said George. “You’ve been very helpful.”
The innkeeper escorted them to the front door. “I’ll keep my ears open, Mr. Knightley. If I hear anything of value, I’ll let you know.”
“I appreciate that.”
They made their farewells and then turned in the direction of Hartfield.
“What do you think?” Emma asked.
