Emma was no expert in cant, but the lad’s meaning was clear. Everyone in the household had nothing but warm feelings for Prudence.
“Yes, it’s dreadful.” She turned back to the house. “Don’t stay up too much longer, Donny. It’s very late.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Emma made her way through the hall to the stairs off the long gallery. She stopped for a moment, gathering her composure and her wits. Although part of her longed for answers, another part recoiled at what must happen next. George, Constable Sharpe, and Dr. Hughes would be searching Prudence’s room, rummaging through her life for clues that might illuminate her death. It was a dreadful invasion of the poor girl’s privacy, and who knew what secrets might be revealed. Nonetheless, it was unavoidable.
She put a hand on the banister and started to climb.
By the time Emma made it to the top floor of the abbey, she was regretting the second piece of Savoy cake she’d had after supper. The climb also gave her a renewed sympathy for the lives of the servants who had to continually traverse long hallways and numerous stairs in the course of their duties.
At the end of the corridor, Harry stood outside the open door of Prudence’s room.
The footman respectfully bobbed his head. “Mrs. Knightley.”
“How are you, Harry? We’ve given you an unpleasant task, standing up here all this time.”
“I’m fine, ma’am. It’s just …” He pressed his lips together, as if having difficulty holding his emotions in check.
“I’m sure you were all very fond of Prudence.”
“She was like a sunbeam, she was,” he quietly replied. “A very kind and good person to have about the place.”
“So I understand.”
She stood there feeling awkward, while Harry stared at her with a hangdog expression. But since there was nothing more to be said, she gave him a nod and proceeded inside.
The space was tucked up under a sharply pitched roof, forcing the men in the room to cluster about a round table in the center. All the basic necessaries were present, with some additional comforts. Aside from the bed and table, there were two cane-backed chairs with cushioned seats, a small chest of drawers holding a pitcher and washbasin, a drying rack tucked into the corner, and what looked like new Dutch matting covering the floor. The bed was dressed with a pristinely white coverlet and thick wool blanket, and a nice set of dimity curtains framed the casement window.
The life of a servant, never an easy one, was sometimes nothing less than miserable if a miserly master held the reins. Such was not the case with George. While certainly not given to extravagance, her husband would always be attentive to the comfort of others, including servants who were so often invisible to those they served.
Right now, the room was freezing. The casement window was still open, and the pretty cotton curtains whipped to and fro in a stiff breeze.
George glanced over. “Ah, there you are. I’m sorry the room is so cold. We should be able to close the window soon.”
“Only after we finish with our investigations, sir,” Constable Sharpe admonished. “You know better than anyone that we can’t jump to conclusions without all the facts.”
Given some of the foolish conclusions the constable had jumped to only six months ago, that wasquitean outrageous assertion.
Dr. Hughes blessed her with a patronizing smile. “My dear Mrs. Knightley, there’s really no need for you to be here. This entire evening has been an affront to your delicate sensibilities. You’ve undergone a great shock and should be resting.”
Pulling her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, Emma edged her way over to George. She had no intention of leaving and every intention of supporting her husband. He’d adopted his usual calm demeanor, but she sensed the strain on him. As both master of Donwellandthe local magistrate, he was in a difficult position. Constable Sharpe might again try to take advantage of that, and she had no intention of allowing such impertinence.
“Thank you for your consideration, Dr. Hughes. But as mistress of Donwell, I feel it only right to be here to support my husband and the servants, especially Mrs. Hodges.”
Dr. Hughes nodded a grudging acquiescence. “Your diligence does your credit, ma’am. But if at any time you feel the need to leave, please don’t hesitate to do so. A situation such as this can be most distressing.”
“Especially for poor Miss Parr,” she politely replied.
He looked disconcerted by her response but carried on. “Mr. Knightley, it would seem that you were correct in drawing your conclusion about the odor of spirits on Miss Parr’s body. The presence of the decanter and glass would confirm that the deceased was imbibing spirits before her unfortunate fall.”
For the first time since entering the room, Emma focused on the small table. It held a half-empty decanter and a glass—and not just any old decanter and glass, but ones from a set of Donwell’s best crystal. It was jarring to see them there, and disturbing to speculate why they were.
“George,” she said, “those were part of the crystal service in the drawing room for the party. I cannot imagine why they’re here.”
“I should think it obvious, ma’am,” said Constable Sharpe. “Your girl filched them. From the looks of it, she took a hefty dose of the stuff, too.”
George had no objection to his employees having a pint of ale or a glass of wine with their dinner, but he would frown on the servants keeping quantities of alcohol in their quarters. Mrs. Hodges had a bottle of sherry in her rooms, but she was the most senior of the household staff and had certain privileges.
