Miss Bates sighed. “That poor girl. She was obviously so sweet. And she was very observant, as well, since your sermonsareexcellent.”
“Thank you,” the curate replied. “I’m afraid I cannot tell you much more than that. Miss Parr appeared to be a pleasant, good sort of girl. But other than seeing her at Sunday services with Mrs. Hodges, we had no other interactions.”
Emma tried again. “So Prudence never came to you to discuss problems of a personal nature?”
Mr. Barlowe accidentally slopped some tea into the dish. “Oh, bother.”
He put the offending teacup on the table, picked up a napkin, and wiped a few drops of liquid from his hand.
“Mr. Barlowe?” Emma prompted.
“What? Did Miss Parr ever come speak to me about a personal matter? Not that I recall, and I don’t know why she would.”
His reply was chippy to the point of rudeness.
Emma swallowed her irritation. “It’s not surprising that she—or any parishioner—would come to her local clergyman if troubled.” She smiled at him. “Especially to a sympathetic person such as yourself.”
“The villagers were always coming to speak to my father about their various troubles,” Miss Bates piped in. “Father always saw it as a very important part of his duties, helping people as best he could.”
“As I said, Miss Parr never spoke to me about any problems she might have been having,” Mr. Barlowe all but ground out.
Clearly, gentle handling was not advancing their cause, so perhaps a more direct approach was in order.
“It’s just that her fellow servants had a sense that Prudence was troubled about something these last few weeks,” Emma said. “I thought—”
“Mrs. Knightley,” he interrupted. “Are you saying Miss Parr had personal problems that may have contributed to her death? Are you saying that she may have taken …” He trailed off, looking immensely shocked.
Emma flapped a hand. “No, it’s not like that. Dr. Hughes declared her death an accident.”
“Then I truly don’t know what you want from me,” he replied. “Since I didn’t know the girl and I don’t know anything about her death, I’m not sure why we’re even discussing the matter.”
Well, really.For a clergyman, he certainly wasn’t very sympathetic.
“I understand,” she replied. “It was just a thought, nothing more.”
“Then if that is all, ma’am,” he said. “I’m afraid that—”
“There is one more thing,” Miss Bates blurted out. “And Idothink this is something you can help us with.”
Mr. Barlowe had been rising from his chair, but now subsided with an aggrieved sigh. “Yes?”
Miss Bates cast Emma an imploring glance, as if having blundered into the topic she didn’t know how to next proceed.
“It’s a rather delicate situation,” Emma said.
“And?” the curate asked in a long-suffering tone.
For a man of the cloth, he hadquitea dreadful manner.
Miss Bates, recovering her footing, barged back into taking the lead. “It’s about William Cox. He seems to be getting into quite a lot of trouble, which is terribly worrisome for his dear mother.”
The color slowly drained from Mr. Barlowe’s face. Even though he was a pale-complexioned man to begin with, the change was noticeable, despite the rather dim light of the parlor.
“I … I’m not sure I should be discussing my parishioners with you,” he stammered.
It was a valid point, but Emma batted it aside. “We ask because William was behaving inappropriately during the party at Donwell Abbey. He was in his cups and making a bother of himself with some of the young ladies.”
Miss Bates shook her head. “Very naughty of him. One is quite shocked.”
