Page 89 of Murder at Donwell Abbey
Mrs. Weston came over to stand by Emma. “What do you think it means?”
Emma hesitated for a moment. “It would appear we had smugglers crossing Donwell lands a few nights ago.”
Her friend let out a small gasp. “Can you be sure of that?”
Emma pointed at the tracks. “I wasn’t until I found these, but Henry and I both saw lights near the path that night. They appeared to be quite near to Donwell.”
Mr. Weston straightened up from his perusal of the footprints. “Wouldn’t surprise me. I’ve heard rumors for years about land smugglers running through these parts.”
Mrs. Weston gazed at him with dismay. “Why did you never mention it, then?”
“It’s not really a worry, my dear. Flaskers and owlers have been operating around here on and off forever.”
“That’s dreadful.”
He shrugged. “Leave them alone and they’ll leave you alone.”
When a marked expression of disapproval gathered on Mrs. Weston’s features, Emma hastily intervened to forestall a scold.
“What are flaskers and owlers?” she asked
“A flasker traffics in liquor,” replied Mr. Weston. “An owler transports wool.” He pointed to his wife’s burgundy wool pelisse. “Shouldn’t be surprised if that wool didn’t come from an owler’s hands. I thought at the time you snagged it for a very reasonable price.”
“Are you truly suggesting that Mrs. Ford is engaging with smugglers?” Mrs. Weston demanded.
Mr. Weston put up his hands. “I’m not saying that’s the case, m’dear, but it happens more often than you think.”
Poor Mrs. Weston looked aghast.
“There appear to be three distinct sets of tracks,” George said as he joined them.
Emma nodded. “I agree. And, clearly, they were not sticking to the path.”
“No,” George grimly replied. “That obviously rules out the possibility that they were local people taking the path home at night.”
“Perhaps they lived in one of the cottages beyond Abbey Mill Farm and were taking a shortcut,” Mrs. Weston hopefully suggested.
“Across fields when there’s perfectly good road nearby?” Mr. Weston shook his head. “Unlikely.”
“Miss Bates said you found something,” George said to Emma.
She led them to the shrubbery. “I put it back so you could see exactly where I found it.”
George retrieved the bundle.
“What is it?” Mr. Weston asked.
“Tobacco.”
Emma sighed. While she’d been quite certain that’s what it was, it was discouraging to get confirmation.
“Why is it wrapped in oilcloth?” Mrs. Weston asked.
“To keep it dry, should the freetraders be forced to toss their cargo overboard,” explained Mr. Weston. “They return when the coast is clear and retrieve their cargo from the water. Devilish clever of them, really.”
Mrs. Weston rounded on her husband. “I donotcomprehend your attitude. You seem completely undisturbed by such criminal behavior.”
Her husband looked surprised. “I wouldn’t say I approve, but the taxes on imports are shocking, which is why smugglers exist in the first place. A body can hardly afford a decent tin of tea these days without paying a king’s ransom.”
