Page 140 of Murder at Donwell Abbey
They stepped inside to see Mrs. Stokes down the hall, behind the high counter that served to check in the occasional guest. She glanced up, clearly surprised to see them.
“Mr. Knightley and Mrs. Knightley, my word,” she exclaimed as she came round the counter. “How can I help you?”
A tall, sturdy woman with a deceptively placid manner, Mrs. Stokes was well able to handle the sort of incidents that occurred in a coaching inn and tavern, including dealing with the occasional raucous customer. She became the sole proprietor of the Crown after the death of her husband some years ago, and had a reputation for running a clean, respectable establishment.
“Good afternoon,” said George. “My wife and I were hoping to chat with you. Perhaps we could step into your office for a bit more privacy?”
The woman’s steady hazel gaze grew wary, but she simply nodded. “This way, if you please.”
She led them into a small office behind the counter that held a desk, two wooden chairs, and several shelves neatly stacked with ledgers.
Mrs. Stokes sat down at her desk, and Emma took the other chair. When George closed the door and positioned himself against it, Mrs. Stokes looked dismayed.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Knightley?”
George smiled. “I trust not. But first, may I inquire as to the state of Mr. Clarke’s health?”
“He took a dreadful beating and was all but perishing from the cold. His nose was broken, but Mr. Perry thankfully sorted that out. The poor man was bruised from head to toe and knocked unconscious. Dr. Hughes insists he stay in bed for a few more days, at least.”
“Is there anything we can do to help?” asked Emma.
“I shouldn’t think so, ma’am.” The innkeeper cast her a long-suffering look. “Between Mr. Perry and Dr. Hughes, I have quite enough help.”
Emma exchanged a sympathetic grimace with her.
“Please tell Mr. Clarke I’ll call on him tomorrow,” said George, “if he feels well enough for visitors.”
“I will, and I think he’ll be happy to see you. He’s that keen to get back on the job.” She let out a little snort. “I half expect him to sneak down into my cellars, looking for contraband.”
Emma captured her gaze. “And would he find any?”
Mrs. Stokes blinked. “He would not, Mrs. Knightley. Of that you can be sure.”
“Not even two casks from the church bell tower?”
The innkeeper stilled for several long seconds, which the casement clock on the corner of her desk counted down.
Mrs. Stokes finally breathed out a frustrated sigh. “No good deed goes unpunished, I suppose. Mr. Barlowe seemed to forget that particular saying when he was preaching to me about charity toward one’s neighbors.”
“So you did relieve Mr. Barlowe of his casks,” said George.
She reluctantly nodded. “Only because he was so blasted insistent. Begging your pardon, Mrs. Knightley.”
“There’s no need,” Emma replied. “And we truly aren’t trying to catch you out, Mrs. Stokes.”
“I believe you just did,” she ruefully replied.
“I’m hoping this discussion need not go further than this room,” said George. “But given the current situation in Highbury, including the attack on Mr. Clarke, we need to verify the circumstances regarding the transfer of the casks to your establishment.”
“I’ll do my best to answer your questions, Mr. Knightley. I know it’s a terrible situation for poor Larkins, and I’d like to help as best I can.”
George gave an appreciative nod. “Thank you. Now, Mr. Barlowe told us that the casks were already in the bell tower when he took up his position as curate. And he claimed he had no contact with the smuggling gang since his arrival.”
“That’s what he told me too, sir.”
“Do you believe him?” asked Emma.
Mrs. Stokes nodded. “Mr. Barlowe was scared half out of his wits at the thought of anyone discovering those casks, so he begged me to take them off his hands. He was afraid someone might find them and draw the wrong conclusions.”
