Chapter 3 #2
The coarseness of the query repels her, and she takes a step back. Her tone riven with anger, she says, “I cannot conceive of how that is relevant to the situation. You have no right to impose on our—”
“It is my area of expertise,” I announce confidently.
Although clear and concise, my answer appears to stump her, and as she looks to her brother Chester for clarity, I brush past her to enter the room, whose door is partially blocked by the crowd.
“It is her what?” Mrs. Holcroft asks in my wake.
“I do not know,” Chester replies. “I think she said expertise, her area of expertise.”
“All right, yes, but what is?” his mother presses.
Their chatter fades as I step deeper into the room, a small bedchamber with worn wood floors and plain white walls.
To my right is a trio of dark-stained pieces—wardrobe, dresser, trunk—and opposite them is the bed, which is likewise simple and unadorned.
In the center of the mattress, his eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling, is a man of maybe thirty years of age in a rumpled nightshirt tugged daringly high up his thighs.
His hair is as black as midnight and in endearing disarray, sweeping across his forehead in a way that requires constant brushing aside.
Approaching the bed, I note other features: His bottom lip is plump, his eyes are a light shade of brown, he has a rose-colored beauty mark along his jaw.
The deceased is a remarkably handsome man.
Sebastian is there, standing beside the bed, his head bent forward as he examines the victim in silence.
Mr. Holcroft is next to him, his own back straight, and at the soft thump of my shoes on the floorboards, he looks over his shoulder.
Initially neutral, his expression turns stormy when he realizes it is I, and he bristles at my impertinence.
Moving to block my view of the body, he orders me to leave. “This is no place for a female.”
Readily, I skirt my host.
Mama would stare at the impudence, but I do not have a choice.
What I said to Mrs. Dowell was accurate: This is my area of expertise.
Sebastian glances at me briefly, a fleeting smile crossing his lips before austerity returns, and I can feel his relief. He has never solved a murder without my help, and I have never solved a murder without his help.
We are partners.
As such, I ask matter-of-factly, “What do we have here?”
“A dead man in a state of dishabille, none of which is suitable for your eyes!” Mr. Holcroft replies in outrage. “Modesty demands you leave, as do I. I shall not allow an innocent young lady to be infected by the tawdriness of this scene. Go now!”
I find the use of the word infected striking, for its employment makes it sound as though ghastliness itself is an organism that burrows under one’s skin like a worm.
Rather than quibble over his wrongheaded pronouncement, I assure him that his concerns are overblown, as I am an investigator and have participated in several pursuits of a similar nature.
Then I allow that the victim’s lack of proper attire strains decorum and kindly ask Sebastian to pull the covers up to the man’s waist.
Several is an overstatement.
It is just the one—Mr. Gorman—but the case was very thorny, taking a dizzying number of unexpected turns and encompassing an extremely fresh corpse.
The victim’s blood was still warm when I examined him, and despite drawing so close to the corpse that I was able to search his pockets for clues, I remain uncontaminated by the gruesomeness of the experience—though I can see how Mr. Holcroft might disagree with this conclusion.
My eagerness to look upon death now is incontrovertible proof that his premise is correct.
What he does not comprehend is the binding nature of the investigator’s code.
Having committed myself to justice, I am obligated to seek it out regardless of the awkwardness or staunch disapproval of my beau’s sire.
Agog at my daring, Mr. Holcroft stares at me without responding, while Sebastian adjusts the blanket. Then he acknowledges the validity of his father’s concern but notes it is unnecessary. “Miss Hyde-Clare is a Trojan,” he adds reassuringly.
It is not what a proud father wishes to hear from his heir.
The desired descriptions are shy miss, quiet lass, docile filly.
“Not necessary!” Mr. Holcroft says, his voice thick with umbrage. “I would say it is not only necessary but also imperative. Come, Miss Hyde-Clare, I will escort you myself!”
He extends his elbow.
Offering an absent refusal, I glance at him fleetingly before returning my gaze to the victim, whose neck bears red marks. There is one long horizontal line that cuts widthwise and several that are vertical.
Scratches, I think of the latter, from the deceased’s own nails.
He tried to fight off his attacker.
“Strangulation,” I say softly. “He was strangled to death.”
Sebastian confirms the supposition, gesturing to a length of silk lying on the bed, next to the victim’s left elbow—a key piece of evidence I had yet to notice. “It is reasonable to assume that is the murder weapon.”
Mr. Holcroft objects strongly to this language, calling it needlessly inflammatory, as they have no idea what happened to Keast. “We will wait for the constable to arrive and make a determination.”
Keast, is it?
Ah, so this is Red Oaks’ steward.
In noting that the man was physically appealing, Miss Burgess had failed to convey just how good-looking he was. With his well-formed features, he was startlingly attractive.
Obviously, I am not the only female to think so, if I may judge by the pretty peach-colored scarf.
Mindful of my host, I offer Mr. Holcroft my condolences. “I know how closely you worked with Mr. Keast on your farming experiments and realize this must be a terrible blow.”
I stop just short of advising him to take some air or seek solace from his wife.
Men do not appreciate when you show consideration for their feelings.
“It is devastating, Miss Hyde-Clare, which is why I would beg you to leave now and allow me to handle the matter as I see fit, rather than increasing my anxiety,” he says.
“Yes, of course,” I reply soothingly.
But that is all I do.
Despite my professed acquiescence, I am not going anywhere.
Instead, I inquire about the constable, then recall that Miss Burgess mentioned last night that it is Jenner, Aldridge Jenner, the landowner in the district who had been unable to attend dinner because of his own hosting duties.
“A footman was dispatched to fetch him about fifteen minutes ago,” Sebastian says. “He should be here within the hour. Until then, we should disperse the crowd and return everyone to their business. There is nothing to be gained by hovering in the hallway.”
Mr. Holcroft agrees with the wisdom of this statement until he discovers that it is he his son expects to do the hard work of dispersal. “I must stay here and make sure Miss Hyde-Clare does not touch anything before Jenner arrives. You know how fatally curious women are.”
Clasping my hands behind my back, I promise to resist my worst impulses even as Sebastian tells him his concern is misplaced.
“Miss Hyde-Clare is no peagoose to disturb a crime scene. Now, if you are determined to be helpful, you will convince everyone to return to their tasks. I imagine the rest of the household is awake and wondering where breakfast is. If you do not wish for the crowd in the hallway to double, you will do this now. I am sure Mother will be grateful for your steady hand.”
That I am no pea widgeon is news to Mr. Holcroft, who opens his mouth to argue about the absurdity of his leaving and my remaining.
At the mention of his wife’s inevitable distress, however, he changes course and agrees to set the house to rights before returning to oversee the investigation. “Just until Jenner arrives, that is.”
“Thank you, sir,” Sebastian says gratefully as his father sweeps out of the room and commands the attention of everyone swarming the hallway. Sternly, he instructs the assortment to return to their usual business, including his son Chester, who protests loudly.
If Seb can be helpful, then so can he!
“Yes, and you will help by consoling your sisters and keeping them calm should they burst into hysterics,” his father advises. “They are all very fond of Keast and will not react well to the news of his death.”
Begrudgingly, Chester accepts the assignment, and the noise in the hallway slowly subsides as the throng proceeds to the staircase.
When it is silent, Sebastian takes my hand in his, and clasping it tightly, says, “You are having a dreadful time of it. I am sorry! I do not know why everyone is being so rude, but I have observed it, and I have tried to remind them of their manners. If my mother calls your mother quaint one more time, I fear I shall box her ears.”
No, he will not.
Holcroft the Holy would never raise his hand in violence to a woman.
But I appreciate his frustration because I share it and am grateful that his family’s jabs at my parents and me have not gone unnoticed. The insult was subtle and could have easily escaped his attention.
Regardless, the matter pales in comparison to the weightier subject at hand, and I brush aside his concern to offer my condolences.
I do not know how close he was to the deceased.
Mr. Keast had been his father’s steward for only eighteen months, and Sebastian had spent the majority of that time in London.
Even so, he is set to inherit the land someday, and as he takes all his responsibilities seriously, I can only assume he met with the steward as regularly as possible to keep abreast of his plans for the property.