Chapter 3 #3
Sebastian confirms my supposition by saying that he received a monthly letter from the steward informing him of the property’s condition, which was extremely helpful, as his father could rarely be bothered to attend to his correspondence.
“The only time he puts pen to paper is to record the findings of his experiments, which exasperates my mother, who is forced to send replies on his behalf. Keast was concise in his communications and provided only a general picture. He was more forthcoming in person and always offered to take me, along with my father, through the ledgers line by line. I found him personable, knowledgeable, driven, and devoted. My father was fortunate to find someone who shared his passion so fervently. Keast will be missed by everyone in the house, I believe. Given how difficult it is to drag my father away from his tabulations, Mother frequently invited Keast to join the family for dinner to ensure her husband would emerge from his study long enough to eat.”
Snippets of last night’s discussion of land management dart through my head, and the thought of every meal being accompanied with such passionate intensity causes me to flinch slightly.
“The whole family will be deeply affected by the murder,” Sebastian continues with a heavy sigh. “It is a shocking thing to happen here. Red Oaks is not London. It is not a violent place. Grouse hunting is the worst of it. We do not even run the foxes.”
I squeeze his hand reassuringly, holding the pose for several seconds in a bid to demonstrate my sympathy. Keast’s gaze continues to contemplate the ceiling as my eyes drift toward the bed, before they settle on the bruised neck.
The steward had most definitely been strangled.
Desperate scratches attest to his struggle to free himself from the deadly clasp, but in the end, he was no match for his assailant, who had the advantage of either strength or surprise, or both.
If he had been incapacitated by a bash on the head, it might have taken him a few seconds to regain his wits.
I contemplate the options as I draw close to the murder weapon to examine it properly.
It is a shawl, not a scarf as I originally supposed, made of gossamer silk—very, very fine gossamer silk ideally suited for providing a hint of warmth on a cool summer’s night—and decorated with a beautifully stitched border of rosettes in alternating amber and amaranthine.
The palette marks it as the work of Madame Valenaire, the sought-after modiste who had made the color scheme her calling card for the season.
I would have done anything to have a scrap of fabric sewn by her expert hand.
“I believe we may assume the killer was female,” I observe.
Sebastian agrees that the conclusion seems rational in light of the evidence.
Running my fingers over the gorgeous material, which is irresistible, I add that the murder must not have been premeditated.
“Otherwise, she would have worn a different shawl to the assignation or used something she had found in the room. To leave a piece this wonderful behind suggests that she was repulsed by her own violence and could not stand to keep it as a reminder. A lovers’ spat, I would say. ”
Sebastian takes the shawl from my grasp and agrees that the quality is exceptional.
But he is skeptical of my other conclusion, as he does not believe the steward had any romantic entanglements.
“As far as I am aware, he devoted all his time to my father and the estate. I do not know when he would have had the opportunity to meet a woman, let alone seduce her. We will have to ask my parents. They will know more.”
“As well as Eleanor and Sarah,” I say.
He seems taken aback by the notion but allows that his siblings might have something useful to add to the investigation. “However, Miss Burgess, as the village gossip, is probably the best source of information on romantic entanglements.”
“No doubt you are right,” I reply, recalling her observations during dinner.
The vicar’s sister seems to keep a close eye on everyone of significance in the district, which would include Keast, and the best way to find out if she knows anything is to call on her.
But even as the thought occurs to me, a hot flush of embarrassment sweeps through me at the prospect of meeting her again after my mother’s devastating insults.
Despite my mortification, I must persevere.
It is the investigator’s code!
With this higher purpose in mind, I press my hand to Keast’s wrist to gauge his temperature. The cooler he is to the touch, the longer he has been dead. An imperfect science, it allows for me to draw only the most general conclusion, and I suggest that the murder took place five or six hours ago.
Sebastian agrees with my assessment, noting that four o’clock is particularly well suited for a furtive escape. “Everyone is abed, and it is still dark outside, even at this time of the year.”
“It is when a secret lover would leave regardless,” I say pensively, trying to picture the scene as it might have unfolded.
Was Mr. Keast still awake because they had just completed their…
hmm…nighttime activity, or did she have to rouse him to bid him goodbye?
Either way, something in their last exchange riled her to fury, which might have given her the strength she needed to overcome a man larger than she—or she had delivered that blow to gain an advantage.
To confirm my suspicion, I feel along his skull, looking for signs of an injury.
I think I feel a bump an inch above his right ear, but Sebastian wonders if that is merely the curvature of the victim’s head.
“Inconclusive, then,” I murmur and return to speculating about the length of the affair. “If it had been going on for some months, then the lovers would have established a routine. Could Mr. Keast have given her a key to allow her to enter and leave through one of the doors?”
Sebastian cannot conceive of it.
A woman stealing undetected in and out of the house on a regular basis—surely, the security at Red Oaks is not so lax.
“I know that life in the country is less formal than in the city, but my mother’s standards are high, which the staff know and respect.
They work hard to meet her requirements, and the idea that nobody noticed the steward’s dalliance is almost impossible to swallow. ”
If his appraisal of the situation is accurate, then there is only one explanation: Somebody does know and turned a blind eye. “Maybe several somebodies.”
He finds the notion that one of the servants would betray their oath of duty equally implausible, and I counter with an esprit de corps among the rank and file.
“If Keast was well liked among the staff, then they might have been inclined to consider a little romantic trysting harmless—which it was until it was not. We will have to interview them.”
Sebastian does not relish the prospect of interrogating the servants.
Naturally, he does not, for it will give universal offense.
Every single member of the household will be outraged.
“Do not trouble yourself, as I shall ask the questions,” I say placidly, laying a comforting hand on his arm.
“Thanks to Mama’s performance last night, which would have been the only topic of conversation this morning had this tragedy not occurred, my family already are personae non gratae, which is a blessing in its own way.
As I can do no right, I can also do no wrong. ”
Sebastian smiles wryly, but before he can reply, a voice at the entrance cries with outrage, “Step apart, you two. Step apart! This is a murder scene, not an assembly hall. A little decorum, please!”