Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Ijump back guiltily, as though I have been caught cavorting in a fountain in my chemise, but Sebastian holds himself steady and greets the newcomer coolly.
He is Aldridge Jenner, a gray wolf of a man with silver tufts of hair extending in every direction and whiskers that have not been groomed in weeks.
His eyes, which are a faint shade of blue, regard us distastefully as he castigates Sebastian for not having the sense God gave a puppy.
“Allowing a member of the frail sex to remain in the room with a dead body is reprehensible enough, but treating the circumstance with the same gravity as a garden party is a shocking affront to me and every constable in the shire. I cannot credit it, for I know you were raised better.”
“Indeed, he was!” avers Mr. Holcroft, striding into the room, his hands clasped behind his back.
Mr. Jenner clucks disapprovingly. “We must be grateful she has only been reduced to tremors, not insentience. Imagine if the poor girl swooned!”
Tremors!
I started with surprise when the large man bounded into the room while hurling accusations, which I contend is an entirely normal reaction given the great commotion he made. I am not so missish that I would faint at the sight of a corpse, and certainly not one that is absent putrescent fluids.
Mr. Jenner seeks to provide comfort by announcing that he is here to rescue me from Sebastian’s thoughtlessness. “Do not worry, Miss Hyde-Clare. I care about your welfare even if our young friend here does not,” he says, graciously extending his elbow in an offer to escort me from the room.
My polite refusal is superseded by Mr. Holcroft’s determination to take on the responsibility. “You must stay and attend to your business, Aldridge. I will return the girl to her parents if my son will not display proper comportment and bear the burden himself.”
Now I bristle with insult.
I can accept—with resentment—being described as a trembler or called a burden, but to accuse the most upstanding man in England of indecorum!
No, I will not.
Sebastian reported his own cousin for legal improprieties.
I do not care if the charge came from Mr. Holcroft.
Most fathers are incapable of appreciating the virtues of their own offspring.
My own sire tends to forget that I exist between my displays of erudition, and a girl has only so many opportunities to show off her Latin.
I would have to adopt the manners of Cicero for my father to be constantly reminded of my existence—and that sounds exhausting.
(And yet the look of chagrin on Russell’s face if I were to command our father’s constant attention!
It is almost enough to make the excessive effort worth it.)
To his credit, Sebastian does not rise to the provocation, owning himself gratified by their concern for my welfare. “Miss Hyde-Clare is no stranger to investigations of this nature.”
Mr. Jenner, who is dressed in hunting attire, an indication that his plans for the morning have been disrupted by his constabulary duties, scowls fiercely.
“I know she is cousin to the murder duchess—everyone in the village knows that—so you do not need to make sly reference to it. But this is not London, where they allow women to pollute the purity of their cadavers. This is Lower Bigglesmeade, and I would urge you out of respect for local custom to escort Miss Hyde-Clare downstairs and allow the men to oversee this matter.”
Sebastian refuses.
Of course he does!
Mr. Jenner has left him no choice, all but sending Sebastian off to the nursery to eat milky toast with the other children.
But he does not bother to issue a denial.
Instead, he reviews the evidence we have gleaned from the crime scene, citing the most likely time of death and the shawl as a strong indication that the murderer is a woman.
The constable listens politely to our findings, but it’s clear from his demeanor that he does not consider them relevant to his project.
He barely glances at the lovely silk garment before stuffing it into his pocket in his eagerness to explain that the most pertinent information is what you do not see.
“Context is the key to any crime. Identify the context and you will uncover the motive. Uncover the motive and you will identify the perpetrator.”
Sebastian nods curtly. “Yes, Jenner, I am familiar with your methodology, as I have heard you lecture about the topic on multiple occasions.”
Although the constable stiffens at the implied insult, he nevertheless launches into a sermon about the correct way to approach a crime scene.
“You have my permission, Seb, to search Keast’s drawers.
We are looking for anything that provides context for the crime.
Context in this case is a motive. By ‘motive’ I mean the thing that spurred the killer to act.
Murders do not happen out of nowhere. They are sparked by a particular event. ”
While Mr. Holcroft looks on with approval, Mr. Jenner explains his investigative philosophy in greater length, defining vacuum next, then exculpatory.
Sebastian, his expression still blank, falls in line with the neighbor’s instructions by opening the wardrobe and inspecting its contents.
Following his lead, I apply myself to the dresser, which has three drawers.
Starting with the top one, I work slowly and cautiously out of respect for the deceased.
Suffering the horror of strangulation is enough indignity to endure for one day; I do not want to add having his possessions roughly handled.
It is tedious!
As one would expect, the dresser contains clothes, neatly folded shirts, trousers, drawers, garters, and cravats—all in excellent condition, an indication that their owner treated them with care.
The only thing to draw my notice are his stockings, which have been mended a dozen times between them.
Either the steward was skilled with a needle or one of the maids lent her assistance.
If it is the latter, then perhaps Keast confided in her.
Do I think he might have done more?
Naturally, the idea occurs to me, for I know all about the pliability of young, eager girls, but the shawl is far too dear for an impoverished servant to leave behind. If a housemaid is the murderer, then she would have either used another method or taken the murder weapon with her.
With this thought in mind, I return the stockings to their place and gently remove a nightshirt. As I unfold it, a packet of letters drops to the floor.
Mr. Jenner pounces.
Still expounding on the obligations of his office, he breaks off abruptly as he leaps forward and bends down to retrieve the bundle, which makes him look more like a wolf than ever.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” he asks with an air of anticipation, holding the parcel to his nose and inhaling deeply.
“Lavender. I smell the evergreen woodsy scent of lavender. These are from a sweetheart, I know it without even reading a single letter.”
It is not a fantastical conclusion.
Lovers often sprinkle their notes of affection with aromas, and the lavender smell is strong. It wafts across the room to where Mr. Holcroft is standing in the doorway, causing him to wrinkle his nose in distaste.
Mr. Jenner unfolds the top letter, which he reads silently, as is his prerogative as constable.
When his eyes reach the bottom of the page, he murmurs, “Interesting, very interesting,” before continuing to the next one in the stack.
He does this half a dozen times, his tone never varying as he comments on the very interesting nature of the missives.
It is highly irritating, but I assume that is the purpose of the exercise.
If Sebastian and I insist on behaving like recalcitrant children who do not mind their elders, then Mr. Jenner will treat us like recalcitrant children who do not mind their elders.
He owes us no courtesies!
As if to bolster this argument, he reads through the packet a second time, and I have to swallow the snap of impatience that rises in my throat.
Complaining will only confirm his point.
“Context,” he intones self-importantly, holding the letters aloft like a young miss at her come-out ball, displaying her full dance card to the company.
(Naturally, it is full, Miss Petworth. It is your come-out ball.) “Context is how we make sense of a murder. Identifying the motive always reveals who the murderer is. In this case, Keast was killed by a widow whom he treated reprehensibly by getting her with child and then abandoning her to her fate. Although she does not give her direction, I can deduce from her description that she resides in a neighboring village. But that is all that we can deduce. She signs her letters from the fourth one on as ‘eternally devoted,’ and the ones before that bear no signature. Without her name, it will be impossible for us to identify her.”
Impossible?
I can understand how it might be difficult, but impossible seems unduly pessimistic.
“How do you know she is not from the local village?” I ask.
“She mentions a pond near the village square, and Lower Bigglesmeade does not have a pond. The only villages with ponds near their village squares are Flitstone and Mickle Hill, and they are seven miles from here in opposite directions,” he explains, crossing the floor to the entrance, where he hands Mr. Holcroft the letters.
“These are yours to dispose of as you see fit, though I would caution you against reading them. The tale is quite sordid and does not present your steward in a flattering light. As I said, he acquitted himself disgracefully throughout the ordeal, promising to do the honorable thing, then weaseling out of it month after month. Realizing she has been played for a fool, she swears to murder him in his sleep, by no means an empty threat, as subsequent events attest.”