Chapter 4 #2
Embarrassment rises in Mr. Holcroft’s cheeks as he stiffly thanks his friend for the letters, which he will see destroyed posthaste, before more reputations are ruined.
By “more” he means his own.
As Mr. Keast’s employer, he cannot evade all responsibility for the tragedy. The master of the house is expected to set the moral tone for his servants, and in failing to ensure that his steward lived up to the prevailing standard, he displayed a worrying laxity.
Even so, he is not the one who is dead.
The steward paid the greatest price for his immorality, and now it falls upon us, the living, to hold his murderer to account.
Protesting, I insist that Mr. Holcroft cannot destroy the letters. “They are evidence.”
Mr. Jenner does not argue the premise.
The letters are evidence.
But that is why they must be burned, the constable explains earnestly, as though destroying them is an obligation of his office.
“We need no further proof of Keast’s fecklessness.
It is on painful display before us, in all its ghastly ignominy.
If word of his actions were to spread across the district, Red Oaks’ reputation would be sullied, which none of us wants.
The misdeeds of one poorly behaved steward shall not be allowed to mar the good name of a family that has stood for honor and decency for generations, or at least shall not while I have the authority to prevent it. ”
I cannot tell whether he deliberately misunderstood me or if status and standing are genuinely foremost in his mind. “I meant they are evidence of murder.”
“I am well aware of that, Miss Hyde-Clare,” Mr. Jenner says gently.
“I have been constable for several years now and am familiar with the requirements of my office. Although I am as troubled by Keast’s murder as you are, I do not share your misplaced youthful enthusiasm for a pointless endeavor.
The letters may be evidence of murder, but they will lead us nowhere—and as such they are useless to us as a tool of investigation.
A useless tool of investigation that can cause grave harm elsewhere should be destroyed.
It is the only responsible response. I am sure you can appreciate that. ”
Oh, but I do not appreciate any of it: his condescending attitude, his way of speaking to me as though I am an empty-headed female, his nonsensical and personally motivated justification for abdicating his moral responsibility.
I smile.
It is the only way to respond to male intransigence.
Then I flutter my lashes and own myself bewildered by his statement.
“You must bear with me, Mr. Jenner, for I am not as clever as you, but I do not understand why you say the letters lead us nowhere. Don’t they lead us to Flitstone or Mickle Hill?
Didn’t you just say that the widow hails from one of those two nearby villages? ”
Despite his impatience to see the matter settled, he regards me tolerantly as he explains that more than eight hundred people call Flitstone and Mickle Hill home. “It is naive to think we will find the author of those letters among a population so large.”
I marvel at the number. “Goodness me, I did not realize the communities were so great! Flitstone and Mickle Hill are indeed thriving! I imagine there are quite a few widows of childbearing years among the two parishes. How many do you think there are, Mr. Jenner? Roundly, I mean, not specifically.”
Startled by the query, he insists that he could not possibly know, but if pressed he would place the figure as significantly higher than just “several,” what with the war dragging on for so many years and all that. “I would wager it is as many as three dozen.”
Again, I am aghast.
Three dozen!
Why, it would take several days, maybe four or even five, to interview all those widows. I could not expect the constable to devote an entire week to the activity. I have too much respect for his time.
“Thank you,” he replies soberly.
“But is it truly a few dozen?” I ask, furrowing my brow in a perfect simulation of confusion.
Although galling, flattering the male ego is the only way to convince a man to take your ideas seriously.
It is all well and good for Bea to stride up to one of her neighbors and demand answers for the highly irregular decapitation in his kitchens.
Having proceeded directly from spinsterhood to duchesshood, she possesses the unique confidence born of catapulting to the top of the social hierarchy.
Those of us who have not made that tremendous leap have to pander.
“Didn’t you say the author is quite far along in the family way?
If Keast promised to marry her for ‘month after month’—those are your words, sir—then her condition must be visible by now.
So, in actuality, you are looking for a widow who is with child by about six months.
How many widows who are with child by six months do you think there are in Flitstone and Mickle Hill? ”
Mr. Jenner stares in reply, his gaze fixed and intense, and I suppose he is replaying the conversation in his head, trying to figure out where he had gone astray. There is definitely a hint of fury in his eyes, as though angry at me for springing a trap.
The moment goes on, stretching from one second to three seconds to five, and ends abruptly when he pivots on his heels toward the door.
“All right, then, I am off! I leave the matter in your capable hands, George. I trust you to dispose of your steward and his belongings appropriately, including the letters, as already mentioned,” he says, turning next to address me.
“Miss Hyde-Clare, you are charming—not clever, as you rightfully noted, but charming. I wish you the best of luck with that scatterbrained mother of yours. From the report I received of her drawing room antics, you will need it.”
As far as final cutting remarks go, it is superb.
Nothing embarrasses me like my mother’s conduct, and to find out the drawing room massacre—no, that is too violent a term to use to describe my mother’s rambling insults while standing beside a strangled corpse—is already so famous that even the neighbors who were not in attendance have heard of it is beyond mortifying.
I almost lower my head in shame.
The reason I do not is obvious, though Mr. Jenner could not conceive of it: Mama’s conduct is always egregious. For years, I have stood beside her while she issued insults to one leader of the ton after another: Lady Jersey, Mrs. Jordan, Wellington!
The poor dear tries so hard but simply cannot help herself.
Resigned to it after so long, I barely acknowledge Mr. Jenner’s taunt, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my embarrassment. Instead, I smile sweetly, thanking him with all due sincerity for his kindness, and he responds with a reappraising look, as though restoring his original judgment.
I am a pea widgeon.
All that chatter about widows was an accident, not an ambush.
Sebastian takes offense on my behalf and draws a threatening step closer to the constable, who reiterates his faith in Mr. Holcroft before announcing that he will show himself out. “There is no need to make a fuss on my account.”
Mr. Holcroft commends him for swiftly discharging his duty.
“Of course, of course,” Mr. Jenner murmurs modestly, as though his half-hearted efforts on behalf of the murder victim have been heroic or even sufficient. “I am always gratified to serve the community in any way I can.”
Preening numbskull!
Despite the constable’s assurances, Mr. Holcroft insists on escorting Mr. Jenner to the door, and as he turns to leave, he slips the letters into his pocket.
“I will take those, sir,” Sebastian says, holding his hand out for the packet.
Mr. Holcroft appears on the verge of refusing the request. An ornery expression enters his eyes, and he presses his lips together waspishly.
Nevertheless, he complies. Giving the letters to his son, he asserts his confidence that Sebastian will safeguard the family’s honor and do nothing to harm his sisters’ prospects.
“You are an honorable brother who wishes nothing more than to see them comfortably settled with husbands and children of their own. I trust you implicitly.”
Then he and Mr. Jenner leave.