Chapter 5 #3
But the shawl is by Madame Valenaire, a master of her craft, and rarely have I seen a finer example of her handiwork.
Even the one Bea owns lacks the exquisite stitching along the border, and counting such a wonder among her possessions, the widow would have been better served by selling the shawl and using the proceeds to establish herself as a recently bereaved widow in another shire.
By any measure, it was a much more practical solution than murder.
Now the culprit has blood on her hands and is without a shawl on which to wipe them.
Aware that I am making too much of the garment—Bea would never focus all her attention on a trifle, however superbly made—I redouble my interest in the letters.
The letters are all we have to find the murderess.
Alas, they provide little insight into her identity, and the information they do contain pertains almost exclusively to the progression of their story, from giddy infatuation to heartrending betrayal.
The widow relays every emotion she feels as she gradually realizes that her lover has no intention of keeping his word.
Her last missive, full of fury and vengeance, promises revenge.
“You will regret it,” she writes in a clear declaration of her intention.
Knowing what was to come allowed her to plan the scene, which in turn allowed her to gain the advantage over the larger man.
In that case, the shawl was a deliberate choice, and I try to picture the disconsolate widow inspecting her wardrobe as she attempts to decide which frippery is best suited to ending her lover’s life: the shawl by Madame Valenaire or the fichu from Madame Bélanger?
Well, that is an absurd image, is it not?
A widow buried in the country and owning scarves by the two most fashionable modistes in London is a wild fantasy. It is implausible enough that she even has the one.
Oh, but it is implausible.
Struck by the realization, I drop the last letter onto the counterpane and retrieve the first from the packet. As previously noted, it is succinct and contains little of interest. I pick up the next missive, which begins with an apology for ending their tryst so abruptly.
It was not what she had wanted.
“Alas, I had socks to darn,” she explains regretfully. “Having taken in the neighbors’ sewing, it was incumbent upon me to return it in a timely fashion.”
Even so, she looks forward to seeing him again soon, hopefully on Tuesday. “My ardent admiration for your form and acumen demands further expression.”
Dutifully, I reread all the dispatches, but I already know there are no other references to financial hardship.
There is only breathless infatuation conveyed in declarations of profound longing and heightened wonder.
In the sixth letter, she dedicates three lines to Mr. Keast’s manly chest, which she describes as strong and sheltering: “a respite from the world.”
But the sewing cannot be ignored.
If Eternally Devoted was forced to darn her neighbors’ socks, then she could not afford to buy any shawl by Madame Valenaire, let alone one from the current season.
Perhaps it was a present from her lover?
Is that explanation any more plausible?
It is not, as even if Mr. Keast had the scratch to send to London for an expensive gift, he would have had little notion of the au courant style.
A man with his head in a farmer’s almanac and livestock tabulations would not know Madame Valenaire from the village seamstress and would require the assistance of someone with either a subscription to La Belle Assemblée or a residence in the capital.
In that case, the steward would have required a confidante, presumably a member of the household, given the constraints of his schedule, and as nobody has come forth with the information, I think it is safe to say he did not go that route.
A generous benefactor seems equally unlikely, as the garment’s condition is simply too pristine to be a castoff. By all means, give the poor, poverty-stricken widow your Madame Valenaire shawl, but the one with the mango-chutney stain along the frayed hem.
Could it be stolen?
Eternally Devoted, with access to one of the great houses in her district, snuck into the dressing room of Lady Very Important or Mrs. Magnificently Wealthy and tucked the gossamer silk shawl into her pocket before creeping out again.
An act of such brazen larceny would create a very great uproar in the household, with one or more of the servants being turned out without notice, and word of the theft would spread quickly among the townsfolk.
If the news had not reached Lower Bigglesmeade, then that is because Eternally Devoted resides too far away.
Mr. Jenner identified the distance as seven miles, which is not an insurmountable expanse for a scandal to travel.
If the widow lives farther afield, then meeting Mr. Keast regularly would have been prohibitively difficult.
Based on this analysis, I decide the shawl was not stolen.
How, then, did it come to be in the possession of an impoverished widow in a rural backwater?
Incapable of coming up with an explanation, I am forced to contemplate a shocking idea: Eternally Devoted is the invention of a murderer seeking to divert blame elsewhere.
The effort is not without merit, as turning our eyes outward rather than allowing them to focus inward is the surest way for the culprit to escape detection.
If that is true, then the killer must live here, at Red Oaks.
It is a chilling thought.
Instinctively, I reject it.
But the idea persists because proximity accounts for so much: It explains how the steward found time in his perpetually busy schedule to dally with a lover, and how that lover was able to sneak in and out of the house regularly without raising suspicions.
As for the murderer, she has a robust sense of drama, as the abject tale of love and betrayal she tells in her letters bears many of the hallmarks of a gothic novel, with a cursed hero and heroine meeting beside a lonely pond—
Oh, but a pond!
That is where Georgiana meets Lazarus in The Fate of the Dark Dawn.
No wonder I am suddenly picturing Georgiana on the cliff top.
Eternally Devoted took her narrative cues from the popular gothic.
It is so obvious now.
Even her signature bears a resemblance: Beginning in the second volume, Georgiana signs her secret missives to Lazarus with “yr. eternal beloved.”
If the murderess patterned her letters on The Fate of the Dark Dawn, then she is well-read.
A literate servant is not unheard of, but she is nevertheless a rare creature. Poor Bea, who did not even number among the staff at Welldale House, had to hide in the drapery just to finish a chapter before being sent to do Mama’s endless bidding.
A shiver prances down my spine as I can no longer stave off the truth: The murderer is a gently bred young woman who resides at Red Oaks.
It is the only explanation that makes sense, and yet it feels viscerally wrong.
One of Sebastian’s sisters, a killer.
The notion itself sounds absurd.
And the shawl!
If a Holcroft daughter strangled the steward with one of her own shawls, then someone in the house would recognize it—her lady’s maid, the housekeeper, her sisters!
A garment of that quality could not have passed unnoticed.
All I have to do is interview the servants.
Yes, Flora, all you have to do is ask the laundry maid if she recalls washing the murder weapon. That will not cause a fuss at all. Sebastian will definitely not hear about your questions and realize you are trying to send his sister to the gallows!
The situation is horrid!
Either I abide by the investigator’s code and risk alienating Sebastian’s affection or I abdicate my sacred duty.
But is it really my sacred duty?
Unlike Mr. Jenner, I am not charged with the obligation of seeing that justice is carried out in the district. I have sworn no pledge to uphold the laws of England.
I am a gently bred young lady from a coastal village in Sussex. The only compact I have made is to be a dutiful daughter to my parents, and I hold to that agreement only when it is convenient.
Nothing requires me to bring one of Sebastian’s sisters to justice.
I daresay even my cousin would balk at accusing Kesgrave’s sister of murder—if he had one, that is. The fact that he is bereft of all siblings while Sebastian is blessed with so many strikes me as decidedly unfair. These things should be evenly distributed, like raindrops or rout cakes.
Regardless, Bea would barrel forward with an allegation.
I am certain of it.
She has too much respect for the investigator’s code and she is fearless.
Courage in the pursuit of justice is essential, and although I have long believed I have the pluck to meet any challenge, I find myself unable to muster the nerve to continue.
Nobody expects me to destroy my only chance at happiness to uphold the law, especially when I know nothing about the circumstance that led to the heinous act.
Mr. Keast might have very well been a vile seducer who took unscrupulous advantage of a young woman’s sweet disposition, and if the sister is at this very moment carrying his child, then she is already suffering the torments of the damned.
As a guest in her home, I do not need to increase her misery by invading her privacy and exposing her anguish to the harsh scrutiny of the public.
It is a small act of kindness to look away.
Yes, truly, a tiny, little thing.
It will not trouble me at all.