Chapter 7 #3
But it is so different from Mrs. Dowell’s!
Look at those i’s—all dotted and perfect.
Were they taught by different instructors, or did Sarah simply refuse to comply with the demand for compact, graceful letters?
It does not matter.
The situation stands as it stands: I must examine Eleanor’s handwriting next.
Although I find it difficult to believe that the youngest Holcroft daughter would conduct an illicit affair with the steward, let alone strangle him to death, my opinion on the matter is irrelevant. Bea would never let her personal judgment of an individual guide her.
As investigators, we are obligated by our code to follow the truth wherever it leads.
Vis et honor usque ad finem!
(That means “strength and honor until the end,” which Russell will never know, because he wasted all that time learning Sanskrit instead of Latin. Tee-hee.)
Having searched two bedchambers without incident, I am less anxious about poking around a third, and when I get to the doorway, I pause only briefly before reentering to the corridor.
As far as I can tell, eleven in the morning is the ideal time for snooping at Red Oaks, because the staff are busy with responsibilities elsewhere in the house.
In size and design, Eleanor’s accommodation falls somewhere between her sisters’: Its proportions are larger than Sarah’s and its messiness greater than Mrs. Dowell’s.
She has a corner room, which provides her with a double exposure and twice as much daylight.
The window to the east looks out onto the formal gardens, which are bathed in the rare bout of sunshine, and from the northern one you can see the rightmost edge of the stables.
In the nook between the two sits an overly stuffed armchair with a footstool in a complementary color and an occasional table buried under recent issues of La Belle Assemblée, The Lady’s Magazine, and Ackermann’s Repository.
Aha!
The youngest Holcroft keeps abreast of the latest town styles. If any member of the family is inclined to have the season’s most sought-after fashions, it is she.
Suddenly, I know with certainty her handwriting will match the original.
That the murderess is the youngest Holcroft daughter strikes me with utter clarity.
She had commented on Mr. Keast’s dark good looks, which is hardly surprising, as a girl in her situation—young, inexperienced, buried in the country with few romantic prospects—would inevitably be smitten by a handsome man. I mean, the most eligible partis in the district are her own brothers.
That is bleak!
For a man with a surfeit of charm and a lack of morality, Eleanor would have been easy prey.
A wave of sadness engulfs me as I imagine the despair that drove her to murder her lover. The extremity of the violence hints at the degradation of her ability to think rationally, and it seems likely that one aspect of the letters is accurate: Their author is expecting.
What a desperate strait!
Unwilling to do anything that would imperil his position, Mr. Keast had probably renounced all involvement with the terrified girl and dared her to speak to her father. Of the two of them, he knew she would be the one to suffer more from a confession.
Seeing no recourse, Eleanor panicked, eliminating the steward to resolve the immediate problem while failing to consider the larger, intractable issue. Enceinte, she is now enceinte with the sin of murder staining her soul.
A desperate strait indeed.
I cannot believe the young girl is at fault for her condition.
Even if she had expressed interest in the attractive steward, it had still been incumbent upon him to respond to her overtures with restraint.
His behavior reveals a man of gross indecency who failed to hold to a single standard of civility and honor.
Eleanor killed the architect of her ruin.
The thought makes me queasy, and I no longer know what I am supposed to do.
Bring her to justice.
That is the answer.
As an investigator of murders, I am bound by an inviolable ethical code.
To alter my behavior in response to a surge of pity is an intolerable weakness.
The code must be followed!
Oh, but the queasiness.
My stomach roils with it.
Standing there, in the middle of the room, contemplating the collection of magazines on the table, I find myself utterly incapable of movement. To my left is a writing table with all the evidence I need of Eleanor’s culpability.
I just have to walk toward it to fulfill my duty.
The code would be served.
But if the investigator’s ethical code demands the apprehension, imprisonment, and consignment to death of a naive young girl led astray by a despicable villain with no kindness or integrity, then is that code actually ethical?
What claim to integrity and righteousness can it make?
In proving her guilt, am I not just continuing the work Mr. Keast began, overseeing the destruction of Miss Eleanor Holcroft in his absence?
If I expose these secrets, how will I be able to sleep at night, knowing I am responsible for her misery and torment?
Surely, Bea would agree.
She would not allow an arbitrary rule to hold dominion over her morality.
Sometimes justice is injustice.
A confounding notion, to be sure, and yet a strange fact of life.
I will pursue the matter no further.
At once, the worst of my nausea passes and I realize my relief at not knowing one way or the other. I have a strong sense of Eleanor’s guilt, but without definitive proof it will always remain a mystery.
It is better this way.
Now I do not have to sit across from her at the dinner table, fully cognizant of the wrenching tragedy and violence of her life. I can think I know, but that is another beast entirely.
It is a relief—a huge relief.
And if there is a child?
I will know nothing about it.
The Holcrofts are wily dealers with money and power.
They can make an awkward situation disappear.
As for the demands of my vocation, I would have satisfied them by proving the girl’s guilt before standing strong against the inevitable desolation and heartbreak of living a highly moralistic life.
But it is one thing to sacrifice my future to ensure a ruthless murderer is held to account, for there is honor in choosing the sanctity and safety of society over one’s personal happiness; it is quite another to immiserate myself to punish a wayward miss or possibly the victim of violence.
Thankfully, Sebastian will never know how close I came to condemning his sister or that I even harbored suspicions.
It is a good thing I did not embroil the servants in my pursuit.
He will continue to believe the fiction of the impoverished widow, pressing the constable to search the surrounding villages and ultimately abandoning the pursuit when it fails to produce a viable suspect.
I am sorry for the ignominy of your end, Mr. Keast, but we all reap what we sow. If you had simply made the effort to be a better person, things would have turned out differently.
Remarkably, my stomach feels fine.
The queasiness is gone.
Relieved by the turn of events, I spin on my heels to leave.
And there he is, Sebastian, leaning against the door.