Chapter 8 #2
When the last time nearly shattered me?
That is decidedly unfair.
Gathering my courage once again, I speak clearly and deliberately, letting each word exist in its own bubble for a fraction of a second before adding the next one.
“In the course of my investigation into the murder of your father’s steward, I realized the murderer is one of your sisters, and by a process of elimination, I can say with almost one hundred percent certainty that Eleanor is the culprit.
She was conducting an affair with the steward, and when it finally became clear to her that he would not do the honorable thing by her or their baby, she strangled him with the shawl.
She then invented Eternally Devoted to cast suspicion away from Red Oaks.
Leaving the shawl behind was a fatal misstep because it is too dear for an impoverished widow.
I came here to compare her handwriting against the letters to prove my theory, then realized I did not want to know. I was leaving when you found me.”
He smiles, which is the worst possible reaction because I do not know how to interpret it. A scowl means anger and a glare means fury, but a smile means…amusement? He cannot be amused by his sister’s moral vacuity.
Does he think I am teasing?
Does he believe my refusal to admit to a minor transgression is so consuming that I have concocted a slanderous story about an innocent young lady?
Or does he still not understand?
Did I race through it again?
I thought I had slowed down, but if I am oblivious to the speed with which I blink my eyelids, then perhaps I am equally ignorant about the pace at which I speak.
Good God, never say I have to repeat it a third time!
As if to confirm these speculations, Sebastian strides deeper into the room and presses a kiss against my forehead. “You are sweet, Flora.”
Pained by his misplaced tribute, I close my eyes.
More than anything I want his approval, but for this I do not deserve it.
Diligently, I begin again.
For the sake of clarity, I start with the shawl.
I have barely explained the importance of the shawl before Sebastian interrupts to insist that he comprehends the allegation against his sister.
“Rather than take offense at your grotesque conclusion about Eleanor, I choose to be moved by your show of mercy. I know how seriously you take your responsibility as an investigator and realize it is no small thing for you to put it aside. Thank you.”
And then he kisses me again!
Sebastian might claim to understand the accusation, but his actions suggest otherwise. If all he cares about is his sister not being held to account for Mr. Keast’s murder, then he has failed to grasp the significance of my revelations.
Eleanor is depraved.
Is she lost to all decency?
I certainly hope not, but her chances for redemption grow vanishingly thin if her own brother does not recognize the need for it. A steady hand is required to guide her, not hours of Bible study and auricular confession.
“You are very sweet to be so distressed on her behalf, but I promise you it is not necessary,” he says lightly, stepping away from me to approach the bed.
“Eleanor had nothing to do with my father’s steward.
She was not engaged in a torrid affair with him, and she most certainly did not murder him because he had refused to give their child his name. ”
A fond brother, he cannot bring himself to accept the truth, and my heart aches for him as he withdraws a slim volume from his sister’s night table.
“As it is a gross violation for us to pry in Eleanor’s private affairs, we are not going to read a single word in her journal,” he says, opening the book to the first spread and placing it on top of the magazines on the occasional table.
Then he holds out his hand to me and asks for the letter from Eternally Devoted.
“I assume you brought it with you to make a comparison, as that is how you meant to prove your theory.”
I stuff my hand inside my pocket, as if to hold the missive in place, and beg him to reconsider. “Once you do this, you cannot undo it. Let us go now and pretend nothing ever happened. My, it is a lovely day for a walk. Pray, be a dear, Sebastian, and take a turn with me around the garden.”
His patronizing laugh is at once heartbreaking and infuriating.
He truly has no idea of what is in store.
“As I said, it is kind of you to worry, but it is for naught. Eleanor has done nothing wrong. Now, please hand me the letter,” he says.
Gaining a new appreciation for the plight of Cassandra, I recognize the futility of further argument and comply with his request. I cannot save him from himself; all I can do is stand nobly by his side and console him in his grief.
Even so, I cannot bear to watch it happen.
Glancing down, I examine the stitching on the edge of my sleeve and brace myself for the gasp of horror. Given how easy the previous analyses were made, I expect to hear it on three…two…one…
But there is nothing.
No sharp inhalation, no audible catch of breath.
Bewildered, I look up and find him smiling at me.
Holding out his hand, he says, “Come, my dear, see for yourself. The two styles of handwriting are not remotely similar. Eleanor’s letters are small and squished together.
You can barely differentiate one from the other, which makes reading her correspondence hard, steady work.
Believe me, nobody in the family relishes getting a letter from her, because it means you will spend the next half hour deciphering the text.
That is how I knew she could not be the killer—well, that is, aside from loving her for eighteen years and knowing she does not have a violent bone in her body.
Even if she wanted to disguise her handwriting with neat and legible letters, she would not be able to.
It is simply beyond her capability. My mother despairs of her. ”
The words make sense, as I know the immutability of penmanship, for my own awkward scribble has proved invulnerable to improvement, and yet I cannot credit them.
Eleanor has to be the murderer. I have already removed her sisters from suspicion, and there is no one else in the household who could reasonably be considered.
Unless—gasp—Eternally Devoted is Mrs. Holcroft!
Sebastian urges me again to come examine the samples.
“I want you to see for yourself and arrive at your own conclusion. I have too much respect for your judgment to substitute my own. You see? All scratchy little marks,” he says, pointing to the line at the top of the page.
“Without staring at it for several minutes, I cannot tell if the first word is treacle or chemist, and I know you think I am exaggerating for effect, but I swear I am not. Do see for yourself.”
Although he steps aside so that I can stand directly over the examples, it is not necessary. The distinction is so pronounced that I can spot it from several paces away.
Even so, I draw closer to make the official confirmation, and it is a relief to have something to focus on that is not the homicidal tendencies of yet another member of his family. Now that Sebastian is aware of my investigation, I will have to work doubly hard to hide my new suspicion from him.
A challenge, to be sure, but it is my only option.
Having just accused his sister of murder, I cannot immediately turn in the opposite direction and point my finger at his mother.
It will look as though I am flailing about for any Holcroft to malign.
I am not selective! Any one of you will do!
Gently, Sebastian says, “I trust this makes you feel better. You poor girl, working yourself into a lather over nothing. I hope next time you will come to me with your concerns rather than worrying about them silently, though my greater hope is that there will not be a next time. To be candid, I still cannot believe there is a this time. It is commonplace by now to joke about the inordinate number of murders your cousin has encountered in the span of a single season, but maybe it is not so remarkable after all. In a few handful of months, we have chanced upon three. Perhaps we should simply consider ourselves lucky that the stack of corpses is not up to our noses, as dead bodies are far easier to find than any of us suspected.”
The words are light, but his tone is not, and I readily picture him conducting a comprehensive study to assess the extent of the problem and drawing up a chart to illustrate the prevalence of cadavers in England. It would be arranged by regions, with each area colored a different hue.
He is so dear.
So dear and serious and thoughtful and kind.
He is the sweet one, Holcroft the Holy, who has not issued a single syllable of rebuke despite the ugly allegations I lodged against his sister. Knowing the charge to be ludicrous, he would have been well within his rights to take a pet at the insult.
A lecture on the ills of bearing a suspicious mind would not be out of order.
Having narrowly avoided one crisis, I am not so foolish as to rush headlong into another and watch silently as he returns the journal to the night table.
Implicating his mother in the crime—that is, identifying her as a killer and adulteress—would be to fling myself from the frying pan into the fire.
Or do I mean another frying pan, as the situations are not appreciably different? Accusing his mother of horrible things is extremely similar to accusing his sister.
In that respect, then, maybe I have always been in the fire?
Regardless!
Sebastian slides the drawer shut and suggests we visit the garden.
Grateful for the respite, I agree.
My investigation into his mother’s plausible iniquity cannot be delayed indefinitely, but it can wait briefly while I enjoy a pleasant interlude among the flowers.
We leave the room cautiously, with Sebastian exiting first, as his presence in his sister’s bedchamber is not as difficult to explain to the staff as my own.
We meet again at the bottom of the staircase, and proffering his arm, he leads me to the terrace doors.
Stepping outside, I feel the sun on my face, and it is a gorgeous sensation.
I inhale deeply and lament the fact that murder must mar such a lovely day.
If not for my high moral standards, I would be free to enjoy his company unencumbered by guilt and a looming sense of doom.
The only consoling factor is Mrs. Holcroft’s maturity.
At her advanced age, she has already enjoyed a full life.
Her best years are behind her, and unlike Eleanor she does not have time to grow into a better person.
By now, she has settled into her depravity.
If she has trysted with one servant, then she has trysted with a dozen.
For all we know, there could be other victims.
She might make a regular habit of slaying her lovers.
That large brood she shares with Mr. Holcroft—are all of those children even his?
Troubled by my thoughts, I nevertheless manage to smile serenely as Sebastian guides us to a stone bench in front of a row of manicured hedges. To the right is an urn overflowing with pink roses and to the left is a marble basin with a pair of graceful swans forming the base of the ornamental bath.
It is a lovely spot in which to linger, and I endeavor to match my thoughts to the setting.
I do not have to contemplate Mrs. Holcroft’s culpability.
Instead, I can reflect on Sebastian’s decency, his worthiness, his handsome face, his verdant green eyes that glow with a particular light when he looks at me.
His eyes are glowing now as he regards me in the sunshine, and I realize this is precisely how I would wish for him to propose, should he decide we would suit.
Here, in a garden, surrounded by birdsong and blossoms, not in the slightly shabby Portman Square drawing room with Mama hovering outside the door, her hands clenched tightly as she trembles in anticipation, the likeliness of my acceptance causing her as much apprehension as the possibility of my refusal.
Cruelly, my mind darts from my mother to his mother, and I know with unflinching certainty that the offer will never come.
Forgiving one charge of murder against a family member is an act of affection; forgiving a second is self-flagellation.
At some point, a gentleman is compelled to seek out a young lady who does not endlessly assume the worst about his relatives.
I smile.
It is the only response I know to emotional devastation.
Then I borrow a page from Mama’s book and chatter about the peonies. I marvel at their plumpness and gush over the gardener’s skill and bemoan the fact that their blossoms last for little more than a week.
How do I know they blossom for little more than a week?
Because Mama mentioned it the morning before.
Everything I say is a reprise of her performance from yesterday.
Sebastian, not sharing my bemusement at their beauty, grasps one of my hands and says, “Hush, Flora, it is all right. You may accuse my mother of murdering Keast without fear of anyone overhearing. Go on, I will not take offense.”
A charitable pronouncement, to be sure, and yet he already sounds annoyed.