Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
My instinct is to smile wider.
Smile wider, toss my head back, chortle with amusement, and dismiss his concern: accuse your mother? Why, Mr. Holcroft, you do say the most outrageous things.
Producing a persuasive chortle is not as effortless as a convincing giggle, because it requires a greater level of control. The latter can come in a single giddy stream, but the latter must be released in bursts.
Through practice and repetition, I have mastered both.
Even so, I restrain myself.
It requires some effort because Mama’s training is deeply ingrained.
But it is clear the moment of truth is upon me: Either I plant my feet on the mat, or I leave the salon, in the vulgar pugilism cant Russell used when explaining a maneuver he had learned at Gentleman Jackson’s to the dowager duchess.
I plant my feet.
“The killer is a woman of means with access to London who lives in Red Oaks,” I say, returning my attention to the peonies, whose pretty petals are not as soothing as they could be. “Eliminating your sisters based on an analysis of their handwriting leaves us with only one suspect: your mother.”
Do I use us to implicate him in the charge?
I think so, yes.
Sitting next to him on the bench, I feel isolated and alone and eager for company.
But Sebastian does not oblige, taking issue with my core assumption that the killer is an occupant of the house. “Although it is unsettling to admit that Red Oaks is not a fortress despite being built around a central peel, there are literally a hundred ways to enter if you count all the windows.”
The windows!
Darting to my feet, I exclaim, “The chaos belowstairs!”
His blank stare indicates that he knows nothing about the tumult.
I see someone has not been scheming with his servants.
Excitedly, I explain, “The staff are blaming one another for the window in the music room, which was left open on Tuesday night, allowing the rain to ruin the rug. Nobody will admit to the mistake. But I see now it is because they are all innocent. Consider it: One of the guests at the dinner party opened the window so she could reenter the house later. This series of events changes everything, for it means she planned everything in advance and came upon a sleeping man. It was not a crime of passion as we originally supposed.”
Sebastian is distinctly underwhelmed by this insight and asks with almost a mocking tilt if I am actually lodging an accusation against Mrs. Nutting or Mrs. Braithwaite.
“You believe one of them returned to the house in the middle of the night in a rainstorm and trundled over the window to kill Keast? Or do you think one of their daughters did?”
I am unaccustomed to his derision, as he has never directed it at me before.
Moreover, Sebastian rarely directs it at anyone because he generally considers all people worthy of respect, and for him to decide that I am not worthy of even that cursory esteem hurts.
Like being poked with a knife, I feel a stinging jab.
“I consider them suspects, yes,” I say flatly.
He is startled by my affirmative, perhaps because he expects me to be quelled by his scorn.
A fine investigator I would be!
Bea has derision heaped upon her all the time.
(Though not by Kesgrave. Never by Kesgrave.)
After a pause, Sebastian explains that the mature charms of the older women could never rival the appeal of a chart depicting crop yields. “As for the Incomparables, it is simply impossible. They are too delicate for the scheme you are proposing.”
I knew he would say that.
Most men are unable to credit a beautiful woman with an extensive range of capabilities, which is perhaps the greatest advantage of being a beautiful woman.
Every minor competency she displays is hailed as a towering achievement.
If she can multiply four and sixteen, she is acclaimed as a mathematical genius.
If she can name a single act passed by Parliament in the last year, she is celebrated as a noteworthy intellectual.
Beauty itself is perceived as the ne plus ultra of human accomplishment.
“Do the Misses Nutting and Braithwaite ride?” I ask.
As prosaic as it is, the question seems to confuse him, and he clarifies that I mean horses.
“Yes, do they ride horses?”
He confirms that both women regularly engage in the activity. “We are in the country, after all, and it is a popular mode of travel and exercise.”
“Well, then, they can easily climb over a sill, as it differs little from mounting a steed,” I reply smoothly.
“As for overcoming a man of Mr. Keast’s size and strength, the killer had the advantage of surprise.
Coming upon him while he was deep in sleep, she would be able to wrap the shawl around his neck before he was fully awake. ”
Sebastian still contends it is impossible.
“Gaining entry to the house is the least of the challenges. First, she would have to traverse the distance between the houses on a moonless night. What young lady would not be terrified of the prospect, especially in the rain? In the same way, squeezing the life out of her lover would require not just physical strength but also mental fortitude. If you thought about it more deeply, you would realize you are describing an .”
Oh, is that what I am doing?
These very same characteristics apply to the impoverished widow of the original theory, and Sebastian had raised no issue with that postulation.
Readily, he believed she existed. It is only now, when I suggest the killer might be one of the stunning young women who decorate the district, that she must be a female warrior of Greek mythology.
To his credit, he acknowledges the discrepancy when I draw attention to it and clarifies that he no longer believes the woman exists.
“Like you, I have considered the matter deeply and realized Eternally Devoted is implausible for the reasons I just cited. Plus, Jenner’s ardent belief in context as motive is widely known because of his propensity to lecture, so anyone who wanted to throw him off the scent would think to leave letters in easy reach of the victim.
I now believe that we are looking for a man and that he will be found in the village.
In the fortnight since I returned, I have discovered that Keast’s improvements in farming have resulted in significantly fewer laborers working the fields.
In gathering information to discuss the recent changes with my father, I have talked to many embittered men who would have gladly strangled Keast if given half the chance. ”
His conclusions are not without merit, for the anger caused by technological improvements continues to roil the land, especially in the north, where innovations in mechanical textile production have led to violence.
(Do not press me for more details, please.
That is all I know!) But these deductions do not account for the oddity of the shawl—what applies to a poor widow rusticating in the country applies doubly to an unemployed farmhand—and fail to address the similarities to The Fate of the Dark Dawn.
As he is as yet unaware of the connection to the popular gothic, I explain.
Once again, he is underwhelmed, noting that the resemblance does not so much speak to the reading tastes of the killer as to the pedestrian quality of the book in question.
Naturally, I respect Sebastian for having his own opinions.
I could never love a man who either subordinated his thoughts to my own or pretended to agree with me to avoid an argument or further discussion.
Even so, I find his refusal to accept my conclusion, which is very obviously the correct one, incredibly irritating.
Short of stamping my foot, though, I can see no way to overcome his judgment.
(Maybe the book is a little prosaic, with its scheming Italian counts with their hunchbacks and gloomy castles overlooking the sea, but it is not nearly as unimaginative as some other works that have earned much public fanfare. And, yes, I am complaining about Guy Mannering again!)
I do not press the issue.
It is not necessary.
All the evidence supports my argument.
Instead, I ask how the theory of the embittered villager accounts for the open window and soaked rug. A laborer would not have had access to the music room at Red Oaks.
He smiles.
But it is not an amused smile or a fond smile or even a jeering one.
It is condescending.
I know it well because I have seen its duplicate hundreds of times in my life, most recently on his father’s lips, and I feel a sudden loss of breath, as if someone has punched me in the stomach.
Sebastian does not treat me like this.
Having solved the mystery of Mr. Davies alongside me, he holds my judgment in uncommonly high esteem.
He has seen me at my best, discovering hidden compartments by moving gargoyle statues and knocking murderers unconscious with wood planks.
More than anyone else in the world, he admires my bravery and thinks I am capable of accomplishing great feats.
His belief in me is in part why he did not tell me about the possible threat against my life. He knew I would not accept the peril without making some effort to understand it and possibly combat it.
And yet I am wrong, because Sebastian does treat me like this.
“A minor failing of household management does not require an explanation,” he says.
“Despite Mrs. Jackson’s excellence, mishaps occur, as she would be the first to acknowledge.
If nobody on staff is willing to take responsibility for the open window in the music room, it is because the rug is an Aubusson and replacing it costs more than a year of their wages. ”
Of course—the expense!
That is the more practical explanation.
Yes, let us all be very practical.
Taking a step back, I acknowledge the sensible reply. “I should have realized it myself.”
But I am no longer talking about the rug.
Now I am talking about Sebastian.