Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Miss Burgess does not doubt the sincerity of my apology.
And so she should not!
I am every bit as sorry as I claim for the discomfit to which Mama subjected her during the ordeal previously known as the drawing room massacre.
The wretched scene was set off by my mother’s observation regarding Miss Burgess’s marital prospects, making the vicar’s sister my mother’s first victim, and the first victim always bears the brunt, if for no other reason than the assault is unanticipated.
By the time Mama turned her anxious grin on Mrs. Braithwaite, the matron knew precisely what to expect and steeled herself accordingly.
Still, the earnestness of my remorse is not the whole story.
It is merely the pretext by which I can gain entry to the house and coax confidences from my hostess.
I do not expect it to be difficult, as the Holcroft sisters would have piqued her curiosity by giving a circumspect report that revealed only basic facts.
Eager for details, Miss Burgess will press me for information, which I will gladly, if diffidently, supply.
But first the apology!
“I will not insult you by offering excuses,” I announce nobly to Miss Burgess after taking a seat in the vicarage’s cozy parlor, which just fits a narrow sofa and a trio of bergères.
Paintings of hounds and birds decorate walls swathed in a deep gray-blue that is repeated in the upholstery and complements the light gray curtains over the windows.
“My mother can be thoughtless and cruel when she is flustered, which is unfortunately the case most of the time. I have tried gently hinting her toward kindness when she has one of her episodes, but she either ignores me or waves me off. It is a lamentable state of affairs, but you know how mothers are.”
It turns out she does not.
Mrs. Burgess had been an exemplary female who excelled at a wide variety of activities and made a point of passing on many of her skills to her children through patient instruction.
“She died three years ago this past February, and the truth is, I would give anything for her to mortify me in the drawing room at Red Oaks. It is not something she ever did to me or my brother while she was alive, and I think we would both be entertained by the novelty.”
I congratulate Miss Burgess on the good fortune of her antecedents.
Amused, she shakes her head and cautions me against the use of the plural.
“My father was a wastrel who deserted his family when I was fourteen and Drew was sixteen. Regardless, please do not worry about your mother’s comments, which I took in the spirit with which they were intended.
Furthermore, she did not say anything I have not heard before,” she adds with a wry smile, then admits that nobody has urged her to aim as high as a duke before.
“The talk is usually limited to schoolteachers, bank clerks, and the grocer in the village, all of whom are widowers with any number of children.”
“You are very gracious, Miss Burgess,” I murmur. “Most people are not as understanding of my mother’s shortcomings. I am sorry to hear that it has been so unpleasant for you.”
She swears that unpleasant is too strong a word.
“Mildly annoying is more accurate. It is a pity there are not more unattached young men in the district. All the best prospects are married with families of their own, which is not to give you the impression that my brother is impatient for me to leave. He has never even hinted in that direction, but I attribute that to the fact that he has yet to find a woman whom he would like to court. Then he will realize the domestic constraints of giving shelter to one’s sister.
To be honest, I would not mind a little independence for myself.
A modest cottage of my own in a neighboring village such as Marston Bend would be idyllic,” she says a little forlornly, then rouses herself with a shake of the head.
“But that is neither here nor there. Tell me, how are you? I still cannot believe what has happened.”
I agree it is difficult to credit. “We are all aghast and confused.”
“That was readily apparent from my visitors’ demeanors. Mrs. Dowell was at a loss for words, which is quite out of the ordinary for her. I understand from their report that Mr. Holcroft is distraught, as he relied on his steward for everything.”
Ah, so that is what his daughters are saying.
Having seen no evidence of deep distress in the family’s patriarch, I find the description curious. “The loss to him and the family cannot be overstated.”
Miss Burgess nods solemnly, then tilts forward and says in a lowered voice, “Is it true that he was found in his bed, strangled to death by a lover?”
Did she hear that from the Holcroft sisters or the village gossips?
Intrigued, I reply, “According to letters hidden in Mr. Keast’s clothes press, it is.”
She rears back in wonder. “There are letters!”
Ah, so the visitors failed to mention that scandalous morsel.
No doubt they were trying to salvage what they could of the steward’s reputation.
Confirming, I say there are ten letters in total written over a period of seven months.
“They relate the whole of the relationship, from first encounter to the final death threat. The author is a widow whom the steward got in the family way, and as the months pass, she grows increasingly irate as she begins to realize he has no intention of following through on his promise to marry her.”
Miss Burgess is agog.
It is a salacious story, which is why the killer decided to tell it.
“I cannot believe it of Mr. Keast,” she says. “He always seemed to have few interests outside of ensuring the estate. I wonder who the woman is. You say she is a widow?”
“An impoverished widow,” I reply.
Miss Burgess’s brow furrows as she considers the information, and I can all but see her mentally moving through a roster of names as she tries to identify the woman who fits this description. “It is very tragic. The widow must have been desperate. How far along is she, do you think?”
Of course she needs more details to arrive at the correct suspect.
“Approximately six,” I say.
Naturally, that is confounding. Unlike Mr. Holcroft and the constable, Miss Burgess realizes how difficult it is for an increasing woman to hide her condition.
“She is not from Lower Bigglesmeade,” I continue. “Based on the geography mentioned in the letters, Mr. Jenner believes she is from Flitstone or Mickle Hill.”
Her expression clears up immediately. “Oh, yes, I see, that makes more sense.”
“The problem, Miss Burgess, is it actually does not make sense. The murderess strangled Mr. Keast with a shawl made of very fine silk. The garment can only have come from London because its design marks it as new this season. I do not understand how that is possible.”
She owns herself confused by the development as well, then wonders if the murderer could also be a thief. “If she has no issue with killing, I should think she would hardly scruple to steal. Or the letters are lying,” she adds pensively.
Clever Miss Burgess!
To encourage her down this path, I ask what she means by “lying.”
“Maybe the culprit wants us to think the murderer is an impoverished widow from Flitstone or Mickle Hill,” she counters before explaining her reasoning.
“If she is lost to all decency as to be a killer and a thief, then she would have the presence of mind to take the letters rather than leaving them behind to be discovered. As their author, she would know just how incriminating they are. Since she did not take this precaution, I think we may safely assume she is not who she says she is in the letters. If she is not who she says she is, then she could be anyone, even someone we know.”
I inhale sharply. “Surely not!”
With regret, Miss Burgess is compelled to disabuse me of my illusions. “I am sorry, Miss Hyde-Clare, but I fear we must consider it, for, as you said, only someone with money and access to London would have such a lovely silk shawl.”
Delighted by her reasoning. I nevertheless resist it and propose an impoverished widow who has come down in the world, which she immediately dismisses based on the fact that the affair started in January.
An impoverished widow buried in the country for the winter could not afford to travel to London for the season, and if she had been given the shawl by a friend, she would have sold it to pay for coal.
As if I still cannot credit her theory, I say tepidly, “So the letters are fake.”
“I find it distressing as well, but we must allow for the possibility,” she replies.
“I suppose that would explain why they bear so many similarities to The Fate of the Dark Dawn,” then immediately explain that it is a very popular gothic novel. “Everyone in London is reading it.”
She assures me that she knows of it. “It is popular here, too. I did not realize there were similarities.”
“Quite a few,” I reply before listing them.
Unlike Sebastian, she finds the catalog persuasive, and I wait for her to draw the obvious conclusion that the murderer is well-read.
When she does not, I am compelled to do it for her.
“If your conclusions are correct, then a portrait of the killer begins to emerge: She is a woman of some means with access to the au courant fashions of London and a fondness for gothic literature. Hmm. I wonder if that describes anyone in the district?”
Miss Burgess owns herself too well-mannered to speculate, which is excessively annoying. At dinner, she was full of tidbits about her neighbors, and now, when a murderer stalks the countryside, she is suddenly too good for gossip.
Obligated by her moralistic stance to take the high road as well, I thank her for not making a terrible situation worse by issuing baseless claims.