Chapter 11 #3
Mrs. Braithwaite breaks the stunned silence with a pronounced gasp and declares, “Good heavens, she is as demented as the mother.”
“You issued death threats to the Holcroft steward?” Miss Braithwaite says, turning to stare at her father in wonder. “Whyever for? You said he was a gnat, and we should pay him no heed.”
“Stop saying death threats!” her mother snaps.
With a malicious smile at her mother, she says, “Death threats!”
“Penelope,” Mr. Braithwaite says reprovingly.
Chastened, the girl sits back in her chair and folds her hands in her lap.
Then he turns to me and announces in the same cool tone that there were no death threats. “My wife is right. You do not seem to have all your wits.”
I agree with him.
Mama makes a regular practice of conceding the accuracy of all criticism by outside actors while denying any charge leveled by a family member.
“Presuming to know the nature of the threats is a horrible impertinence,” I admit in a subdued voice.
“They could have been threats of violence or threats of coercion. You might have threatened to have Mr. Keast fired from his position or his parents evicted from their home. I should not have jumped to conclusions. That is unconscionable of me, and I offer my sincerest apology for assuming you are capable of only one kind of threat. A man of your consequence has many resources at his disposal and does not have to resort to…uh…hmm…threatening an irreversible solution.”
There, I abided by Mrs. Braithwaite’s request not to use the term again.
Does she appreciate it?
It does not appear so.
“You could have arranged for Mr. Keast’s imprisonment, for even the perversion of justice is easily managed by you.
You are that powerful,” I continue reverently.
“And that is the reason I admire your ruthlessness, Mr. Braithwaite. A man is killed three days after you threatened his destruction, and you feel no guilt at all. You are a credit to sensible landowners everywhere. Or did you patch up your differences before his murder? Is that why you are able to eat a fourth slice of roast beef?”
Mama could go on, noting that a robust appetite is the sign of a clean conscience and then adding that four slices of roast beef does not necessarily constitute a robust appetite and then saying something like, “Wellington ate three joints of mutton the night before the Battle of Waterloo.”
I cannot.
Once I start counting the number of roast beef slices, I have reached the upper limit of my shamelessness. Being an investigator of murders requires a tremendous amount of fortitude and audacity, and to my chagrin, I have only so much of either.
We cannot all be Her Outrageousnesses.
(And a good thing too! I could not withstand the scrutiny of Mr. Twaddle-Thum without examining every person I met with suspicion. Within weeks, I would stop leaving the house and eventually my bedchamber.)
Despite my willingness to abide by her rule, Mrs. Braithwaite insists that it is past time I left and asks a footman to escort me out. But her husband stays her demand with a wave of his hand.
“Before Miss Hyde-Clare goes tromping off to repeat her accusations to all and sundry, I want to make it clear that I did not issue any threats against Keast,” he states plainly.
“He and I argued on Friday, but we also argued the previous Monday and the Thursday before that. Keast was an arrogant devil who could not be made to listen to reason. Not content to import the Dutch plow, which is more efficient than the English one, he was working with a manufactory in Rotherham to produce a version with interchangeable parts that can be made locally and quickly replaced. If the newfangled machine works as intended, it will reduce Holcroft’s costs even more, allowing him to further undercut the rest of us at market.
My tenants are already struggling to pay the rents, so I convinced the local blacksmith not to work with Keast to make parts for his plow.
That is why he was here. He was furious about what he called my attempt to impede progress and innovation.
I begged to disagree and advised him to return to Red Oaks, where his efforts to destroy Lower Bigglesmeade are appreciated. ”
I keep one eye on Miss Braithwaite as her father explains the source of his disagreement with Mr. Keast. She does not appear particularly troubled by it.
“I do not think Mr. Keast was arrogant so much as complacent,” Mrs. Braithwaite asserts. “He had all the answers and saw no reason to consider anyone else’s perspective. I have heard an earful about it from Mrs. Nutting, who shares her husband’s fury over Keast’s plan to fence off the commons.”
The significance of the enclosure escapes me, and I smother a weary sigh at how frequently I am confronted by my own agricultural ignorance.
(Again: I know cabbage!)
(I studied cabbage!)
Mr. Braithwaite obligingly provides a brief explanation, noting that the subject has a long and complicated history that he does not believe I will be able to grasp.
“Suffice it to say that the commons are lands used by everyone in the district despite the fact that Holcroft actually owns them. Villagers are able to till a patch and use the fields for grazing, but Keast found that stifled his employer’s ability to experiment with new crops, because there must be a shared method of farming across communal fields.
And then he grumbled constantly about too much grazing damaging the soil.
That was why he had been advocating for their enclosure.
It requires an act of Parliament, and I believe Holcroft has been in contact with his solicitors.
It affects Nutting because he uses the commons as his primary pasture, putting far more than his allotment on the land.
If overgrazing is a problem, it is because of Nutting. ”
His answer is revelatory, though not in the way that it articulates the land dispute but rather in the way that it straightens out my thinking.
All along I have been looking at the murder from the angle the killer wants me to see it.
The letters made the slaying a tawdry tale of love gone awry, and I accepted that as the central premise without question.
Even as I rejected the notion of the impoverished widow, I continued to subscribe to the idea of a lover betrayed.
But it is all a lie.
The murder has nothing to do with love.
It was always about the steward’s land management.
Sebastian’s theory of the embittered villager.
And the vicar’s.
They had arrived at the same conclusion.
But the shawl!
I cannot believe a garment of such exquisite gossamer silk just happened to wind up in the hands of one of Lower Bigglesmeade’s turned-out farmhands.
It simply does not make sense.
And the rug.
Let us not forget the soggy Aubusson.
If Mr. Braithwaite is not the killer, then there is only one other option.
“Mr. Nutting!” I exclaim in surprise. “Mr. Nutting issued the death threats!”
“There were no death threats, you ninny,” Mrs. Braithwaite says with weary contempt.
Her husband cautions against a display of overconfidence.
“We do not know for certain that Nutting never threatened the steward. His estates are mortgaged to the hilt, thanks to a terrible run of bad luck. Four out of the last five cargo ships he invested in have been lost at sea, leaving him with not enough scratch to lease the land he needs for grazing.”
Goggling at her father in astonishment, Miss Braithwaite asks, “The Nuttings are poor?”
With a shake of his head, he insists that is not what he said.
“If their estates are mortgaged to the hilt, then how can they go to London every March for a new wardrobe when we can afford to replace ours only every other year? How is it that Jane’s clothes are twice as nice as mine if our estates are not mortgaged?”
“Your father is exaggerating,” Mrs. Braithwaite replies briskly. “And Jane’s clothes are not nicer than yours. She simply has more garish taste. The two are sometimes confused.”
Miss Braithwaite does not appear convinced by this argument, which is not surprising, as I am unpersuaded as well. Garish gems are just gems in large, gorgeous clusters that the rest of us envy.
Owning myself envious of Miss Nutting’s annual shopping trip, I ask if she has any items by Madame Valenaire. “She is the most sought-after modiste in London. I would give anything to have one of her scarves or shawls or fichus, but Mama will not even consider it.”
“Oh, I think we are familiar with the seamstress who makes all of Countess Lieven’s clothes, Miss Hyde-Clare. We are not country bumpkins, you know,” Mrs. Braithwaite chides waspishly.
Miss Braithwaite apologizes for her mother’s rudeness and addresses the query by noting she could not speak to specific garments made by Madame Valenaire among her neighbors’ wardrobe.
“But Mrs. Nutting has several things by her. Jane does too. I think the gloves she wore to the assembly last week bore the modiste’s signature rosettes. ”
Delighted by the wealth of information provided by the family, I thank them for their generosity and bid them good day. Miss Braithwaite rises to her feet as she offers to walk me to the door.
But I do not want an escort.
In her company, I cannot dart covertly to Mr. Braithwaite’s office to find a writing sample to rule him out as a murder suspect.
The girl rebuffs my demurral, looping her arm through mine as she leads me into the corridor, and I accept the inevitable.
If the investigation returns me to Chilton Hall, I will not hesitate to sneak into the house to search for writing samples.
Well, I might hesitate a little.
Babbling incoherently like Mama is not nearly as embarrassing as being caught with my hands in Braithwaite’s private business papers.
But there is no way around it.
It is the investigator’s code.
Preoccupied by thoughts of housebreaking, I realize I have been unduly quiet, and not wishing to appear distracted by thoughts of housebreaking, I compliment Miss Braithwaite on the lovely cannetille brooch.
“No, no,” she says tartly. “We are not friends, Miss Hyde-Clare. We will never be friends. You are a convenient device for irritating my mother.”
Remarkably, it is not the first time I have served this function, and I obligingly hold my tongue.