Chapter 15 #2
Tsk-ing lightly at all the needless effort, I assure him that I am already in possession of the necessary information. “Everything I needed to know about you, Sebastian, I learned from your curricle: dashing, practical, sturdy, elegant, audacious, bright, and kind.”
He presses his lips together as though smothering a grin and murmurs, “Kind? How does my curricle tell you I am kind?”
“You agreed to let me drive it,” I say, fluttering my lashes.
That is a blatant lie.
Sebastian has been singularly opposed to handing me the reins, which is more or less a reasonable response to my lack of experience in driving a team.
He acknowledges his hesitance now by allowing for the possibility in the future.
“The far-off future, after comprehensive instruction,” he rushes to add.
As though that were necessary!
I have no desire to die in a curricle accident.
The violence of a crash—the inevitable mashing of wood, limbs, horses, and wheels—would no doubt result in a highly repellent corpse.
If permitted to choose, I would like to expire from a gentle malaise in the middle of a sylvan glade, surrounded by chirping birds and flowers.
Russell, routinely peeved by any advantage gained by me that is not available to him, grumbles, “I should like to have a curricle.”
Sebastian duly extends the offer to my brother.
I laughed at this misguided munificence, which I am sure he will come to regret. “And now I must add foolish to the list of traits gleaned from your curricle, as Russell will no sooner take command on your horses than drive them into a ditch—”
A ditch!
After abducting Georgiana, Reynaldo drives his coach and four into a ditch, almost killing her, in The Fate of the Dark Dawn.
It is the last scene of the first volume.
Reynaldo—the fellow with the hunchback and the scars.
Freeing my hands from Sebastian’s grip, I turn to Mrs. Holcroft. “Mr. Nutting lent you The Fate of the Dark Dawn?”
Baffled by the abrupt change in subject, she casts a glance at her husband, as though reconsidering his position on my intelligence, then says, “He knows I enjoy gothics and claimed it was very popular in London. I confess I did not finish it, because it was a little too sensational for me. I expect a villain to have some victims, but Reynaldo kills a dozen people before the end of the fourth chapter and nobody in the village notices. I would not have found it so irksome save the fact that Mrs. Conti goes to great length to describe how clever and observant the constable is. Well, he cannot have it both ways.”
Mr. Nutting, who is already my best suspect, has read the relevant text.
He is the killer.
All I need to prove his guilt is the missive he wrote in condolence.
I scurry across the room to resume my search of the desk, and Mr. Holcroft steps forward as though he expects me to engage him in conversation. Smoothly, I dart around him to gain access to his documents. (I should like to see Bea darting around her host to rummage through his private papers!)
I rummage with determination despite the room staring at me in amazement.
“You see, Louisa!” Mr. Holcroft says, jabbing his finger in the air in my general direction. “You see! She is secretly working for Eldon. At this very moment she is looking for compromising information to use against me to further immiserate my friend.”
Chester finds the conclusion specious. “I say, Father, if she is working secretly for Eldon, wouldn’t she do her business in secret?”
“It is a mark of her boldness!” Mr. Holcroft cries, gathering up the pages, including the will and his own correspondence, which is actually helpful because it gives me access to what lies beneath. “She is a bold hussy!”
His wife concedes it is highly unusual behavior. “Not what I would call good ton.”
“She is looking for the note you had from Nutting expressing his sympathy,” Mrs. Dowell explains. “He is her prime suspect.”
Mr. Holcroft scoffs. “Good God, Louisa, this is what meets your definition of adequate? If I had known that you would hold our future son’s prospects in such low esteem, I might have thought better of making an offer.”
“Well, George, you see… “
Mrs. Holcroft trails off because she is not sure what he should see.
And to be fair, it is not the most heartening experience to watch your possible future daughter-in-law rifle through your husband’s desk.
Oh, but I have not yet begun to rifle, I think in amusement, turning my attention to the top drawer, as there is nothing meaningful on the surface. To my relief, I find the missive from Mr. Nutting quickly, before the scene grows more awkward.
(More awkward?)
“Here it is,” I say, holding the sheet aloft and backing away from the desk to make it clear I have no further interest in its contents. I even apologize to Mr. Holcroft for the invasion of his privacy, which I know is problematic.
But justice must be served.
The message is brief, only four lines, and conveys his sympathy for Mr. Holcroft’s loss.
He knows intimately how disruptive unexpected change can be to a well-ordered household and trusts his friend will regain his equilibrium soon enough.
In the meantime, he stands ready to help, wishes him the best, et cetera, et cetera.
His lack of regard for Mr. Keast, cut down in the prime of his life, is striking.
That is another point in his disfavor.
More than ever, I am convinced that Mr. Nutting is the killer.
Determining whether his handwriting supports this conclusion is impossible without comparing the letters, as the penmanship is not so different as to be immediately disqualifying. I hand Nutting’s missive to Sebastian while I retrieve one from Eternally Devoted, then hold them side by side.
It is a match?
“Inconclusive,” Sebastion announces with an air of frustration.
“They are similar. There is no question that they are similar enough to raise eyebrows. Nutting’s letters are larger and slightly rounder, but that could be because he had more space to write his note to my father, or he made an effort to disguise his handwriting.
Or he is not Eternally Devoted. I find it impossible to say. ”
Despite the certainty of the statement, his siblings demand an opportunity to inspect the samples for themselves, which spurs Russell to request a look as well.
While they each render their opinion, Sebastian shares the progress of his investigation, which has not advanced as solidly as my own.
In talking to scores of villagers, he found dozens of men who loathed the steward for the changes he had made in the district and planned to make, but no actual suspects.
“Few among the horde are literate at all, and those who can read do not possess the sophistication to produce the ten letters signed “Eternally Devoted.” With their limited resources growing ever scarcer, the villagers seem to have few options outside of resigning themselves to their fates and accepting that Keast will be subjected to divine retribution, as counseled by the vicar.”
I furrow my brow sympathetically.
Poor Sebastian, losing an entire day to a wasted investigation.
But it is completely insincere.
“And how many among them appeared to have access to a silk shawl by Madame Valenaire?” I ask innocently. “Was it more or less than a dozen?”
His smile is self-deprecating as he admits he should have known better than to argue with me about a fashion accessory by one of London’s most beloved modistes. “I was out of my depth, which I readily concede. How is Nutting connected to the shawl?”
I explain the roundabout way the garment came to be in the suspect’s possession and his refusal to reveal where it is now.
Then I discuss the motive I attribute to him.
By the time I am finished explaining the case, the siblings have finished their inspection of the handwriting samples and confirmed that it is impossible to confirm a match.
His eyes agog with curiosity, Chester inquires as to the next step in my investigation, and his father replies snidely, “She will spy on Nutting because that is what she does. A spy spies! She will treat his private study with the same contempt with which she has treated mine, only more covertly.”
I am not immune to the appeal of his proposal!
Sneaking into the neighbors’ house under the cover of darkness to prove he is a killer—that is thrilling.
But I do possess a modicum of decorum and a reasonable aversion to being discovered where I do not belong.
Consequently, I settle on the sensible course of action, which is an interview with the culprit…
er, that is, the suspect. “Mr. Nutting will be shown the evidence and be provided with an opportunity to respond. I shall call on him in the morning.”
Sebastian takes my hand and with a reassuring squeeze says, “We shall call on him in the morning.”
Mrs. Holcroft winces.
The prospect of her son joining the investigation displeases her.
But she makes no protest other than advising us not to make the call before eleven, as it is disquieting to one’s digestion to contend with a murder allegation immediately after breakfast.
“Speaking from personal experience, are you, Mother?” Mrs. Dowell says wryly.
Mrs. Holcroft sends her daughter a quelling look, then asks if our business is complete.
“Are we in agreement? All questions raised and answered? All grievances aired and addressed?” she says, then curtly turns to her husband and adds with a terse nod, “Except you, George. Your objections are known and ignored. But is everyone else satisfied? Very good! Then let us proceed to dinner only”—a quick glance at the clock—“sixty-eight minutes late. I am sure Cook will not mind at all.”