Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Mr. Nutting lingers in the doorway despite his neighbor’s encouragement, casting awkward glances at the company until Mrs. Holcroft rises to welcome him properly.
“We are just about to have dessert, Alan,” she said kindly, leading him to the table as a footman fetches a chair from along the wall. “You must join us.”
Mr. Holcroft echoes this invitation with an exuberant wave of his arms. “We are delighted you are able to join us. John, place the chair next to Chester. Yes, right there. Thank you. Now, Alan, do sit down and let me get you a drink. We are enjoying a charming claret. Do have a glass during the interrogation.”
He is being beastly and making a mull of it.
His intention is to fluster me, but all he has done is unsettle his friend.
And that is unfortunate, as baked custard numbers among my favorite treats and it will be difficult to savor while discussing the steward’s strangulation. As Mrs. Holcroft herself notes, allegations of murder play havoc with one’s digestion.
But that is the only drawback to Mr. Holcroft’s plan.
His belief that I will be so startled by my chief suspect’s sudden appearance that it will undermine my ability to conduct a coherent interview is completely wrong.
Mr. Holcroft’s scheme gives me an unsought advantage by placing Mr. Nutting in a new environment.
In his own home he would inevitably feel at home, but in the Holcroft dining room he is no more comfortable than I.
Plus, he is the focus of ten pairs of curious eyes.
(I am obviously excluding Mr. Holcroft in that count.)
That should unsettle the suspect further.
Having accepted the designated chair, which Mr. Holcroft has placed directly across from mine, Mr. Nutting owns himself thankful for the offer and consents to the claret.
It is delivered to him with commendable speed, and as he raises the glass to his lips to take the first sip, he toasts to the company.
“This is highly unusual, but I am grateful for the opportunity to exonerate myself from the most astounding charge.”
“Here, here,” Mr. Holcroft cheers, drinking deeply as well.
Next to me, Sebastian leans over and tenders an abject apology for his father’s conduct. “He cannot stand to be thwarted, though I swear he is the most congenial of men when he gets his way. That is why he rubs together so well with the servants.”
Mr. Nutting returns his glass to the table and grants me permission to proceed whenever I am ready. “I am still uncertain as to what is happening. I have brought several examples of my writing, as per Holcroft’s message, but I cannot conceive of what purpose they serve.”
“To prove you’re the killer,” Chester replies with a mouthful of custard before he is rebuked by his father. Contrite, he amends his answer to say the opposite—to prove he is not the killer—then looks to Mr. Holcroft for approval, while his mother chastises him for speaking with food in his mouth.
Coolly, I confirm this information, adding that the examples of his writing will be compared to the sample left by Mr. Keast’s murderer.
“It is not the only way to identify the culprit, but it is a very helpful one. Would you like to begin there? We can make the assessment right here and now and spare you further questioning if the results are conclusive. Or we can discuss the other evidence first.”
Mr. Nutting, borrowing a page from his neighbor’s book, smiles with a superior air and says he would like to hear the evidence against him. “Out of curiosity, you understand. As I know I did not harm Keast, the handwriting evaluation will be the beginning and the end of the conversation.”
Or will it just be the end?
If the penmanship matches, his guilt will be undeniable.
Drawing out the encounter allows him time to formulate a plan.
“Very well,” I say, then propose we continue the discussion elsewhere. “In the drawing room, perhaps, or the study—somewhere more private? It might be disconcerting for you to talk about personal business in front of so many people.”
Mr. Holcroft jeers at this courtesy. “She is speaking of herself, Alan. She is disconcerted by the company. As a spy, she prefers to work furtively.”
“Again, Flora, I am so sorry,” Sebastian says softly.
I brush my shoulder against his to assure him it does not matter.
And it does not.
His father can be as sulky as he wants.
Sebastian loves me.
Sebastian loves me.
It is wonderful.
Everything is wonderful, even the prospect of having this sullen toddler of a man for a father-in-law.
My eyes trained on Mr. Nutting, I point out that he has yet to respond to my polite offer. As an inducement, I disclose that the first question pertains to the missing shawl.
“Not this nonsense again,” he mutters, stiffening in his chair as his eyes sweep the room. “Is Grace here? Is she hiding in the hallway? I swear, that woman will be the death of me. You can come out now, Grace! It did not work.”
His wife does not emerge from the shadows.
“Mrs. Nutting is not here,” I say gently.
He calls for her again to no avail, then looks at Mr. Holcroft impatiently.
“You have played your part, beckoning me to come at a moment’s notice.
But this farce has gone on long enough. I demand that you present my wife so I may take her to task for teasing me about this nonsense long after I said I was finished with the topic. ”
“Miss Hyde-Clare speaks the truth,” our host replies. “Mrs. Nutting is not present, nor did she have anything to do with the summons. I sent that of my own volition.”
His neighbor shakes his head as though to dislodge the disproved idea, then glares at me anew. “Then why the devil are you pestering me about that cursed orange scarf?”
For Mrs. Holcroft’s benefit, I clarify that the garment is a shawl in Russian flame.
In response, she emits a startled oh.
Mr. Nutting turns to her sharply. “Why do you say that? Why are you surprised? What is the significance? Why does anyone care? What is going on?”
“Keast was strangled with an orange scarf,” Mr. Holcroft explains.
It gives the suspect pause. He knows that my being able to connect him to the murder weapon is not auspicious. But the connection is tenuous, and that is what he chooses to point out. “There are dozens of orange scarves in Bedfordshire, Miss Hyde-Clare. Jane’s is far from the only one.”
“It is Russian flame, not orange, which your wife took pains to point out because there is a world of difference between the two shades,” I reply.
“And that is not all. As she also explained, your daughter’s shawl is made of silk and personally stitched by Madame Valenaire.
There are not dozens of Russian flame silk Madame Valenaire originals in Bedfordshire, Mr. Nutting.
There is precisely one, and you are the last person to have it. ”
His eyes goggle at the implication, and he turns to glare hotly at Mr. Holcroft for tricking him into this scene. He was promised a lark.
Because he is unsettled, I press my case.
“Do you want to know what I think happened, Mr. Nutting? I think you decided to kill the steward to put an end to his plans to enclose the commons, which you rely on to graze your herds, and you concocted the fiction of an impoverished widow from a neighboring village to direct attention away from Lower Bigglesmeade. To bolster your fiction, you wrote ten letters telling the dramatic story of seduction and betrayal and signed them ‘eternally devoted,’ based loosely on a popular gothic novel. You used the orange scarf because you assumed one frippery is like another and had no idea that a silk confection by Madame Valenaire is beyond the means of an impoverished widow. You may deny it, but the evidence is unequivocal: We know you had the shawl because you attested to that fact in front of me and your wife. We know you read The Fate of the Dark Dawn because you recommended it to Mrs. Holcroft. We know you oppose land enclosure because you railed against it the other night at dinner.”
By the time I reach the end of this litany, Mr. Nutting is flushed and subdued. He had made certain calculations in his plan for the steward and none of them included an orange scarf leading directly to his door.
He had thought he was so clever.
Perhaps he had been too clever.
Mr. Holcroft bangs the table with a vengeful fist, offended on his friend’s behalf.
Or maybe the affront is more personal.
This is not how he imagined the scene unfolding.
Regardless, he is livid and sneers, “See here, girly, you do not get to sit at my table and lodge baseless accusations against my guests!”
At the end of his tether, Sebastian leaps to his feet with so much vehemence his chair topples over, but he does not say a word because Papa speaks first.
“You may not talk to my daughter like that,” he says with unprecedented fierceness.
“It is acceptable in neither content nor tone. She did not create this imbroglio and in fact did everything she could to avoid it. She intended to have this conversation with your neighbor in his home on the morrow, and when you thwarted that plan by inviting him here without her consent, she suggested they talk privately in another room. I am not in the habit of demanding apologies from men at their tables when I am their guest, but I am demanding it of you now, sir. Apologize to my daughter or we will leave this minute!”
It is impossible to say who is more shocked by this defense: Russell or I.
I think it is I, because the defense comes on my behalf and my father has never advocated for me privately, let alone in view of other living, breathing human beings.
If anything, he is inclined to judge any criticism of his progeny as fair and lend his support by pointing out an additional shortcoming or two that the faultfinder might have overlooked in their eagerness to issue a critique.