Chapter 16 #2
But it could be Russell, because he is older and male and as such contends with Papa’s outsize expectations for his heir.
“Horace!” my mother exclaims.
Oh, yes, Mama.
I had forgotten about her.
Of course she is the most shocked.
Whatever timidity and deference Papa possesses, she has double.
“We will not leave this minute, as you said in your temper,” she adds in a more measured voice, and I brace for the inevitable rambling aside that touches on an apology, then backs away from an admission of wrongdoing only to approach it again. “We will depart at first light.”
Not an apology!
An endorsement of the original proposal with a minor concession to practicality.
It is a shocking turn.
Grateful for their support, I am nevertheless confounded by their willingness to provide it on this occasion.
Do they not comprehend that I am conducting a murder investigation, the very thing they cited as evidence of Bea’s failing mental acuity?
Meetings were convened with Aunt Susan and Uncle Lawrence to discuss how to address, halt, or hide my cousin’s decline.
And yet now they are irate on my behalf.
Bless the dears.
Mrs. Holcroft clears her throat meaningfully, and having gained our attention smoothly asserts that neither option must be pursued.
“Mr. and Mrs. Hyde-Clare, I hope you will decide to remain and finish your visit as planned. We are just getting to know your daughter, and Seb would be disappointed by an early departure. Furthermore, we are looking forward to meeting your relatives when they arrive on Saturday.”
Yes, of course, the Duke and Duchess of Kesgrave.
Feathers in any country hostess’s cap!
“George will apologize,” she adds with a placid smile at her still seething husband. “Your points are valid, Mr. Hyde-Clare, and if you had not made them, then my son—you may sit down now, Seb—would have in a more forceful manner.”
Sebastian readily complies with his mother’s request, while his father glares bitterly at the custard on his plate, as though he has been reminded of his manners by the dessert.
Swallowing his resentment, he manages to regard my parents with benign indifference and says, “I am sorry for any insult given.”
It is a terrible apology, curtly offered and taking no responsibility, though Papa accepts.
Mama sighs with relief.
No doubt the idea of having to pack up all our things in the few short hours before daybreak crushed her.
“It is I who should apologize,” Mr. Nutting says, the color in his face still high.
“Listening to the case Miss Hyde-Clare compiled against me has been a sobering experience, and I think my friend can be excused for responding rashly. If I had understood the extent of the matter, I would have accepted her offer to speak privately. But I refused and it is too late for that now. I hope you can forgive me, Mrs. Holcroft, for ruining your dinner, which looks by all appearances to have been a genial meal. In regard to the Russian flame shawl, Miss Hyde-Clare, all I can say to you now is what I said to you earlier, which is I gave it away. You are correct in your assumption. I did not know how dear it was and simply donated it to charity.”
Mr. Holcroft hails this course of action as worthy and sensible.
Better to clear out the fribbles than let them collect dust!
“Exactly,” Mr. Nutting replies with a fleeting smile.
Agreeably, I own myself happy to accept that explanation. “If you will just tell us to whom you donated the shawl, then we can confirm the information with them and put this unfortunate exchange behind us.”
Mr. Nutting declines. “I will not give you that information and expose others to your ugly suspicions. If they all must fall on me, so be it. Despite some evidence to the contrary, I am innocent and am confident reasonable people will see it that way.”
But the table is occupied by several people who may be described as reasonable, and they all find his refusal to answer highly dubious.
Even his friend Mr. Holcroft is struck by the squirrelly avoidance. “Good God, man, just tell the girl you left it at the vicarage and then threaten to sue her for slander!”
Mama shrinks back at the directive.
A Hyde-Clare brought before the court on the charge of slander is her worst nightmare. Other worries disturb her sleep, but the threat of a public spectacle literally keeps her awake at night.
But Nutting recoils too, and that is intriguing.
He is not scared of slander.
Nobody can force him to bring legal action where he has no interest.
So it is the first half of the statement that unsettled him.
Why flinch at the mention of the vicarage?
As spiritual leader for the neighborhood, Mr. Burgess oversees many charitable efforts and would be such a logical choice for the castoff that Mr. Nutting would be hard-pressed to come up with a more appropriate individual.
Staunchly, Mr. Nutting affirms his original stance—he does not wish to subject anyone else to my vulgar speculation—and suddenly I am struck by vulgar speculation.
“You gave it to Miss Burgess, with whom you are conducting an affair,” I say, surprise weaving through my voice.
Mama gasps, then shrieks, “Flora!”
Mr. Nutting also marshals his outrage. “Your gall knows no bounds!”
Papa rebukes me as well, murmuring my name with a disapproving edge.
I pay them no heed as the niggling notion blossoms into a fully formed idea.
It makes so much sense.
Pensively, I say, “That is the only way to explain your refusal to exonerate yourself by naming the recipient of the shawl. Either you do not have the shawl because you left it around Mr. Keast’s throat, or you do not have the shawl because you gave it away.
As the murder case against you is convincing, the only reason you would withhold information that would clear you of suspicion is you are protecting yourself from something you consider to be a greater threat to your well-being.
I imagine your family would not take well the news that you are trysting with the vicar’s sister.
Regardless, you recoiled at the mention of the vicarage, and that is what put me in mind of Miss Burgess. ”
On a furious snarl, Mr. Nutting declares that is nonsense.
Rubbish!
Drivel!
Tripe!
As he lets loose this barrage of outrage, Mrs. Holcroft says his name softly and shakes her head, which brings him up short. “You are fooling no one.”
Nutting stares blankly.
He does not know how to respond, because he does not understand the comment: fooling no one about what?
Mrs. Holcroft, perceiving the source of his confusion, says, “Miss Burgess, Mrs. Cressdale, Mrs. Lyngate-Harper, the actress from The Tempest. I could go on, but I hope you will not make me. As discreet as you may be in your pursuit of…let us call it young flesh…you appear to have forgotten the central maxim of a rural village, which is that your private business is never private. It is a particularly surprising lapse in light of Miss Burgess’s own fondness for gossip.
Julia Braithwaite and I have known about your proclivity from the very beginning—an opera dancer, if memory serves—and have never breathed a word of it to Grace.
We like her immensely and would hate to cause her pain.
But that is just we two. I have no idea what others have told her. ”
Although a pugnacious fire lights Mr. Nutting’s eyes, he recognizes the wisdom of accepting the inevitable and says, “Yes, I gave the shawl to Miss Burgess. It seemed like a modest present that a woman would appreciate. I had no idea it was equal to three years’ pay for a housemaid and am now worried that she might have deemed the gift more significant than I had intended. ”
Mr. Holcroft barks, “Deny, you fool, deny! Never admit anything.”
Smiling thinly, Mrs. Dowell catches my eye across the table. “I trust you see now why we are where we are with Grimston. My father and he are cut from the same cloth.”
Although I already have a clear understanding of Mr. Holcroft’s obstinacy, I appreciate the amity with which she makes the statement, as though sharing a confidence with a friend.
I smile with pleasure, even as I marvel at Mr. Nutting’s ability to think about only himself.
Seconds ago he revealed that his mistress has possession of the murder weapon, and his chief concern is that he might have accidentally overcommitted himself with an expensive present.
“What grudge does Miss Burgess bear against Mr. Keast?” I ask.
Mr. Nutting stiffens at the query, affronted by the implication that he should know anything about Miss Burgess’s thoughts and opinions.
But he also insists that her thoughts and opinions are irrelevant.
“She is not the killer, and I beg as a courtesy to me that you do not interrogate her as though she were a suspect. You may ask to see the shawl and that is it.”
“You may depend on it,” Mr. Holcroft says affably.
Having wrangled the concession, Mr. Nutting dips his head in gratitude and thanks his host, who murmurs, “Of course.”
They are a pair of absurd old men, smug in their outlook and oblivious in their understanding, and I treat them like a pair of absurd old men, which is to say I ignore them.
They can make all the arrangements they wish between them, but it is still my investigation.
They cannot wrest it from my grasp as though it were a purse.
Chester, however, does not share my clarity on the situation and asks his father whether the tone of the interview with Miss Burgess is his decision to make.
He gave up all right to direct the action when he mocked her theories as baseless and invited their neighbor there in a show of contempt.
“It is Miss Hyde-Clare’s investigation now. ”
To his credit, he sounds genuinely confused by the change in attitude. His goal is not to tweak his papa’s nose.
“And the height of presumption,” Mrs. Dowell adds. “Let us not forget he also called it that.”
Her goal is to tweak it.
Mr. Holcroft readily agrees. “It is the height of presumption to investigate the murder of a servant who is not your own. I will speak to Miss Burgess about the shawl in the tone I deem appropriate at the time I decide is convenient.”
Sebastian opens his mouth to speak, presumably to protest further, and I touch his arm lightly.
Gaining his attention, I give my head a slight shake to indicate my preference.
If he presses the issue, his father will only grow more indignant.
The better approach is to allow him his druthers and go quietly on our way.
Swallowing his comment, Sebastian leans back in his chair.
Mr. Nutting observes the interaction and urges his friend to make the call first thing in the morning. “Otherwise, Miss Hyde-Clare will get the jump on you and kick up a fuss and then the whole district will know about our peccadillo and Grace will be humiliated.”
Yes, I am the cause of his wife’s humiliation.
Darting to his feet, Mr. Holcroft avers that he can do better than first thing tomorrow. “I shall do last thing tonight! Come, Nutting, we shall take your carriage, call on Miss Burgess right now, and settle this once and for all.”
“Absolutely not!” Mrs. Holcroft says, horrified at the notion of the late-night visit.
“It is after nine, you have not been invited, and despite her proclivities, Miss Burgess is still an unmarried lady. She cannot entertain two men at this hour, especially if her brother is away from home. Do you have any idea if the vicar is out?”
Mr. Holcroft proposes that they send a note seeking the sibling’s whereabouts.
His friend hails the notion as excellent, then suggests a slight modification. “Ask Miss Burgess to include the shawl in her response. That way we will not have to intrude on her evening at all.”
“A capital idea!” Mr. Holcroft cries approvingly before sending John the footman to fetch his writing implements.
Within minutes, the missive is written, signed, sealed, and dispatched.
His mood much improved by the action, he compliments his wife on the quality of the dessert, secures a second custard from the kitchen, and requests a deck of cards to pass the time while they wait for the reply.
Mr. Nutting, convinced now that he has averted disaster, consents to trying the custard and happily falls in with a hand of piquet.
Their confidence is adorable.
How readily they believe the fictions in their own heads!
No doubt the ability to festively delude oneself is a behavior they would ascribe exclusively to the female sex, and when the footman enters the drawing room an hour later, bearing a report from Miss Burgess, who, perceiving the urgency, provided an immediate verbal reply, I am the only one in the room who is unsurprised to hear the negative claim.
“Miss Burgess says she has no garment that matches the description given in the missive and offers to lend Mr. Holcroft a puce shawl in its place if that would be helpful,” the footman says.
After dismissing the servant, Mr. Holcroft casts an amused glance at his neighbor and murmurs, “Miss Burgess is holding on to Madame Valenaire’s confection with both hands, is she? She definitely recognized the quality, Alan. You are right to be worried that her expectations have been raised.”
“I think it is demned strange,” Papa says softly.
Mr. Nutting drops his glass onto the table with an emphatic thud and growls, “I tell you what it is. It is a damned lie!”
While his mother flinches at the abuse of the mahogany surface, Chester holds himself in agreement with my father.
“It is demned strange, though. Why would Miss Burgess lie? She has nothing to gain from the falsehood,” he says mildly before drawing in his breath sharply.
Then he bounds out of his chair and says with wonder, “My God, he is the killer! Miss Hyde-Clare was right! Nutting killed Keast!”
Furiously, Mr. Nutting swivels on his heels to confront Chester, whom he calls a numbskull before breaking off mid-insult. “It is a bald-faced lie, and I will find out what she stands to gain from it right now,” he seethes, marching to the door.
I follow.
Well, we follow.
The entire company get their bonnets, hats, cloaks, and assorted and race after Mr. Nutting before he disappears into the night.