Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Miss Burgess is the consummate hostess.
A dozen people descend on her doorstep at ten twenty-eight in the evening without a by-your-leave, and she placidly welcomes them to her home.
Placidly!
A most serene smile wreathes her face as she leads us to the compact front parlor and instructs the footman to squeeze in five chairs from the dining room.
She beseeches the Holcroft women to sit on the settee, as though the narrow sofa comfortably accommodated four, and offers refreshments: tea, cordial, lemonade.
Then she apologizes for not having enough shortbread on hand to share with everyone.
“I have just the one tin, and not anticipating the arrival of guests, enjoyed them unsparingly. My housekeeper has gone home for the day, but there are some apples in the larder that I can serve. I believe there are a dozen,” she murmurs thoughtfully, her brows drawn as she tries to recall the precise number.
Mortified by the offer, Mrs. Holcroft begs her not to trouble herself.
Every aspect about the visit mortifies Sebastian’s mother, who had taken a principled stand against joining the marauding party (do note: That was her description, not mine), then fell in with it when she realized she stood alone.
Although Miss Burgess swears that baking apples falls well short of a bother, she bows to Mrs. Holcroft’s wishes. Then she hovers near the entrance to the room and directs the placement of the chairs, which is no small feat, given the size of the room.
It is a marvel.
She is a marvel.
Lady Jersey or Mrs. Fawcett could not have done better.
The Countess of Abercrombie might have surpassed her reception, but in presentation only.
The quintet of chairs carried in would effortlessly match the settee or curtains, and she would provide a comprehensive assortment of refreshments, from barley water to Champagne.
(And she would call me “the little cousin.” Her ladyship relishes in dealing derisive dismissals to any Hyde-Clare who is not Beatrice.)
While Miss Burgess arranges the parlor to suit the company, Mr. Nutting remains planted along the far wall, his arms folded across his chest in a standoffish pose.
A fierce scowl mars his handsome face as he bides his time.
He had intended to grill his mistress on her lie the moment she opened the door, but something made him change his mind.
Now he is waiting for the commotion to die down to command everyone’s attention.
At least I think he is.
He might have another plan in mind.
Miss Burgess appears to be biding her time as well, which makes more sense to me, as she must be quite unsettled by the throng in her parlor. It is all well and good to receive us with sweet-natured patience, but she must realize our appearance bodes ill.
First the note requesting the shawl, then the horde.
As far as puzzles go, this one is not particularly complex, and Miss Burgess is clever.
She recognizes the significance of the shawl, as I shared my theory during my visit earlier, and if I did not identify the dubious garment in terms of modiste and color, she has enough information to arrive at the logical conclusion.
That is why she denied receiving the shawl as a gift: She is too astute to blithely allow herself to be associated with the murder weapon.
Or she never received the shawl as a gift.
It is one of these two options.
If the former is true, then she is the murderer hoping to evade apprehension through an audacious lie. If it is the latter that is correct, then Mr. Nutting is just another reprobate hoping to place the blame for his sins on an unsuspecting woman.
Actually, he is a reprobate either way.
Only a scoundrel would seduce the vicar’s spinster sister.
And while we are thinking about the vicar’s spinster sister…
What motive would she have for killing Mr. Keast?
My first thought is love: thwarted love, rejected love, consummated love, consummated then rejected love, thwarted then cruelly rejected love.
An unmarried woman of a certain age, she would have limited prospects and lowered expectations, as she readily admitted, and an unattached young man like Mr. Keast would hold an irrefutable appeal.
A steward, he was not above her touch, and in contemplating his strong features, she may have allowed herself to imagine a shared future.
Spinsters are known to be rackety.
Yes, but we all thought Bea was rackety and now she is a duchess.
And there are motives for murder other than love.
Women do on occasion have other things on their mind.
Miss Burgess does charitable work in the community and would be intimately acquainted with the immiseration caused by Mr. Keast’s agricultural advances. Maybe she is bitter on their behalf, or perhaps the reduced circumstances of the village threatened the security of her own situation.
It is something to think about.
When the last chair has been placed to the left of the settee, Miss Burgess smiles sweetly at the gloomy man with his shoulders against the wall and encourages him to join the merry group. “Come, please, Mr. Nutting, you look like a gargoyle standing there.”
The description is fitting in terms of his rigidity.
But his features are too well formed to be described as grotesque.
Resisting her efforts, he permits no answering smile and announces with dark hostility that he has come for the scarf.
“I expect you have,” Miss Burgess replies calmly as she lowers into a plush armchair.
“Although I did not anticipate an immediate response to my offer, I did take the liberty of gathering my shawls and selecting an assortment that might suit your needs. Their quality is not as fine as anything Mrs. Holcroft and her daughters might own, but they are in excellent condition—neither torn nor frayed nor stained.”
A bold opening gambit!
I am beyond impressed.
“My footman is fetching them,” she adds with the same blithe assurance.
Mr. Nutting bares his teeth.
It is not a smile.
“You may cease with this charade, Eliza, for nobody is fooled,” he replies harshly.
Miss Burgess’s expression tightens, and she reprimands him for vulgar informality. “I have not given you permission to address me by my first name.”
“That is the least of the permissions you have given me, as you well know,” he says, unfolding his arms as he steps away from the wall. “The scarf, if you please. Now!”
Shaking her head as if amused by his persistence, Miss Burgess darts an indulgent look at Mrs. Holcroft. “Men and fashion—they do get particular notions in their head.”
A knock sounds on the door, and she immediately rises to answer.
After a brief exchange with her footman, she returns to her seat with a small valise.
Opening it, she withdraws a dark red shawl with a yellow paisley edge.
“Here is the puce one I mentioned in my reply to the footman,” she says, holding it up for the company to inspect.
“In pristine condition, just as I promised! May I ask whom it is for? If you are thinking of giving it to Mrs. Nutting, I must warn you that the color will not suit.”
Miss Burgess is a paragon of equanimity and composure.
If all murder suspects were as poised as she, then they would be impossible to identify.
The only reason we discovered that Grimston had set out to kill us was that Grimston had set out to kill us.
“You will not speak my wife’s name, you hussy!” Mr. Nutting seethes.
Miss Burgess lowers her eyes, too embarrassed to look at Mrs. Holcroft directly. Then she raises her chin as she clucks her tongue softly, and I realize she is embarrassed for him, not herself.
Softly, she apologizes for failing to show more empathy.
“I know how difficult it is to accept charity, especially for a man in your position, and I will not make it worse by extending this ordeal any longer than it needs to be. You may take the entire case and allow your wife to choose whichever shawl strikes her fancy. The same goes for your daughter. You may return the rest whenever you see fit.”
Mr. Nutting, appearing on the verge of apoplexy, yells, “Enough with this nonsense! Enough! I do not want a scarf. I want the scarf, the orange one that I gave you early in May. Bring me that scarf!”
Once again, she glances at Mrs. Holcroft, her visage bewildered and amused as she asks if Mr. Nutting has recently been imbibing. “The high color in his face implies the intake of a large amount of alcohol. Was it claret? I think I smell claret on his breath.”
Practically glowing with rage, Mr. Nutting storms across the room—well, weaves and bobs around chairs to manage the crowded floor—and holds his clenched hands before him as though to squeeze something violently.
“You termagant! You are trying to send me to the gallows because I won’t buy you a cottage in Marston Bend! ”
Now that he is near, Miss Burgess is prepared to confirm that it is claret.
Mr. Nutting has no words.
He has only his hands.
His stiff claws, which he lowers slowly as though to seize Miss Burgess by the neck.
Keeping stock-still in her chair, she nevertheless manages to look victorious.
Mrs. Holcroft sees it too and orders Mr. Nutting to get ahold of himself. “A display of violence does not advance your cause.”
Abruptly called to himself, he steps back.
Miss Burgess tilts her head down to hide her satisfaction.