Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Ijump to my feet and ask for everyone’s attention.
Those are the words I actually use.
I say, “Good evening, everyone, may I please have your attention?”
And good evening—as though I am greeting the company for the first time.
It is madness!
What am I even doing?
I am having my drawing room moment.
Like Bea at Lakeview Hall.
At some point in every investigator’s career, she is called upon to identify to an assembled group the correct murderer and explain the tangled path her ruminations took to arrive at the correct deduction. We call this presentation the drawing room moment, and here is mine.
Russell darts his head down to examine his fingers, as though unable to watch my inevitable humiliation, while Mama presses her hand against my back, as though to propel me toward the door, and Mr. Nutting’s glare of dislike intensifies.
“Good God, what rackety new notion does the girl have now?” Mr. Holcroft mutters.
Am I unnerved by their responses?
No, I am not.
I have been contemplating the prospect of my drawing room moment for almost a year and do now what Beatrice did then: I smile.
It is the only way to meet the curious gazes of a dozen spectators.
Actually, no, it is only eleven because Russell is still looking studiously downward.
Having gained their attention, I take a deep breath to begin my narration, but Mrs. Holcroft speaks first, echoing her son’s proposal that we leave the Burgesses in private to sort themselves out. “As Seb said, it has been a long day.”
Mrs. Dowell rejects the suggestion, insisting that she wishes to hear my rackety notion.
Then she rushes to assure me that her words were meant in the kindest way possible.
“You have begun to grow on me, Miss Hyde-Clare, and I do feel genuinely horrible about making you embroider for three hours yesterday, but you must know that your notions are rackety.”
Mama winces.
Her rackety daughter!
If she has devoted her life to anything, then it is raising an un-rackety daughter.
A pillar.
Doric in style, if you please.
(Unless there is a column with even less ornamentation. In which case, she would kindly request that I contort myself into the style of that one.)
Mr. Holcroft endorses his wife’s plan of an immediate departure. “Nutting, for one, has to return home to begin the first of a lengthy series of apologies, and I think Miss Hyde-Clare has secured enough attention for herself for one day.”
Papa refuses.
“Like Mrs. Dowell, I should like to hear what Flora has to say,” he adds.
I do not think he actually does.
Rather, he is taking the opposite stance of Mr. Holcroft out of pique.
Regardless, I appreciate his support, which is echoed by Sebastian, who invites everyone to return to their seats.
All the occupants of the room comply except Chester, who stands stiffly next to the settee, staring at me with the utmost suspicion, as though I were about to announce that he is the murderer.
Mr. Burgess, not insensitive to the peculiarity of my request, casts a concerned look at his sister, whose ashen features still glisten from the tears that lately scorched her cheeks.
Something is obviously wrong, and he asks her if she is all right before offering to ask the guests to leave.
“I am sure they will understand, as it is indeed late for a visit.”
“It does not matter,” she replies softly.
She means nothing matters.
But she is wrong.
The truth matters.
As long as I am able to see the facts clearly, the truth still matters to me.
With everyone settled, I place myself in front of the fireplace.
It bears none of the grandeur of the hearth in a country house in the Lake District, but that is unavoidable.
We cannot all have our drawing room moments in centuries-old ancestral manors with arcades and colonnades and parapets.
By rights, some of us must make do with vicarages.
I position myself to the left of a bouquet of pink hollyhocks on the mantel.
The bunch is a little spare on blossoms, with stems of tear-shaped foliage to fill out the arrangement, but the vase is lovely cut glass.
I clasp my hands behind my back to give myself an authoritative air, then immediately feel self-conscious as my elbows stick out.
(How does Sebastian stand like this and look imposing? I feel like a dodo bird.)
Tightening my fingers, I begin by thanking everyone for their patience. “As Mr. Holcroft accurately observed, it has been a long day, and I do not wish to extend it unnecessarily. However, there is a grave injustice that must be corrected, and I will endeavor to do so as quickly as possible.”
Never mind the awkwardness of my posture.
I sound authoritative.
“Although we have arrived at the collective agreement that Evan Keast was murdered by Miss Burgess, new evidence has come—”
The vicar does not let me finish the sentence, jumping out of his chair in a bounding leap and glaring at me as though I had personally consigned his sister to perdition.
“Are you mad? Eliza did not kill anyone. She is not a murderer. How dare you accuse her of murder, Miss Hyde-Clare?” he asks, then looks around the room at the rest of its occupants. “How dare any of you accuse her?”
His anger is understandable.
The allegation is hideous.
Freeing my arms, I hold my hands in front of me, as if to ward off his fury, and gently urge him to calm down. “I appreciate why you are upset and promise you that the true murderer will come forward of their own volition presently. You may depend on it, Mr. Burgess,” I say with conviction.
He does not know what to make of my assurance and responds to it with a look combining so many emotions that it would be comical if the situation itself were not so dire: amazement, skepticism, apprehension, disbelief.
Chester is likewise incredulous and calls me a rackety screw, in echo of his father, who seems amused by the scene.
Clearly, Mr. Holcroft thinks I have finally been given enough rope to hang myself.
“How can you know that?” Sarah asks, regarding me with a mix of bewilderment and awe, as though perhaps I am a soothsayer. “How can you possibly know that?”
“Justice,” I say simply. “It is all about justice.”
And now I sound even more like a fortune teller.
That was not my intention.
“Collectively, we agreed on Miss Burgess’s guilt based on four key pieces of evidence,” I say before briefly reviewing our deductions.
“She was the last person known to be in possession of the murder weapon, she had access to the book upon which the letters from the so-called impoverished widow were based, she had an opportunity to open the window in the parlor during the dinner party and lives close enough to Red Oaks to travel the distance safely even in the rain, and, most crucially, her handwriting is a close approximation to the one used in the aforementioned letters.”
It is a daunting list.
So much evidence!
The vicar thinks so as well, for he considers his sister with a grave expression, his cheeks gaunt, his lips pressed together tightly.
“These are the things we know, and they are persuasive. However, I have discovered a new piece of evidence that alters everything,” I say in preamble of my recent revelation, but Nutting interrupts before I can continue.
“You found a new piece of evidence in the past five minutes?” he says with bland curiosity, as though ascertaining how I prefer my tea.
“While we were all gathered here in this room? I must say, Miss Hyde-Clare, you are a remarkable woman. I cannot fathom how you’ve managed to escape Mr. Twaddle-Thum’s notice with all your impressive feats. ”
Like Mr. Holcroft, he expects me to embarrass myself. Allow the silly chit to maunder like her mother and enjoy a spiteful titter when she falls flat on her face.
“Yes, Mr. Nutting,” I say, assuring him that it is not at all astonishing for those of us who pay attention. “Have you been paying attention, sir?”
He scowls in reply.
Papa urges me to continue.
Having secured the stage for me, he would now like me to exit it as quickly as possible.
The Hyde-Clares—without a hint of drama in their souls!
And yet Mama is always causing scenes.
It is a conundrum.
Stating it plainly, I say, “The new evidence is this: divine retribution.”
Mr. Burgess does not respond.
He holds his body steady, his eyes never leaving his sister’s huddled form.
“‘Divine retribution’ is the phrase Sebastian encountered repeatedly during his visit to the village this afternoon to talk to the farmhands and laborers immiserated by Mr. Keast’s recent changes,” I explain neutrally.
“‘Divine retribution’ is the phrase those men had heard from the vicar, who counseled them not to rail against their misfortunes but rather to trust that divine retribution would come for the steward.”
Slowly, my heartbeat ticks up as I realize that I am anxious after all.
The closer I get to lodging the accusation, the less certain I am of its accuracy.
My theory rests on a set of homophones.
A bit of wordplay is a flimsy basis for a drawing room moment.
And yet here I am.
This, too, is part of investigating. Identifying similarities between seemingly disparate elements is integral to the practice, and sometimes those connections are simply wrong.
Sometimes unrelated events are unrelated.
Disconcerting, I know, but such is the way of the world!
To calm myself, I take another deep breath, then forge ahead. “I believe ‘divine retribution’ is not ‘divine’ retribution but ‘Devine’ retribution.”
Mr. Nutting cackles, Mr. Holcroft smirks as though every opinion of me has been confirmed, Mama squirms in her seat as though trying to disappear into the cushion (a stratagem she has employed on a dozen previous occasions to little success), and Papa glances down at his fingers.
Sarah looks at me with disappointment as Sebastian’s brow furrows.