“All right, yes, butwhatis?” his mother presses.
Their chatter fades as I step deeper into the room, a small bedchamber with worn wood floors and plain white walls. To my right is a trio of dark-stained pieces—wardrobe, dresser, trunk—and opposite them is the bed, which is likewise simple and unadorned. In the center of the mattress, his eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling, is a man of maybe thirty years of age in a rumpled nightshirt tugged daringly high up his thighs. His hair is as black as midnight and in endearing disarray, sweeping across his forehead in a way that requires constant brushing aside.
Approaching the bed, I note other features: His bottom lip is plump, his eyes are a light shade of brown, he has a rose-colored beauty mark along his jaw.
The deceased is a remarkably handsome man.
Sebastian is there, standing beside the bed, his head bent forward as he examines the victim in silence. Mr. Holcroft isnext to him, his own back straight, and at the soft thump of my shoes on the floorboards, he looks over his shoulder. Initially neutral, his expression turns stormy when he realizes it is I, and he bristles at my impertinence. Moving to block my view of the body, he orders me to leave. “This is no place for a female.”
Readily, I skirt my host.
Mama would stare at the impudence, but I do not have a choice.
What I said to Mrs. Dowell was accurate: Thisismy area of expertise.
Sebastian glances at me briefly, a fleeting smile crossing his lips before austerity returns, and I can feel his relief. He has never solved a murder without my help, and I have never solved a murder without his help.
We are partners.
As such, I ask matter-of-factly, “What do we have here?”
“A dead man in a state of dishabille, none of which is suitable for your eyes!” Mr. Holcroft replies in outrage. “Modesty demands you leave, as do I. I shall not allow an innocent young lady to be infected by the tawdriness of this scene. Go now!”
I find the use of the wordinfectedstriking, for its employment makes it sound as though ghastliness itself is an organism that burrows under one’s skin like a worm.
Rather than quibble over his wrongheaded pronouncement, I assure him that his concerns are overblown, as I am an investigator and have participated in several pursuits of a similar nature. Then I allow that the victim’s lack of proper attire strains decorum and kindly ask Sebastian to pull the covers up to the man’s waist.
Severalis an overstatement.
It is just the one—Mr. Gorman—but the case was very thorny, taking a dizzying number of unexpected turns and encompassing an extremely fresh corpse. The victim’s bloodwas still warm when I examined him, and despite drawing so close to the corpse that I was able to search his pockets for clues, I remain uncontaminated by the gruesomeness of the experience—though I can see how Mr. Holcroft might disagree with this conclusion. My eagerness to look upon death now is incontrovertible proof that his premise is correct. What he does not comprehend is the binding nature of the investigator’s code. Having committed myself to justice, I am obligated to seek it out regardless of the awkwardness or staunch disapproval of my beau’s sire.
Agog at my daring, Mr. Holcroft stares at me without responding, while Sebastian adjusts the blanket. Then he acknowledges the validity of his father’s concern but notes it is unnecessary. “Miss Hyde-Clare is a Trojan,” he adds reassuringly.
It is not what a proud father wishes to hear from his heir.
The desired descriptions areshy miss, quiet lass, docile filly.
“Not necessary!” Mr. Holcroft says, his voice thick with umbrage. “I would say it is not only necessary but also imperative. Come, Miss Hyde-Clare, I will escort you myself!”
He extends his elbow.
Offering an absent refusal, I glance at him fleetingly before returning my gaze to the victim, whose neck bears red marks. There is one long horizontal line that cuts widthwise and several that are vertical.
Scratches, I think of the latter, from the deceased’s own nails.
He tried to fight off his attacker.
“Strangulation,” I say softly. “He was strangled to death.”
Sebastian confirms the supposition, gesturing to a length of silk lying on the bed, next to the victim’s left elbow—a key piece of evidence I had yet to notice. “It is reasonable to assume that is the murder weapon.”
Mr. Holcroft objects strongly to this language, calling it needlessly inflammatory, as they have no idea what happened to Keast. “We will wait for the constable to arrive and make a determination.”
Keast, is it?
Ah, sothisis Red Oaks’ steward.
In noting that the man was physically appealing, Miss Burgess had failed to convey just how good-looking he was. With his well-formed features, he was startlingly attractive.
