Obviously, I am not the only female to think so, if I may judge by the pretty peach-colored scarf.
Mindful of my host, I offer Mr. Holcroft my condolences. “I know how closely you worked with Mr. Keast on your farming experiments and realize this must be a terrible blow.”
I stop just short of advising him to take some air or seek solace from his wife.
Men do not appreciate when you show consideration for their feelings.
“It is devastating, Miss Hyde-Clare, which is why I would beg you to leave now and allow me to handle the matter as I see fit, rather than increasing my anxiety,” he says.
“Yes, of course,” I reply soothingly.
But that is all I do.
Despite my professed acquiescence, I am not going anywhere.
Instead, I inquire about the constable, then recall that Miss Burgess mentioned last night that it is Jenner, Aldridge Jenner, the landowner in the district who had been unable to attend dinner because of his own hosting duties.
“A footman was dispatched to fetch him about fifteen minutes ago,” Sebastian says. “He should be here within the hour. Until then, we should disperse the crowd and returneveryone to their business. There is nothing to be gained by hovering in the hallway.”
Mr. Holcroft agrees with the wisdom of this statement until he discovers that it ishehis son expects to do the hard work of dispersal. “I must stay here and make sure Miss Hyde-Clare does not touch anything before Jenner arrives. You know how fatally curious women are.”
Clasping my hands behind my back, I promise to resist my worst impulses even as Sebastian tells him his concern is misplaced. “Miss Hyde-Clare is no peagoose to disturb a crime scene. Now, if you are determined to be helpful, you will convince everyone to return to their tasks. I imagine the rest of the household is awake and wondering where breakfast is. If you do not wish for the crowd in the hallway to double, you will do this now. I am sure Mother will be grateful for your steady hand.”
That I am no pea widgeon is news to Mr. Holcroft, who opens his mouth to argue about the absurdity ofhisleaving andmyremaining. At the mention of his wife’s inevitable distress, however, he changes course and agrees to set the house to rights before returning to oversee the investigation. “Just until Jenner arrives, that is.”
“Thank you, sir,” Sebastian says gratefully as his father sweeps out of the room and commands the attention of everyone swarming the hallway. Sternly, he instructs the assortment to return to their usual business, including his son Chester, who protests loudly.
If Seb can be helpful, then so can he!
“Yes, and you will help by consoling your sisters and keeping them calm should they burst into hysterics,” his father advises. “They are all very fond of Keast and will not react well to the news of his death.”
Begrudgingly, Chester accepts the assignment, and the noise in the hallway slowly subsides as the throng proceeds to the staircase.
When it is silent, Sebastian takes my hand in his, and clasping it tightly, says, “You are having a dreadful time of it. I am sorry! I do not know why everyone is being so rude, but I have observed it, and I have tried to remind them of their manners. If my mother calls your motherquaintone more time, I fear I shall box her ears.”
No, he will not.
Holcroft the Holy would never raise his hand in violence to a woman.
But I appreciate his frustration because I share it and am grateful that his family’s jabs at my parents and me have not gone unnoticed. The insult was subtle and could have easily escaped his attention.
Regardless, the matter pales in comparison to the weightier subject at hand, and I brush aside his concern to offer my condolences. I do not know how close he was to the deceased. Mr. Keast had been his father’s steward for only eighteen months, and Sebastian had spent the majority of that time in London. Even so, he is set to inherit the land someday, and as he takes all his responsibilities seriously, I can only assume he met with the steward as regularly as possible to keep abreast of his plans for the property.
Sebastian confirms my supposition by saying that he received a monthly letter from the steward informing him of the property’s condition, which was extremely helpful, as his father could rarely be bothered to attend to his correspondence. “The only time he puts pen to paper is to record the findings of his experiments, which exasperates my mother, who is forced to send replies on his behalf. Keast was concise in his communications and provided only a general picture. Hewas more forthcoming in person and always offered to take me, along with my father, through the ledgers line by line. I found him personable, knowledgeable, driven, and devoted. My father was fortunate to find someone who shared his passion so fervently. Keast will be missed by everyone in the house, I believe. Given how difficult it is to drag my father away from his tabulations, Mother frequently invited Keast to join the family for dinner to ensure her husband would emerge from his study long enough to eat.”
Snippets of last night’s discussion of land management dart through my head, and the thought of every meal being accompanied with such passionate intensity causes me to flinch slightly.
“The whole family will be deeply affected by the murder,” Sebastian continues with a heavy sigh. “It is a shocking thing to happen here. Red Oaks is not London. It is not a violent place. Grouse hunting is the worst of it. We do not even run the foxes.”
I squeeze his hand reassuringly, holding the pose for several seconds in a bid to demonstrate my sympathy. Keast’s gaze continues to contemplate the ceiling as my eyes drift toward the bed, before they settle on the bruised neck.
The steward had most definitely been strangled.
Desperate scratches attest to his struggle to free himself from the deadly clasp, but in the end, he was no match for his assailant, who had the advantage of either strength or surprise, or both. If he had been incapacitated by a bash on the head, it might have taken him a few seconds to regain his wits.
I contemplate the options as I draw close to the murder weapon to examine it properly. It is a shawl, not a scarf as I originally supposed, made of gossamer silk—very, very fine gossamer silk ideally suited for providing a hint of warmth on a cool summer’s night—and decorated with a beautifully stitched border of rosettes in alternating amber and amaranthine. Thepalette marks it as the work of Madame Valenaire, the sought-after modiste who had made the color scheme her calling card for the season. I would have done anything to have a scrap of fabric sewn by her expert hand.
“I believe we may assume the killer was female,” I observe.
