As if to bolster this argument, he reads through the packet a second time, and I have to swallow the snap of impatience that rises in my throat.
Complaining will only confirm his point.
“Context,” he intones self-importantly, holding the letters aloft like a young miss at her come-out ball, displaying her full dance card to the company. (Naturally, it is full, Miss Petworth. It is yourcome-outball.) “Context is how we make sense of a murder. Identifying the motive always reveals who the murderer is. In this case, Keast was killed by a widow whom he treatedreprehensibly by getting her with child and then abandoning her to her fate. Although she does not give her direction, I can deduce from her description that she resides in a neighboring village. But that is all that we can deduce. She signs her letters from the fourth one on as ‘eternally devoted,’ and the ones before that bear no signature. Without her name, it will be impossible for us to identify her.”
Impossible?
I can understand how it might be difficult, butimpossibleseems unduly pessimistic.
“How do you know she is not from the local village?” I ask.
“She mentions a pond near the village square, and Lower Bigglesmeade does not have a pond. The only villages with ponds near their village squares are Flitstone and Mickle Hill, and they are seven miles from here in opposite directions,” he explains, crossing the floor to the entrance, where he hands Mr. Holcroft the letters. “These are yours to dispose of as you see fit, though I would caution you against reading them. The tale is quite sordid and does not present your steward in a flattering light. As I said, he acquitted himself disgracefully throughout the ordeal, promising to do the honorable thing, then weaseling out of it month after month. Realizing she has been played for a fool, she swears to murder him in his sleep, by no means an empty threat, as subsequent events attest.”
Embarrassment rises in Mr. Holcroft’s cheeks as he stiffly thanks his friend for the letters, which he will see destroyed posthaste, before more reputations are ruined.
By “more” he means his own.
As Mr. Keast’s employer, he cannot evade all responsibility for the tragedy. The master of the house is expected to set the moral tone for his servants, and in failing to ensure that his steward lived up to the prevailing standard, he displayed a worrying laxity.
Even so,heis not the one who is dead.
The steward paid the greatest price for his immorality, and now it falls upon us, the living, to hold his murderer to account.
Protesting, I insist that Mr. Holcroft cannot destroy the letters. “They are evidence.”
Mr. Jenner does not argue the premise.
The lettersareevidence.
But that is why they must be burned, the constable explains earnestly, as though destroying them is an obligation of his office. “We need no further proof of Keast’s fecklessness. It is on painful display before us, in all its ghastly ignominy. If word of his actions were to spread across the district, Red Oaks’ reputation would be sullied, which none of us wants. The misdeeds of one poorly behaved steward shall not be allowed to mar the good name of a family that has stood for honor and decency for generations, or at least shall not while I have the authority to prevent it.”
I cannot tell whether he deliberately misunderstood me or if status and standing are genuinely foremost in his mind. “I meant they are evidence of murder.”
“I am well aware of that, Miss Hyde-Clare,” Mr. Jenner says gently. “I have been constable for several years now and am familiar with the requirements of my office. Although I am as troubled by Keast’s murder as you are, I do not share your misplaced youthful enthusiasm for a pointless endeavor. The letters may be evidence of murder, but they will lead us nowhere—and as such they are useless to us as a tool of investigation. A useless tool of investigation that can cause grave harm elsewhere should be destroyed. It is the only responsible response. I am sure you can appreciate that.”
Oh, but I do not appreciateanyof it: his condescending attitude, his way of speaking to me as though I am anempty-headed female, his nonsensical and personally motivated justification for abdicating his moral responsibility.
I smile.
It is the only way to respond to male intransigence.
Then I flutter my lashes and own myself bewildered by his statement. “You must bear with me, Mr. Jenner, for I am not as clever as you, but I do not understand why you say the letters lead us nowhere. Don’t they lead us to Flitstone or Mickle Hill? Didn’t you just say that the widow hails from one of those two nearby villages?”
Despite his impatience to see the matter settled, he regards me tolerantly as he explains that more than eight hundred people call Flitstone and Mickle Hill home. “It is naive to think we will find the author of those letters among a population so large.”
I marvel at the number. “Goodness me, I did not realize the communities were so great! Flitstone and Mickle Hill are indeed thriving! I imagine there are quite a few widows of childbearing years among the two parishes. How many do you think there are, Mr. Jenner? Roundly, I mean, not specifically.”
Startled by the query, he insists that he could not possibly know, but if pressed he would place the figure as significantly higher than just “several,” what with the war dragging on for so many years and all that. “I would wager it is as many as three dozen.”
Again, I am aghast.
Three dozen!
Why, it would take several days, maybe four or even five, to interview all those widows. I could not expect the constable to devote an entire week to the activity. I have too much respect for his time.
“Thank you,” he replies soberly.
“But is ittrulya few dozen?” I ask, furrowing my brow in a perfect simulation of confusion. Although galling, flattering the male ego is the only way to convince a man to take your ideas seriously. It is all well and good for Bea to stride up to one of her neighbors and demand answers for the highly irregular decapitation in his kitchens. Having proceeded directly from spinsterhood to duchesshood, she possesses the unique confidence born of catapulting to the top of the social hierarchy. Those of us who have not made that tremendous leap have to pander. “Didn’t you say the author is quite far along in the family way? If Keast promised to marry her for ‘month after month’—those are your words, sir—then her condition must be visible by now. So, in actuality, you are looking for a widow who is with child by about six months. How many widows who are with child by six months do you think there are in Flitstone and Mickle Hill?”
