It is prettily done.
If Russell had stopped there, I believe even Papa would have praised my brother’s address. But he continues, conceding that it is almost impossible for a pall not to fall over a house that has suffered a murder, as violence is so disagreeable. The banality of the understatement disgusts our father, who pushes his chair back with an abrupt screech and excuses himself from the room without bothering to provide a pretext for his departure.
The Holcroft sisters swiftly follow suit, rising en masse like kittens in a litter, leaving behind Chester, who not only agrees with my brother’s assessment but also finds it exceedingly profound.
“Violenceisdisagreeable, Mr. Hyde-Clare, and I wish more people were willing to say it as straightforwardly as you,” he replies as he lifts a cup of coffee to his lips and takes a sip. “In the country, we like to pretend that brutality is simply a necessary part of existence. The way we treat animals is atrocious, as though they were put on this earth for us to do with as we pleased, including devouring them as if they have no more sentience than a spear of asparagus.”
Although there are few things Russell enjoys more than joint of beef with roasted potatoes and Yorkshire pudding, he owns himself supportive of the other man’s position before wondering why the Bible is so quiet on the subject.
The Bible is not quiet on the subject.
In Leviticus—that is, the book with all those ungainly rules—it helpfully lists the animals we may eat, which my brother would know if he were not so illiterate.
It is all very fun and easy for him to mockmyreading habits, but gothics contain many improving passages, including snippets of Scripture.The Empress of White Orchid Mountaineven quotes the Sermon on the Mount in its entirety.
Either Chester is as ignorant as Russell or he does not wish to embarrass his guest, for he ignores the grossly inaccuratestatement and asks if he is a fellow Pythagoreanist, a term so unwieldy my brother has to ask him to repeat it three times.
Oh, Russell!
You cannot be the thing if you cannot pronounce the thing.
As Pythagoreanists abstain from eating meat, beans, and fish, my brother most certainly does not qualify, as the pile of ham on his plate unambiguously attests, but Chester eschews purity and insists that any reduction in the consumption of animal flesh benefits the movement.
In regard to beans, Chester is indifferent.
Russell may consume all the broad beans, runner beans, mung beans, kidney beans, and haricot beans he desires. It makes no difference to him!
When my nodcock brother thanks him for this generous dispensation, I excuse myself, for there is only so much nonsense I can bear to witness without comment. If I remain, I will of a certainty say something cutting to Russell and most likely to Chester as well, as he appears to be equally dense. As I step into the hallway, the pair commune over their shared dislike of chickpeas, which they both pick out of dishes one by one.
Oh, yes, leaving is the only viable option if I do wish to refrain from insulting the youngest Holcroft male, who of his siblings appears to resent me the least, based on the number of times he has sneeredquaintat me (four and a half, the half being the one time his employment of the word might have been sincere).
I return to my bedchamber to gather my thoughts, which are whirling with the information shared by Mrs. Holcroft and her daughters. Their dismay at discovering that one of their staff was trysting beneath their noses does not interest me, as dozens of things occur in a household without any of the family noticing. Bea, for instance, was solving murder mysteries for months before anyone in Portman Square realized it, and people payeven less attention to their staff than they do members of their own families.
(In theory, that is! In practice, Mama watched the butler with an eagle eye and summarily ignored my cousin, but that was only because she never feared Bea would steal the silver.)
(Do note: Dawson is a fine servant who carries out his duties efficiently despite the constraints imposed by Mama, and he would never pilfer anything, not even the candlesticks by the great Paul Storr himself, although their design—of an ostrich on a rockwork base supporting the holder—is so garish my father keeps them in a drawer.)
If Mr. Keast was determined to woo his widow, then I have no doubt he would have managed it without anyone being the wiser.
Buthowdid he meet his widow?
That is the more pertinent question.
In light of his manifold responsibilities and steadfast commitment to work, he would have had few opportunities for a chance encounter, an occurrence made unlikelier still by the fact that the lady in question does not hail from Lower Bigglesmeade. The only explanation that makes sense is that Mr. Keast had business in the neighboring town and met the widow on one of his outings.
Didhe have business in a neighboring town?
That would depend on the town itself and what it has to offer a steward with an excessive devotion to agricultural innovation, would it not? The town could be a hub of technological advancement, or maybe it sells the best-quality shovels in the county.
The point is, I do not know, because I am not familiar with the area. Having never visited Flitstone or Mickle Hill, I cannot say what goods or services either has to offer. In the same vein,I am forced to take Mr. Jenner’s word that both villages are equally viable.
For all I know, there are other distinguishing clues in the letter.
Oh, but I do nothaveto take the constable’s word for it!
Sebastian has the letters. He snagged them from his father to preclude their destruction.
To peruse the correspondence for myself, I seek out Sebastian, who, I am informed by the housekeeper, left the premises about thirty minutes before to call on the vicar. Donning my most ingratiating smile, I thank Mrs. Jackson with breezy confidence and mount the stairs as though returning to my bedchamber. At the second-floor landing, however, I turn left and dart down the hallway until I reach Sebastian’s door.
