No wonder I am suddenly picturing Georgiana on the cliff top.
Eternally Devoted took her narrative cues from the popular gothic.
It is so obvious now.
Even her signature bears a resemblance: Beginning in the second volume, Georgiana signs her secret missives to Lazarus with “yr. eternal beloved.”
If the murderess patterned her letters onThe Fate of the Dark Dawn,then she is well-read.
A literate servant is not unheard of, but she is nevertheless a rare creature. Poor Bea, who did not even number among the staff at Welldale House, had to hide in the drapery just to finish a chapter before being sent to do Mama’s endless bidding.
A shiver prances down my spine as I can no longer stave off the truth: The murderer is a gently bred young woman who resides at Red Oaks.
It is the only explanation that makes sense, and yet it feels viscerally wrong.
One of Sebastian’s sisters, a killer.
The notion itself sounds absurd.
And the shawl!
If a Holcroft daughter strangled the steward with one of her own shawls, then someone in the house would recognize it—her lady’s maid, the housekeeper, her sisters!
A garment of that quality could not have passed unnoticed.
All I have to do is interview the servants.
Yes, Flora, all you have to do is ask the laundry maid if she recalls washing the murder weapon. That will not cause a fuss at all. Sebastian will definitely not hear about your questions and realize you are trying to send his sister to the gallows!
The situation is horrid!
Either I abide by the investigator’s code and risk alienating Sebastian’s affection or I abdicate my sacred duty.
But is itreallymy sacred duty?
Unlike Mr. Jenner, I am not charged with the obligation of seeing that justice is carried out in the district. I have sworn no pledge to uphold the laws of England.
I am a gently bred young lady from a coastal village in Sussex. The only compact I have made is to be a dutiful daughter to my parents, and I hold to that agreement only when it is convenient.
Nothing requires me to bring one of Sebastian’s sisters to justice.
I daresay even my cousin would balk at accusing Kesgrave’s sister of murder—if he had one, that is. The fact that he is bereft of all siblings while Sebastian is blessed with so many strikes me as decidedly unfair. These things should be evenly distributed, like raindrops or rout cakes.
Regardless, Bea would barrel forward with an allegation.
I am certain of it.
She has too much respect for the investigator’s codeandshe is fearless.
Courage in the pursuit of justice is essential, and although I have long believed I have the pluck to meet any challenge, I find myself unable to muster the nerve to continue. Nobody expects me to destroy my only chance at happiness to uphold the law, especially when I know nothing about the circumstance that led to the heinous act. Mr. Keast might have very well been a vile seducer who took unscrupulous advantage of a young woman’s sweet disposition, and if the sister is at this very moment carrying his child, then she is already suffering the torments of the damned. As a guest in her home, I do not need to increase her misery by invading her privacy and exposing her anguish to the harsh scrutiny of the public.
It is a small act of kindness to look away.
Yes, truly, a tiny, little thing.
It will not trouble me at all.
Chapter Six
