In the end, Mrs. Holcroft is allowed the credit, provided she does not make repeated use of the gambit: There would be no “base poverty” forbor “contemptible poverty” forc. Although she swears the concession is unnecessary, as she is not anunimaginative dullard with a finite vocabulary, she accedes to the company’s wishes.
Remarkably, nobody except Sebastian added “apple” to the list, because we all assumed that everyone else would have included it.
For a pastime fabricated out of whole cloth for an underhanded reason, the game is highly entertaining, and we proceed all the way tofbefore declaring our hostess the winner. Holding to the letter of her promise, Mrs. Holcroft nevertheless replicates her success with increasingly outlandish mise-en-scènes that are like brief stories unto themselves. By the end, everyone is aping her style, which results in a sharp inflation of points. In the final round, Mrs. Dowell’s tally doubles as she scores with “fabulous beasts,” “fermented beans,” and “favorite tapestry.”
(Does Chester protest the latter so assiduously that a vein pops out of his forehead? Yes, he does! But since the point does nothing to erode his mother’s lead, he stops quarreling after five minutes and swears he does not care. He very obviouslydoescare, as the vein remains prominently displayed, but we all agree to abide by the fabrication.)
(Fabrication—anotherf!)
“I must confess, Miss Hyde-Clare, that was amusing,” Mrs. Dowell says with a begrudging smile. “From your description, I expected it to be boring, but it was a fun challenge, and although I did not beat Mama this time around, I look forward to the next match. Until then, I will be honing my adjectives.”
Unsettled once again by the irony—earning the sibling’s approval in the pursuit of proving her guilt—I simper, adopting my most bland expression. As it is well after eleven, the company will soon disperse, and I will be free to collect the slips of paper. I am mere minutes from knowing which one of the sisters murdered Mr. Keast.
The blood pounds in my chest.
It is a nerve-racking prospect, and I remind myself that I do not have to move swiftly. I can take as much time as necessary to evaluate the handwriting samples. I shall be cautious and methodical.
Chester, echoing his sister’s sentiment, thanks me for introducing them to a delightful new pastime. He would gladly play again, albeit with a different artwork and two full minutes for exploring. “I believe I have committed every feature of the tapestry to memory.”
“As have I,” Sarah says with a laugh.
Mama looks at me fondly, pleased with how the visit is progressing after such a rocky start. Only the night before, in this very room, all had seemed lost, and now Sebastian’s family is lavishing praise on my head and regarding me warmly.
And the Duke and Duchess of Kesgrave have not even arrived yet!
By the time we leave, the Holcrofts will be intimates of the Hyde-Clares.
Poor Mama, getting ahead of herself!
She has no inkling of the horrible events to come, and why would she? Out of consideration for her fragile nerves, I have kept her in the dark regarding my recent activities, allowing her to believe that I am unduly susceptible to stomach ailments rather than revealing that I have adopted my cousin’s murder-solving habit. The information would send the dear woman into a state of high agitation, thereby undermining my efforts to gain justice for Mr. Keast and alerting the killer to the danger.
Nothing would horrify my mother more than having a second investigator in the family, especially one who is not also a duchess. As dismaying as Bea’s eccentricity is, she at least has a coronet as a mitigating factor. I have neither standingnor wealth, and after alienating Sebastian’s family with my deductions, I would have little hope of attaining either.
Initially, Mama disdained the idea of Holcroft the Holy as her son-in-law, finding his much-vaunted righteousness as off-putting as his fortune. It was bad enough that she had to suffer Bea’s consequence; to endure mine as well would be intolerable. But in recent weeks she has moderated her position, deciding that she can live with the discomfort if it means she will have to fret about only one of her children going forward.
Having made that adjustment, she will be horribly cross with me for driving Sebastian away with my investigative tomfoolery. That I would do soonly aftershe was forced to make stilted conversation in the country for three days will be particularly galling to her. If I am so determined to be the sort of gauche vulgarity that accuses her beau’s sister of strangulation, then I should have had the decency to lodge the allegationbeforewe left London. Making the assertion in his ancestral home adds insult to injury.
As I have no wish to cause my mother undue alarm, I return her doting glance with an affectionate one of my own. She is a dear woman even if she is addled and lacks the ability to understand complex concepts. In that way, she is very much like her son.
Contemplating Russell, I look to where he sits at a pedestal table, his expression engrossed as he nods at whatever Chester is saying and hands his slip of paper to Mrs. Dowell, who adds it to her stack.
Wait.
Mrs. Dowell’swhat?
Stunned, I watch as she collects Chester’s answer slip, then Sebastian’s, Sarah’s, and their mother’s. Suddenly, she is before me, her thumb and forefinger pinched around the top corner of my own sheet as she gently tugs.
I tighten my grip.
It is an instinctive response that solves nothing, because I have already exonerated myself of the murder. It is not my hand that wrote the letters.
She pulls harder.
Resisting, I jerk my hand back, an aggressive response that makes no impression on Mrs. Dowell, who bends her wrist in a sharp yank and places my slip on top of the others. Then she continues to Eleanor and my parents. Once she has every sheet in hand, she tosses them all into the fire and comments on the genial glow they make.
Stricken, I stare helplessly as flames devour my evidence.
All my lovely, lovely evidence.
