Mrs. Dowell announces that she is exhausted after an unusually long day, bids the company good night, and blithely leaves the room as though she had not just foiled my brilliant scheme to find the steward’s killer. Other members of her family follow suit, with Mrs. Holcroft threading her arm through her youngest daughter’s to lead her toward the entrance to the room, and Sarah following closely on their heels. My parents stand as well, eager to be off now that the small party is disbanding, and I rise to my feet, casting a regretful last look at the embers in the hearth.
There is no way to soften the truth: With Mrs. Dowell’s wanton destruction of the answer sheets, I have lost my most promising method for finding Mr. Keast’s killer.
It is a devastating blow for crusaders of justice everywhere.
My only consolation is that the act clearly identifies my prime suspect.
Chapter Seven
The amount of logistical planning required to enter Mrs. Dowell’s bedchamber is unfathomable! To ensure her room is empty for an allotted span of time—ideally, twenty minutes, though fifteen would be acceptable—I have to recruit my maid’s assistance. To do that, I need to devise a plausible explanation, and as she dresses my hair, I consider several fictions, the most promising of which is claiming the other woman stole my earrings.
No, that is inane.
Annie cares for my jewelry and would know the pair are not missing because she is the one who returned them to their cast last night.
Hmm.
What about a present?
Does the idea of my sneaking into Mrs. Dowell’s bedchamber to deliver a gift sound plausible?
Possibly.
The answer would depend, I suppose, on what the offering is.
As Annie winds a ribbon through my hair, I try to decide what I would give Mrs. Dowell and find my thoughts quickly diverted to the game I invented the evening before.
It had been enjoyable, thoroughly enjoyable and genteel.
A thoroughly enjoyable and genteel pastimeshouldbecome a sensation among the beau monde.
But it would need a name, would it not?
Society cannot demand the thing if they cannot identify it.
A derivation of hy spy, it could be called?—
No, I think firmly, refusing to allow the distraction.
Mrs. Dowell is an excellent suspect, as her status as a visitor makes it far less likely that someone in the household would recognize the shawl.
Imustcome up with a pretext.
Ten minutes later, I decide I do not need a pretext and tell Annie the truth. Being caught in a lie by my maid is worse than having her know that my disrespect for my hosts extends to invading their privacy.
Hearing that I have resolved to find Mr. Keast’s killer despite risking great personal cost convinces Annie that my intentions are noble. “Not that I would think you wish Mrs. Dowell ill just because she has been mean to you and Mrs. Hyde-Clare. I know you would never seek petty revenge.”
Touched by the tribute, which I am not sure is entirely accurate—I mightsometimesseek pretty revenge—I thank her for the faith and suggest that she ask the other maid for her assistance in sewing up a tear in my dress.
Dismayed, Annie gasps, for she has not noticed any imperfections in my clothing, and when I explain that the rent has not yet been made, she says she will request help in acquiring components to remove a stain, such as lemon juice and tallow. Although fetching those items would not ordinarily take twenty minutes, belowstairs is in chaos on account of the window in the music room, which had been left open on Tuesday night. “The rain poured into the room and damaged the rug. Nobody will admit to it, so Mrs. Jackson is interrogating thestaff one by one, which has created disorder. Everyone is up in arms over it. I ate three muffins at breakfast because nobody was paying attention to me.”
Although I am surprised to discover that anything under Mrs. Holcroft’s remarkably efficient management falls short of pristine, I am grateful for the distraction and discuss timing with Annie. Casting a glance at the clock, I ask if she could arrange for the distraction at ten o’clock. “That gives you a half hour to figure out how you want to do it.”
“I don’t need a half hour, miss,” she says.
With a wry smile, I say, “Ah, but I do.”
Next, I seek out Mama, who is not as biddable as my maid. When she insists on sticking as close to me as a nettle, I am forced to manipulate Russell into saving me.
