Although I find it difficult to believe that the youngest Holcroft daughter would conduct an illicit affair with the steward, let alone strangle him to death, my opinion on the matter is irrelevant. Bea would never let her personal judgment of an individual guide her.
As investigators, we are obligated by our code to follow the truth wherever it leads.
Vis et honor usque ad finem!
(That means “strength and honor until the end,” which Russell will never know, because he wasted all that time learning Sanskrit instead of Latin.Tee-hee.)
Having searched two bedchambers without incident, I am less anxious about poking around a third, and when I get to the doorway, I pause only briefly before reentering to the corridor. As far as I can tell, eleven in the morning is the idealtime for snooping at Red Oaks, because the staff are busy with responsibilities elsewhere in the house.
In size and design, Eleanor’s accommodation falls somewhere between her sisters’: Its proportions are larger than Sarah’s and its messiness greater than Mrs. Dowell’s. She has a corner room, which provides her with a double exposure and twice as much daylight. The window to the east looks out onto the formal gardens, which are bathed in the rare bout of sunshine, and from the northern one you can see the rightmost edge of the stables. In the nook between the two sits an overly stuffed armchair with a footstool in a complementary color and an occasional table buried under recent issues ofLa Belle Assemblée, The Lady’s Magazine,andAckermann’s Repository.
Aha!
The youngest Holcroft keeps abreast of the latest town styles. If any member of the family is inclined to have the season’s most sought-after fashions, it is she.
Suddenly, I know with certainty her handwriting will match the original.
That the murderess is the youngest Holcroft daughter strikes me with utter clarity.
She had commented on Mr. Keast’s dark good looks, which is hardly surprising, as a girl in her situation—young, inexperienced, buried in the country with few romantic prospects—would inevitably be smitten by a handsome man. I mean, the most eligible partis in the district are her own brothers.
That is bleak!
For a man with a surfeit of charm and a lack of morality, Eleanor would have been easy prey.
A wave of sadness engulfs me as I imagine the despair that drove her to murder her lover. The extremity of the violence hints at the degradation of her ability to think rationally, andit seems likely that one aspect of the letters is accurate: Their author is expecting.
What a desperate strait!
Unwilling to do anything that would imperil his position, Mr. Keast had probably renounced all involvement with the terrified girl and dared her to speak to her father. Of the two of them, he knew she would be the one to suffer more from a confession.
Seeing no recourse, Eleanor panicked, eliminating the steward to resolve the immediate problem while failing to consider the larger, intractable issue. Enceinte, she is now enceinte with the sin of murder staining her soul.
A desperate strait indeed.
I cannot believe the young girl is at fault for her condition. Even if she had expressed interest in the attractive steward, it had still been incumbent upon him to respond to her overtures with restraint. His behavior reveals a man of gross indecency who failed to hold to a single standard of civility and honor.
Eleanor killed the architect of her ruin.
The thought makes me queasy, and I no longer know what I am supposed to do.
Bring her to justice.
That is the answer.
As an investigator of murders, I am bound by an inviolable ethical code.
To alter my behavior in response to a surge of pity is an intolerable weakness.
The code must be followed!
Oh, but the queasiness.
My stomach roils with it.
Standing there, in the middle of the room, contemplating the collection of magazines on the table, I find myself utterly incapable of movement. To my left is a writing table with all the evidence I need of Eleanor’s culpability.
I just have to walk toward it to fulfill my duty.
