It requires some effort because Mama’s training is deeply ingrained.
But it is clear the moment of truth is upon me: Either I plant my feet on the mat, or I leave the salon, in the vulgar pugilism cant Russell used when explaining a maneuver he had learned at Gentleman Jackson’s to the dowager duchess.
I plant my feet.
“The killer is a woman of means with access to London who lives in Red Oaks,” I say, returning my attention to the peonies, whose pretty petals are not as soothing as they couldbe. “Eliminating your sisters based on an analysis of their handwriting leaves us with only one suspect: your mother.”
Do I useusto implicate him in the charge?
I think so, yes.
Sitting next to him on the bench, I feel isolated and alone and eager for company.
But Sebastian does not oblige, taking issue with my core assumption that the killer is an occupant of the house. “Although it is unsettling to admit that Red Oaks is not a fortress despite being built around a central peel, there are literally a hundred ways to enter if you count all the windows.”
The windows!
Darting to my feet, I exclaim, “The chaos belowstairs!”
His blank stare indicates that he knows nothing about the tumult.
I seesomeonehas not been scheming with his servants.
Excitedly, I explain, “The staff are blaming one another for the window in the music room, which was left open on Tuesday night, allowing the rain to ruin the rug. Nobody will admit to the mistake. But I see now it is because they are all innocent. Consider it: One of the guests at the dinner party opened the window so she could reenter the house later. This series of events changes everything, for it means she planned everything in advance and came upon a sleeping man. It was not a crime of passion as we originally supposed.”
Sebastian is distinctly underwhelmed by this insight and asks with almost a mocking tilt if I am actually lodging an accusation against Mrs. Nutting or Mrs. Braithwaite. “You believe one of them returned to the house in the middle of the night in a rainstorm and trundled over the window to kill Keast? Or do you think one of their daughters did?”
I am unaccustomed to his derision, as he has never directed it at me before.
Moreover, Sebastian rarely directs it at anyone because he generally considers all people worthy of respect, and for him to decide that I am not worthy of even that cursory esteem hurts.
Like being poked with a knife, I feel a stinging jab.
“I consider them suspects, yes,” I say flatly.
He is startled by my affirmative, perhaps because he expects me to be quelled by his scorn.
A fine investigator I would be!
Bea has derision heaped upon her all the time.
(Though not by Kesgrave. Never by Kesgrave.)
After a pause, Sebastian explains that the mature charms of the older women could never rival the appeal of a chart depicting crop yields. “As for the Incomparables, it is simply impossible. They are too delicate for the scheme you are proposing.”
I knew he would say that.
Most men are unable to credit a beautiful woman with an extensive range of capabilities, which is perhaps the greatest advantage of being a beautiful woman. Every minor competency she displays is hailed as a towering achievement. If she can multiply four and sixteen, she is acclaimed as a mathematical genius. If she can name a single act passed by Parliament in the last year, she is celebrated as a noteworthy intellectual.
Beauty itself is perceived as the ne plus ultra of human accomplishment.
“Do the Misses Nutting and Braithwaite ride?” I ask.
As prosaic as it is, the question seems to confuse him, and he clarifies that I mean horses.
“Yes, do they ride horses?”
He confirms that both women regularly engage in the activity. “We are in the country, after all, and it is a popular mode of travel and exercise.”
