“Well, then, they can easily climb over a sill, as it differs little from mounting a steed,” I reply smoothly. “As for overcominga man of Mr. Keast’s size and strength, the killer had the advantage of surprise. Coming upon him while he was deep in sleep, she would be able to wrap the shawl around his neck before he was fully awake.”
Sebastian still contends it is impossible. “Gaining entry to the house is the least of the challenges. First, she would have to traverse the distance between the houses on a moonless night. What young lady would not be terrified of the prospect, especially in the rain? In the same way, squeezing the life out of her lover would require not just physical strength but also mental fortitude. If you thought about it more deeply, you would realize you are describing an Amazon.”
Oh, isthatwhat I am doing?
These very same characteristics apply to the impoverished widow of the original theory, and Sebastian had raised no issue with that postulation. Readily, he believed she existed. It is only now, when I suggest the killer might be one of the stunning young women who decorate the district, that she must be a female warrior of Greek mythology.
To his credit, he acknowledges the discrepancy when I draw attention to it and clarifies that he no longer believes the woman exists. “Like you, I have considered the matter deeply and realized Eternally Devoted is implausible for the reasons I just cited. Plus, Jenner’s ardent belief in context as motive is widely known because of his propensity to lecture, so anyone who wanted to throw him off the scent would think to leave letters in easy reach of the victim. I now believe that we are looking for a man and that he will be found in the village. In the fortnight since I returned, I have discovered that Keast’s improvements in farming have resulted in significantly fewer laborers working the fields. In gathering information to discuss the recent changes with my father, I have talked to many embittered men who would have gladly strangled Keast if given half the chance.”
His conclusions are not without merit, for the anger caused by technological improvements continues to roil the land, especially in the north, where innovations in mechanical textile production have led to violence. (Do not press me for more details, please. That is all I know!) But these deductions do not account for the oddity of the shawl—what applies to a poor widow rusticating in the country applies doubly to an unemployed farmhand—and fail to address the similarities toThe Fate of the Dark Dawn.As he is as yet unaware of the connection to the popular gothic, I explain.
Once again, he is underwhelmed, noting that the resemblance does not so much speak to the reading tastes of the killer as to the pedestrian quality of the book in question.
Naturally, I respect Sebastian for having his own opinions. I could never love a man who either subordinated his thoughts to my own or pretended to agree with me to avoid an argument or further discussion. Even so, I find his refusal to accept my conclusion, which is very obviously the correct one, incredibly irritating. Short of stamping my foot, though, I can see no way to overcome his judgment.
(Maybe the bookisa little prosaic, with its scheming Italian counts with their hunchbacks and gloomy castles overlooking the sea, but it is not nearly as unimaginative as some other works that have earned much public fanfare. And, yes, Iamcomplaining aboutGuy Manneringagain!)
I do not press the issue.
It is not necessary.
All the evidence supports my argument.
Instead, I ask how the theory of the embittered villager accounts for the open window and soaked rug. A laborer would not have had access to the music room at Red Oaks.
He smiles.
But it is not an amused smile or a fond smile or even a jeering one.
It is condescending.
I know it well because I have seen its duplicate hundreds of times in my life, most recently on his father’s lips, and I feel a sudden loss of breath, as if someone has punched me in the stomach.
Sebastian does not treat me like this.
Having solved the mystery of Mr. Davies alongside me, he holds my judgment in uncommonly high esteem. He has seen me at my best, discovering hidden compartments by moving gargoyle statues and knocking murderers unconscious with wood planks. More than anyone else in the world, he admires my bravery and thinks I am capable of accomplishing great feats.
His belief in me is in part why he did not tell me about the possible threat against my life. He knew I would not accept the peril without making some effort to understand it and possibly combat it.
And yet I am wrong, because Sebastiandoestreat me like this.
“A minor failing of household management does not require an explanation,” he says. “Despite Mrs. Jackson’s excellence, mishaps occur, as she would be the first to acknowledge. If nobody on staff is willing to take responsibility for the open window in the music room, it is because the rug is an Aubusson and replacing it costs more than a year of their wages.”
Of course—the expense!
That is the more practical explanation.
Yes, let us all be very practical.
Taking a step back, I acknowledge the sensible reply. “I should have realized it myself.”
But I am no longer talking about the rug.
Now I am talking about Sebastian.
From the moment he invited my family to Red Oaks, I had known the visit was a test.
Our future together depended on its outcome.
