Until he recognizes the consequence of the soaked rug, he will never approach the target. And even if the soggy Aubusson were just a soggy Aubusson, no farmhand or laborer would have access to a silk shawl by a London modiste.
The shawl is the crux.
It is the thing upon which the entire mystery rests.
As significant as the new revelation is, it does not transform my investigation in every respect. One truth is unchanged: I will find the killer living in one of the stately manor houses in the district.
What is the motive?
Why would Mr. Nutting or Mr. Braithwaite strangle Mr. Keast?
I think of Eternally Devoted’s letters, which were designed to throw us off the scent, and wonder if the information contained within is all fiction. If the steward was engaged in an inappropriate relationship with one of the Incomparables, then the possibility of there being a child is not null.
Arriving at my bedchamber to fetch my bonnet, I contemplate the plausibility of the theory and recall the girls’ manners at the evening party. They blushed prettily and laughed giddily and appeared generally unconcerned by anything but their own gaiety. Miss Braithwaite, in particular, with her bright countenance aimed at Russell, who could do nothing but smile fatuously at the attention, appeared unbothered. Would she have been able to shine so brightly if she was harboring a ruinous secret?
If she was hoping to fix my brother’s interest to ensure a father for her child, then perhaps yes.
(Truly, that would make so much more sense than her finding him genuinely compelling.)
If anything troubling or worrisome consumed either girl’s thoughts, she hid it beautifully.
Surely, that is meaningful.
I could not do it.
If I were bearing my clandestine lover’s child, I would never be able to present a happy affect free from strife, and I am a few years older.
But in the first flush of love, in the heady days of discovery, clutching my secret close like a treasure, a pot of gold to be hoarded, then I would thrill to be in his home.
To be so near and so far all at once.
And for nobody else to have a clue.
Such exquisite torture!
Exceptsomebody always has a clue, especially in a well-run home with dozens of servants. My parents might have been oblivious to Bea’s investigative turn, but I knew something was amiss and so did Dawson. Even Russell had his suspicions.
From that perspective, it is not difficult to imagine the girl’s father discovering her surreptitious love affair and acting decisively to end it.
His solution is not acceptable.
What I am willing to excuse in a young girl seeking revenge against the vile seducer who deceived her I find contemptible in a man of years and wealth. With all the power at his fingertips, he could have banished Mr. Keast to the farthest reaches of the empire with just a single word in his ear.
Go.
That was all he had to say.
Go—tinged with meaning and menace.
The only question is which father is the killer: Nutting or Braithwaite?
It is a puzzle.
Bewildering, yes, but I am going to solve it before Bea and Kesgrave arrive on Saturdayandbefore Sebastian realizes how wildly inaccurate his conclusions are.
To do that, I need information, and donning my bonnet to protect me from the vibrant sunlight, I seek out the butler, who arranges for me to be delivered to the vicarage in the gig.
Yes, I am starting where Sebastian said we should start yesterday: with the village gossip.
