But the rest of the investigation is my own.
Chapter Ten
Miss Burgess does not doubt the sincerity of my apology.
And so she should not!
I am every bit as sorry as I claim for the discomfit to which Mama subjected her during the ordeal previously known as the drawing room massacre. The wretched scene was set off by my mother’s observation regarding Miss Burgess’s marital prospects, making the vicar’s sister my mother’s first victim, and the first victim always bears the brunt, if for no other reason than the assault is unanticipated.
By the time Mama turned her anxious grin on Mrs. Braithwaite, the matron knew precisely what to expect and steeled herself accordingly.
Still, the earnestness of my remorse is not the whole story.
It is merely the pretext by which I can gain entry to the house and coax confidences from my hostess. I do not expect it to be difficult, as the Holcroft sisters would have piqued her curiosity by giving a circumspect report that revealed only basic facts. Eager for details, Miss Burgess will press me for information, which I will gladly, if diffidently, supply.
But first the apology!
“I will not insult you by offering excuses,” I announce nobly to Miss Burgess after taking a seat in the vicarage’s cozy parlor, which just fits a narrow sofa and a trio of bergères. Paintings of hounds and birds decorate walls swathed in a deep gray-blue that is repeated in the upholstery and complements the light gray curtains over the windows. “My mother can be thoughtless and cruel when she is flustered, which is unfortunately the case most of the time. I have tried gently hinting her toward kindness when she has one of her episodes, but she either ignores me or waves me off. It is a lamentable state of affairs, but you know how mothers are.”
It turns out she does not.
Mrs. Burgess had been an exemplary female who excelled at a wide variety of activities and made a point of passing on many of her skills to her children through patient instruction. “She died three years ago this past February, and the truth is, I would give anything for her to mortify me in the drawing room at Red Oaks. It is not something she ever did to me or my brother while she was alive, and I think we would both be entertained by the novelty.”
I congratulate Miss Burgess on the good fortune of her antecedents.
Amused, she shakes her head and cautions me against the use of the plural. “My father was a wastrel who deserted his family when I was fourteen and Drew was sixteen. Regardless, please do not worry about your mother’s comments, which I took in the spirit with which they were intended. Furthermore, she did not say anything I have not heard before,” she adds with a wry smile, then admits that nobody has urged her to aim as high as a duke before. “The talk is usually limited to schoolteachers, bank clerks, and the grocer in the village, all of whom are widowers with any number of children.”
“You are very gracious, Miss Burgess,” I murmur. “Most people are not as understanding of my mother’s shortcomings. I am sorry to hear that it has been so unpleasant for you.”
She swears thatunpleasantis too strong a word. “Mildly annoying is more accurate. It is a pity there are not more unattached young men in the district. All the best prospects are married with families of their own, which is not to give you the impression that my brother is impatient for me to leave. He has never even hinted in that direction, but I attribute that to the fact that he has yet to find a woman whom he would like to court. Then he will realize the domestic constraints of giving shelter to one’s sister. To be honest, I would not mind a little independence for myself. A modest cottage of my own in a neighboring village such as Marston Bend would be idyllic,” she says a little forlornly, then rouses herself with a shake of the head. “But that is neither here nor there. Tell me, how areyou? I still cannot believe what has happened.”
I agree it is difficult to credit. “We are all aghast and confused.”
“That was readily apparent from my visitors’ demeanors. Mrs. Dowell was at a loss for words, which is quite out of the ordinary for her. I understand from their report that Mr. Holcroft is distraught, as he relied on his steward for everything.”
Ah, so that is what his daughters are saying.
Having seen no evidence of deep distress in the family’s patriarch, I find the description curious. “The loss to him and the family cannot be overstated.”
Miss Burgess nods solemnly, then tilts forward and says in a lowered voice, “Is it true that he was found in his bed, strangled to death by a lover?”
Did she hear that from the Holcroft sisters or the village gossips?
Intrigued, I reply, “According to letters hidden in Mr. Keast’s clothes press, it is.”
She rears back in wonder. “There are letters!”
Ah, so the visitors failed to mention that scandalous morsel.
No doubt they were trying to salvage what they could of the steward’s reputation.
Confirming, I say there are ten letters in total written over a period of seven months. “They relate the whole of the relationship, from first encounter to the final death threat. The author is a widow whom the steward got in the family way, and as the months pass, she grows increasingly irate as she begins to realize he has no intention of following through on his promise to marry her.”
Miss Burgess is agog.
It is a salacious story, which is why the killer decided to tell it.
“I cannot believe it of Mr. Keast,” she says. “He always seemed to have few interests outside of ensuring the estate. I wonder who the woman is. You say she is a widow?”
