“An impoverished widow,” I reply.
Miss Burgess’s brow furrows as she considers the information, and I can all but see her mentally moving through a roster of names as she tries to identify the woman who fits this description. “It is very tragic. The widow must have been desperate. How far along is she, do you think?”
Of course she needs more details to arrive at the correct suspect.
“Approximately six,” I say.
Naturally, that is confounding. Unlike Mr. Holcroft and the constable, Miss Burgess realizes how difficult it is for an increasing woman to hide her condition.
“She is not from Lower Bigglesmeade,” I continue. “Based on the geography mentioned in the letters, Mr. Jenner believes she is from Flitstone or Mickle Hill.”
Her expression clears up immediately. “Oh, yes, I see, that makes more sense.”
“The problem, Miss Burgess, is it actually does not make sense. The murderess strangled Mr. Keast with a shawl made of very fine silk. The garment can only have come from London because its design marks it as new this season. I do not understand how that is possible.”
She owns herself confused by the development as well, then wonders if the murderer could also be a thief. “If she has no issue with killing, I should think she would hardly scruple to steal. Or the letters are lying,” she adds pensively.
Clever Miss Burgess!
To encourage her down this path, I ask what she means by “lying.”
“Maybe the culprit wants us to think the murderer is an impoverished widow from Flitstone or Mickle Hill,” she counters before explaining her reasoning. “If she is lost to all decency as to be a killer and a thief, then she would have the presence of mind to take the letters rather than leaving them behind to be discovered. As their author, she would know just how incriminating they are. Since she did not take this precaution, I think we may safely assume she is not who she says she is in the letters. If she is not who she says she is, then she could be anyone, even someone we know.”
I inhale sharply. “Surely not!”
With regret, Miss Burgess is compelled to disabuse me of my illusions. “I am sorry, Miss Hyde-Clare, but I fear we must consider it, for, as you said, only someone with money and access to London would have such a lovely silk shawl.”
Delighted by her reasoning. I nevertheless resist it and propose an impoverished widow who has come down in the world, which she immediately dismisses based on the fact that the affair started in January. An impoverished widow buried inthe country for the winter could not afford to travel to London for the season, and if she had been given the shawl by a friend, she would have sold it to pay for coal.
As if I still cannot credit her theory, I say tepidly, “So the letters are fake.”
“I find it distressing as well, but we must allow for the possibility,” she replies.
“I suppose that would explain why they bear so many similarities toThe Fate of the Dark Dawn,” then immediately explain that it is a very popular gothic novel. “Everyone in London is reading it.”
She assures me that she knows of it. “It is popular here, too. I did not realize thereweresimilarities.”
“Quite a few,” I reply before listing them.
Unlike Sebastian, she finds the catalog persuasive, and I wait for her to draw the obvious conclusion that the murderer is well-read. When she does not, I am compelled to do it for her. “If your conclusions are correct, then a portrait of the killer begins to emerge: She is a woman of some means with access to the au courant fashions of London and a fondness for gothic literature. Hmm. I wonder if that describes anyone in the district?”
Miss Burgess owns herself too well-mannered to speculate, which is excessively annoying. At dinner, she was full of tidbits about her neighbors, and now, when a murderer stalks the countryside, she is suddenly too good for gossip.
Obligated by her moralistic stance to take the high road as well, I thank her for not making a terrible situation worse by issuing baseless claims.
And then I sidle up to a baseless claim by observing how difficult it is for me to resist my worst impulses. “Now that you have put these ideas into my head, I cannot stop thinking about the lovely dress Mrs. Dowell wore to dinner the other night. Do you recall it? It was a robe and petticoat of white satin withdraping green crepe fastened on one shoulder with an amber brooch. It was so beautifully made! I recognized the hand of Madame Bélanger.”
My hostess gasps.
I have shocked her.
Beseechingly, I ask her not to look at me as though I am a horrible person. “I cannot help myself! I wish I had your restraint. I would rather be thinking of anything right now save how much Sarah enjoys reading gothics!”
“Or Eleanor’s love of fashion magazines,” she adds before clamping a hand over her mouth. Then she lowers it slowly while casting a self-conscious glance at the doorway. “I should not have said that! I do not believe for a moment any of those wonderful girls had anything to do with it. They know better than to make eyes at their father’s steward. I cannot say the same about Miss Nutting and Miss Braithwaite.”
Her eyes dart again to the entry, and I realize she is worried that her brother will catch her gossiping, which is understandable. The vicar would not approve.
Tilting closer, I ask her what shecansay about the Incomparables.
