“They are a pair of frivolous flirts who constantly try to outdo each other,” she confesses in a barely audible whisper. “Miss Nutting will crow about her scarlet velvet bonnet with the white ostrich feather from the finest milliner in Mayfair, and Miss Braithwaite will boast aboutherbeaver cap with a gold chain band about the crown. I would not be surprised if they both have a shawl like the one you described, as it sounds as if it might be all the crack. That is their favorite thing to say: ‘all the crack.’ They will do anything if it is all the crack, even wear a valise over the heads. That is why I am certain they have readThe Fate of the Dark Dawn. It is all the crack in literary circles. But that isall! I refuse to believe for even one second they would dally with Mr. Keast, not even Miss Braithwaite.”
Miss Burgess is a marvel!
I had hoped to learnsomethingabout the girls, noteverythingabout them, and because I am so excited about the wealth of information, I say the words out loud: “Miss Burgess, you are a marvel!”
She recoils as if struck, suddenly mortified by how far she has strayed from her original intention to remain above the gossiping fray.
“No, please do not feel self-conscious or awkward,” I beg. “You have no idea what it has been like for me. Everyone at Red Oaks is so mournful and quiet, it is like a mausoleum, which Iknowis the correct way for it to be. A good man is dead and everyone is sad, but I have been dying to talk to someone about it. All this chatter has welled up inside me, and I have to work to tamp it down because I do not want to appear flighty or disrespectful. You have seen my mother! You know how vulnerable I am to flightiness and disrespect. Being here with you and talking openly and honestly and, yes, indulging in a little harmless gossip, it is a godsend to me. I cannot tell you how grateful I am.”
Throughout my speech, she holds herself taut, and I fear I have done irreparable harm with my candor. But as I reach the end, the stiffness leaves her and she admits it has been difficult for her, too. “My brother takes his duties very seriously and considers the whole parish to be in mourning when one house is. He is having a dreadful time with the eulogy and has sequestered himself in his study to write it, which means he is alternately pacing, shuffling cards, and reorganizing his shelves. Or he is reading a chapter or two from a book I have left on the sideboard or the table. It is not unusual for one of his flock to die, but their deaths are caused by old age or illness or poverty or evendespair. But the brutality of a murder is virtually unknown to us. We are all unnerved. And while he works, I have been left all to myself, so I am also grateful for the company and to have a little harmless fun. Itisharmless, is it not? Nothing we have said is malicious and it will stay between us.”
“Precisely!” I say, smothering the niggling awareness that I am unworthy of the trust she is placing in me, as I will not honor the sanctity of our conversation if it means I must allow a villain to walk free. But murdering a steward is a much graver sin than breaking a confidence, which I am sure Miss Burgess would agree with if given the opportunity. “I am sorry for your brother. Tending to souls is difficult work.”
Refilling her teacup, she laments how deeply to heart he takes his responsibilities. “Drew regrets each and every setback his parishioners face. Fortunately, he gets many opportunities to celebrate their joys: births, christenings, marriages. It is more good than bad.”
“I am happy to hear it,” I say before asking about her brother’s responsibilities for several minutes, for I cannot immediately return the discussion to Miss Nutting and Miss Braithwaite.
My conversation must appear rambling.
After Miss Burgess tells me about the charitable work she does in the village, efforts that have grown more frequent as plows replace men in the fields, she sighs dispiritedly and begs me to change the subject.
“Let us be frivolous again,” I say enthusiastically. “You can tell me more about the Incomparables, and I can tell you more about my mother’s desperate attempts not to insult the Holcrofts by insulting the Holcrofts!”
Miss Burgess claps and says, “Yes, please, that sounds delightful.”
Although Mama has been on her best behavior since the steward’s murder, her faux pas are legion, and it is an easy thing to call up an early episode with Kesgrave where she called him a toadstool.
She hadmeantto say “mushroom,” but in the cooking sense, not the overstepping parvenu sense, and the whole situation devolved from there.
Miss Burgess hails the exchange as exquisite and says she would have gladly endured the awkward meal if it meant she could watch my mother pantomime digging a hole in the garden. Then she reciprocates with an anecdote about Miss Braithwaite hiding Miss Nutting’s hair ribbons in the vestry and then running to the vicar with tales of sacrilege and disrespect.
“Drew knew Miss Braithwaite’s game but could not accuse her of mischief because her father is so rich,” she says, twisting her lips cynically. “In terms of wealthy landowners in the county, the order is Holcroft, Jenner, Braithwaite, Nutting. My brother is too politic to insult the third-richest landowner at the expense of the fourth-richest. If it were vice versa, he would have shown no hesitation.”
“Fascinating,” I murmur.
And it is.
The reverence people have for money and power is riveting.
“Is that why you did not counsel Miss Braithwaite against being too blatant in her interest in Mr. Keast?” I ask. It is a guess, but only a small one based on an oblique reference she had made earlier. “If you had noticed her partiality, then presumably the target of her affection had as well.”
“Goodness me, there was no partiality to notice,” she says with an amused trill. “Miss Braithwaite is a hardened flirt and will seek to win the heart of any man under the age of five and thirty. She simply cannot help herself. I trust you noticed that at dinner, when she kept laying her hand on your brother’sarm and laughing breathlessly? As for Mr. Keast, he did not pay the least bit of attention to her overtures, which only made her pursuit more ardent. It was a game for her, something to while away the hours till her come-out in London next year, but he was too engrossed in his work to notice.”
Wide-eyed, I ask what Mr. Brathwaite thinks of his daughter’s behavior.
Miss Burgess swears she would never dare to speculate about the thoughts of a wealthy landowner, especially in regard to his daughter’s deportment, before doing just that. “Although he is the only person in the district who does not realize Miss Braithwaite is a coquette, I have to assume he is astute enough to know his daughter’s ambitions extend well beyond a lowly steward. That said, he viewed Mr. Keast’s every action with intense suspicion, as the steward’s farming improvements have brought down the price of crops for everyone. So Mr. Braithwaite might have believed him capable of seducing his daughter. I did observe him in an argument with Mr. Keast in front of Chilton Hall when I called last week. They were quarreling so fiercely neither one noticed me. I assumed it was about the new plows the steward had bought, but I suppose it could have been about Miss Braithwaite’s conduct. I know her mother is at the end of her tether with her.”
The information causes a chill of anticipation to travel along my spine, as it bolsters my conviction that either Mr. Braithwaite or Mr. Nutting is the killer.
“When was this?” I ask eagerly.
A little too eagerly, it turns out, as Miss Burgess pulls back and glances toward the door again. “It is almost one now, so I should probably talk to the housekeeper about putting together something for my brother to eat. He will be getting hungry soon.”
As if summoned by this statement, the vicar presents himself in the doorway and smiles kindly when he takes note of my presence. “Good, you have company,” he says approvingly before bidding me hello. Then he apologizes for his rumpled appearance. “I have been busy with my work and have given little care to my clothes. I was not so disheveled when the Holcroft sisters called on us earlier. I trust you are holding up well under the strain, Miss Hyde-Clare?”
I allow that I am.
He owns himself pleased to hear it. “It is a wretched thing, this murder business. We can only hope the constable will apprehend the culprit soon. Mrs. Dowell said they are looking in a neighboring village for a widow, which is a relief. I was afraid it might have been one of the men I tend to in Lower Bigglesmeade, as so many of them have been put out of work by Keast’s plows. I have tried to soothe their anger by reminding them of the greater good. They might not appreciate the benefits of efficient farming methods, but one day their children will.”
