“Of a certainty,” Miss Burgess agrees blandly, “assuming their children do not starve first.”
Her brother responds with a weary look, and I cannot tell whether that is because he shares her pessimistic outlook or because he is tired of hearing it. His reply, which is to inquire as to the state of Mrs. Holcroft’s spirits, provides no clarity.
Before I can answer, Miss Burgess observes that his theory has one crucial flaw. “According to Miss Hyde-Clare, the quality of the silk shawl is beyond the means of a villager.”
“Significantly,” I confirm. “For the same price, a villager could feed his family for six months.”
The vicar is astonished by the information and wonders how my calculation can be accurate. “A female frippery can cost as much as six months’ worth of food? If that is true, I can scarcely begin to comprehend the madness of the world we live in. A manwill starve for want of bread, but a scrap of fabric can put food on his table for a half a year.”
“The murderer is obviously a woman of means,” Miss Burgess adds.
“Or a thief,” he suggests. “A man whose desperation drives him to murder would not hesitate to steal an item of obvious value.”
“That is precisely what your sister said,” I reply.
He smiles wryly. “Great minds.”
“As siblings, we do share several things in common,” she says.
I understand the appeal of the explanation, but anyone who gives it more than a moment’s thought would realize it defies sense: Where is this larcenous farmhand finding items of value to pilfer? At the village tavern? At the local assembly hall? At the posting inn a few miles up the road? Does he constantly rob people, or is the owner of the shawl his lone victim? If it is the former, then why is the district not up in arms about the burglaries? If it is the latter, then why did he not sell the garment as soon as he stole it? The idea that he recognized its value enough to pocket it but not enough to profit from it is preposterous.
Nevertheless, I say, “I am sure you are right.”
Mr. Burgess hails my open-mindedness, noting that he should have anticipated it, as Sebastian’s interest in me indicates that I am the rarest of all creatures: a sensible woman.
I preen.
It is a rule I have: Always preen when a gentleman compliments me at the expense of the rest of my sex. You would be aghast at how frequently that happens.
“You are very astute, Mr. Burgess,” I say with a giddy flutter of my lashes.
(Oh, yes,nowI see that Idoblink excessively when I am lying.)
Modestly, he describes himself as a student of human nature, noting that it is a prerequisite of his vocation as vicar, and I ask if in his capacity as either he has any insight into which villager is the culprit.
He does not!
“But even if I had suspicions, I would be barred from airing them, as the reconciliation of penitents is a sacred trust,” he continues swiftly. “Carrying the weight of my parishioners’ tragedies and disappointments is a burden I struggle to bear with grace, and given how difficult it is in the best of times, I am relieved that the load is not made worse by knowing I am protecting a murderer.”
I nod several times to convey my sympathy for his plight, then ask if there was another source of disagreement between Mr. Keast and the villagers. “Did they have more cause to resent him, or was it just the farm matter?”
“Just the farm matter?” he repeats with a wearying sigh. “If only the matter were that minor, Miss Hyde-Clare. It is the livelihood of the menfolk that is at stake as well as the survival of the village itself. It is not merely the farm matter. Keast’s innovations, supported by Holcroft’s money and fixation on efficiency, threaten to transform agriculture as we know it. You would do well to keep that in mind when discussing the estate with your suitor, as he will not appreciate your undervaluing the contribution his father is making to the field.”
Grateful for his instruction, I thank him for advising me as though I am already a member of his flock. “And please let me rectify my earlier misstatement. I meant to ask if there were other causes of friction between Mr. Keastin addition tothe farm matter?”
The vicar says there are not.
“And are there other members of the community who disagree with Mr. Keast’s management of the Holcroft lands?” I ask.
This seemingly benign query spurs him to provide me with further guidance as he hints me away from idle gossip. “It is an undignified occupation at the best of times and especially insidious during times of tragedy and strife. You may have noticed my sister shares your propensity, and I often have to remind her that it is not charitable to discuss our neighbors.”
Miss Burgess lowers her head. “It is true. Drew has to remind me constantly.”
“It is my fault,” I say, likewise dropping my head in a semblance of shame. “I have led her astray.”
The vicar assures me that is not likely and joins us for a cup of tea. Twenty minutes later, Miss Burgess insists on driving me to my next call, the Braithwaites, so that we may indulge in a little more gossip away from her brother’s disapproving gaze.
Chapter Eleven
