Poor Mama.
If sliding on ice is how she feels all the time, then it is a marvel she can string a sentence together at all.
Mrs. Braithwaite breaks the stunned silence with a pronounced gasp and declares, “Good heavens, she is as demented as the mother.”
“You issued death threats to the Holcroft steward?” Miss Braithwaite says, turning to stare at her father in wonder. “Whyever for? You said he was a gnat, and we should pay him no heed.”
“Stop saying death threats!” her mother snaps.
With a malicious smile at her mother, she says, “Death threats!”
“Penelope,” Mr. Braithwaite says reprovingly.
Chastened, the girl sits back in her chair and folds her hands in her lap.
Then he turns to me and announces in the same cool tone that there were no death threats. “My wife is right. You do not seem to have all your wits.”
I agree with him.
Mama makes a regular practice of conceding the accuracy of all criticism by outside actors while denying any charge leveled by a family member.
“Presuming to know the nature of the threats is a horrible impertinence,” I admit in a subdued voice. “They could have been threats of violence or threats of coercion. You might have threatened to have Mr. Keast fired from his position or his parents evicted from their home. I should not have jumped to conclusions. That is unconscionable of me, and I offer my sincerest apology for assuming you are capable of only one kind of threat. A man of your consequence has many resources at his disposal and does not have to resort to…uh…hmm…threatening anirreversiblesolution.”
There, I abided by Mrs. Braithwaite’s request not to use the term again.
Does she appreciate it?
It does not appear so.
“You could have arranged for Mr. Keast’s imprisonment, for even the perversion of justice is easily managed by you. You arethatpowerful,” I continue reverently. “And that is the reason I admire your ruthlessness, Mr. Braithwaite. A man is killed three days after you threatened his destruction, and you feel no guilt at all. You are a credit to sensible landowners everywhere. Or did you patch up your differences before his murder? Is that why you are able to eat a fourth slice of roast beef?”
Mama could go on, noting that a robust appetite is the sign of a clean conscience and then adding that four slices of roast beefdoes not necessarily constitute a robust appetite and then saying something like, “Wellington ate three joints of mutton the night before the Battle of Waterloo.”
I cannot.
Once I start counting the number of roast beef slices, I have reached the upper limit of my shamelessness. Being an investigator of murders requires a tremendous amount of fortitude and audacity, and to my chagrin, I have only so much of either.
We cannot all be Her Outrageousnesses.
(And a good thing too! I could not withstand the scrutiny of Mr. Twaddle-Thum without examining every person I met with suspicion. Within weeks, I would stop leaving the house and eventually my bedchamber.)
Despite my willingness to abide by her rule, Mrs. Braithwaite insists that it is past time I left and asks a footman to escort me out. But her husband stays her demand with a wave of his hand.
“Before Miss Hyde-Clare goes tromping off to repeat her accusations to all and sundry, I want to make it clear that I did not issue any threats against Keast,” he states plainly. “He and I argued on Friday, but we also argued the previous Monday and the Thursday before that. Keast was an arrogant devil who could not be made to listen to reason. Not content to import the Dutch plow, which is more efficient than the English one, he was working with a manufactory in Rotherham to produce a version with interchangeable parts that can be made locally and quickly replaced. If the newfangled machine works as intended, it will reduce Holcroft’s costs even more, allowing him to further undercut the rest of us at market. My tenants are already struggling to pay the rents, so I convinced the local blacksmith not to work with Keast to make parts for his plow. That is why he was here. He was furious about what he called my attempt to impede progress and innovation. I begged to disagree andadvised him to return to Red Oaks, where his efforts to destroy Lower Bigglesmeade are appreciated.”
I keep one eye on Miss Braithwaite as her father explains the source of his disagreement with Mr. Keast. She does not appear particularly troubled by it.
“I do not think Mr. Keast was arrogant so much as complacent,” Mrs. Braithwaite asserts. “He had all the answers and saw no reason to consider anyone else’s perspective. I have heard an earful about it from Mrs. Nutting, who shares her husband’s fury over Keast’s plan to fence off the commons.”
The significance of the enclosure escapes me, and I smother a weary sigh at how frequently I am confronted by my own agricultural ignorance.
(Again: I know cabbage!)
(Istudiedcabbage!)
Mr. Braithwaite obligingly provides a brief explanation, noting that the subject has a long and complicated history that he does not believe I will be able to grasp. “Suffice it to say that the commons are lands used by everyone in the district despite the fact that Holcroft actually owns them. Villagers are able to till a patch and use the fields for grazing, but Keast found that stifled his employer’s ability to experiment with new crops, because there must be a shared method of farming across communal fields. And then he grumbled constantly about too much grazing damaging the soil. That was why he had been advocating for their enclosure. It requires an act of Parliament, and I believe Holcroft has been in contact with his solicitors. It affects Nutting because he uses the commons as his primary pasture, putting far more than his allotment on the land. If overgrazing is a problem, it is because of Nutting.”
His answer is revelatory, though not in the way that it articulates the land dispute but rather in the way that it straightens out my thinking. All along I have been looking at themurder from the angle the killerwantsme to see it. The letters made the slaying a tawdry tale of love gone awry, and I accepted that as the central premise without question. Even as I rejected the notion of the impoverished widow, I continued to subscribe to the idea of a lover betrayed.
