But it is all a lie.
The murder has nothing to do with love.
It was always about the steward’s land management.
Sebastian’s theory of the embittered villager.
And the vicar’s.
They had arrived at the same conclusion.
But the shawl!
I cannot believe a garment of such exquisite gossamer silk just happened to wind up in the hands of one of Lower Bigglesmeade’s turned-out farmhands.
It simply does not make sense.
And the rug.
Let us not forget the soggy Aubusson.
If Mr. Braithwaite is not the killer, then there is only one other option.
“Mr. Nutting!” I exclaim in surprise. “Mr. Nutting issued the death threats!”
“There were no death threats, you ninny,” Mrs. Braithwaite says with weary contempt.
Her husband cautions against a display of overconfidence. “We do not know for certain that Nutting never threatened the steward. His estates are mortgaged to the hilt, thanks to a terrible run of bad luck. Four out of the last five cargo ships he invested in have been lost at sea, leaving him with not enough scratch to lease the land he needs for grazing.”
Goggling at her father in astonishment, Miss Braithwaite asks, “The Nuttings are poor?”
With a shake of his head, he insists that is not what he said.
“If their estates are mortgaged to the hilt, then how can they go to London every March for a new wardrobe when we can afford to replace ours only every other year? How is it that Jane’s clothes are twice as nice as mine if our estates are not mortgaged?”
“Your father is exaggerating,” Mrs. Braithwaite replies briskly. “And Jane’s clothes are not nicer than yours. She simply has more garish taste. The two are sometimes confused.”
Miss Braithwaite does not appear convinced by this argument, which is not surprising, as I am unpersuaded as well. Garish gems are just gems in large, gorgeous clusters that the rest of us envy.
Owning myself envious of Miss Nutting’s annual shopping trip, I ask if she has any items by Madame Valenaire. “She is the most sought-after modiste in London. I would give anything to have one of her scarves or shawls or fichus, but Mama will not even consider it.”
“Oh, I think we are familiar with the seamstress who makes all of Countess Lieven’s clothes, Miss Hyde-Clare. We are not country bumpkins, you know,” Mrs. Braithwaite chides waspishly.
Miss Braithwaite apologizes for her mother’s rudeness and addresses the query by noting she could not speak to specific garments made by Madame Valenaire among her neighbors’ wardrobe. “But Mrs. Nutting has several things by her. Jane does too. I think the gloves she wore to the assembly last week bore the modiste’s signature rosettes.”
Delighted by the wealth of information provided by the family, I thank them for their generosity and bid them good day. Miss Braithwaite rises to her feet as she offers to walk me to the door.
But I do not want an escort.
In her company, I cannot dart covertly to Mr. Braithwaite’s office to find a writing sample to rule him out as a murder suspect. The girl rebuffs my demurral, looping her arm through mine as she leads me into the corridor, and I accept the inevitable. If the investigation returns me to Chilton Hall, I will not hesitate to sneak into the house to search for writing samples.
Well, I might hesitate a little.
Babbling incoherently like Mama is not nearly as embarrassing as being caught with my hands in Braithwaite’s private business papers.
But there is no way around it.
It is the investigator’s code.
