That piece is easy enough to slot into place.
But the shawl.
How to fit Madame Valenaire’s exquisite shawl into the puzzle?
Perhaps it fell into his hands by chance.
The recipient of Mr. Nutting’s unintentional munificence, he recognized the shawl’s value and began to construct an elaborate fiction around it to enact revenge against the steward.
Oh, but that does not hold water either.
If my newly hypothesized gentleman of reduced circumstances recognized the shawl’s value, then he would never have put it in the hands of an impoverished widow, and if he had conceived of the scheme independent of the garment, then he would have used a shawl of far less value.
There is no way around concluding that the embittered-villager theory is nonsensical, and I return to my original notion, which is much more logical. Significantly, I have only Mr. Nutting’s word that he gave the shawl away, and he is far from an unimpeachable source. If hehadused the garment to murder Mr. Keast, then he would not have said anything different. Donating it to charity is a conveniently difficult story to disprove.
Swiveling on my heels, I dart down the staircase.
Mrs. Nutting said that her husband sent a letter extending his condolences.
All I have to do is find it, and now is the perfect moment to look because the rest of the occupants are upstairs preparing for dinner.
To Mr. Holcroft’s study!
Having searched the private quarters of half the family already today, I am not as anxious about the intrusion as I might have been. Without pausing to consider the wisdom of my actions, I venture to my right, along the corridor that leads to the conservatory, and stop short of reaching the end. As I open the door to the study, I arrange my features in a look of surprise.
Oh, wait, this is Mr. Holcroft’s study, not the library?
Surprised face!
Fortunately, the precaution is not necessary.
The room is empty.
Relieved, I close the door behind me, take a moment to regain my breath, and dart to the desk to begin searching.
It is a mess.
For a man who prides himself on taking a scientifical approach to crop cultivation, his workspace is in wild disarray. Before touching anything, I step back and take stock of what I see: two ledgers, three newspapers, two journals, five calling cards, a Bible, four bills of sale, a legal document of indeterminate significance, three letters addressed to Mr. Holcroft, and one partially finished letter addressed to Mr. Keast’s parents.
And that is just the top layer.
There are more papers underneath.
Daunted by the prospect of looking through the private business matters of Sebastian’s father, I decide to start with the easy thing—confirming he is not a murderer—and draw closer to the desk to inspect his handwriting.
Happily, it is as tight and illegible as his youngest daughter’s.
Next, I bend down to read the names on the bottom of the three letters: Errol Landry, Jacob Hooper, Carl Radd.
Well, that takes care of the easy things.
Now I must dig.
It does not sit well, invading the privacy of my host, but there is nothing to be done about it. Justice demands high courage, not niggling squeamishness.
I lift theCounty Registerto reveal a chart for when to irrigate the fields. Below the trio of letters are more letters. A list of flowers written in Mr. Holcroft’s own hand falls out of one of the journals, which was lying on top of a colorful seed catalogue from the Gilbert K. Harrison and Company. I pick up the legal document and find an illustrated card?—
“Aha!” cries a voice from the doorway.
