In fact, I would argue it means precisely that.
But quarreling with my accusers will only prolong the confrontation, which is the last thing I want. Instead, I apologize for being dull-witted. “I am doing my best to comprehend the allegations, but I am mystified. Please explain it in such simplified terms that even a dunderhead”—here, I dart a glance at Eleanor—“can understand.”
Sarah defers to Mrs. Dowell, whose expression hardens with annoyance before she unbends enough to say, “My father is Uncle Dudley’s greatest supporter. Everyone knows that, including Lord Eldon.”
Technically, I do not consider myself a dullard. Readily, I admit to peagoose-ish tendencies, especially in regard to my treatment of Bea and my history of equating beauty with superior moral character. In general, however, I think I am a woman of reasonable intelligence.
Nevertheless, I am lost.
This explanation reveals nothing of value.
Sharing my assessment, Sarah takes over. “Eldon is seeking information about my father’s affairs because he knows he is rallying support to restore Uncle Dudley to his position as master of the rolls. Eldon ruined Uncle Dudley’s reputation because he considers him a threat to his political dominance. Eldon, afraid that my father will succeed in his project, sent you here to discover his plans so that he may thwart them and keep Uncle Dudley in disgrace.”
“You are joking,” I say, looking from one woman to the other for some indication that their theory is indeed one elaborate prank.
But there is nothing.
Only frowns that deepen with my comment.
They are sincere.
No, I will not allow it!
“Youcannotbe serious,” I say firmly, giving them the benefit of the doubt. “I know you live a secluded life out here in the country, but you cannot be cut off from all reality.”
Mrs. Dowell chides me for employing a stratagem that has already failed. “You may mock us all you want, Miss Hyde-Clare, but your practiced ridicule will not save you from the truth. You are Eldon’s emissary, and we caught you in the act of spying. Nothing you can say will alter that fact.”
In an offhanded manner, I dismiss this claim, openly exposing my true objective: to find the missive Mr. Nutting sent to their father so that I can compare his handwriting sample against the letters found at the steward’s bedside. “I am trying to find Mr. Keast’s murderer and have already eliminated the three of you based on your penmanship—and, yes, to do that, I searched your rooms for writing samples. If you want to take a pet over that, then please feel free to do so. In some respects, it is indefensible, though as an investigator, I am sometimes obliged to breach decorum to bring a killer to justice. That is the code! But all of this is beside the point, you bedlamites!What do you mean your father is rallying support for Grimston to return him to his position?”
They stiffen.
All three women bristle at once, like the quills of a porcupine rising in tandem, and I have no idea what has given the most offense: my suspecting them of murder, my calling them bedlamites, or my screaming at them.
I do not care about the answer.
The answer does not matter.
“Is your father mad?” I ask in the same wild tone. If anything, the screech in my voice increases as the depravity of the notion strikes me anew.
Returning that debased murderer to his position of power!
Is the world on its head?
Have I descended into a mirror universe where left is right and up is down?
“Has he lostallhis sense?” I sneer furiously. “Does he not have a single shred of the sense left in his brain? Is his brainempty? Why in God’s name does he want to restore the reputation of the man who tried to kill your brother? Does he not care that Grimston tried to kill your brother? Dononeof you care?”
The force of my wrath hits them.
It weighs them down like a heavy blanket, and they struggle against it, their expression a mix of disgust, anger, and confusion.
Mrs. Dowell recovers first, exclaiming, “Of course you would say that. You are in Lord Eldon’s pay.”
“Oh, my God, you fool, I wasthere!” I say, my hands clenching with the very real, very intense desire to punch her. “I was there at the Chancery with your brother when Grimston served us tea and talked fondly of your family to keep us occupied while his henchman set the scene for our demise. I was there with your brother in the carriage when Grimston’s henchman knocked the groom unconscious and took us at gunpoint into the seedy building. I was there with your brother in that wretched little room, with its stained walls and rotted floorboards, when Grimston’s henchman explained that he would shoot us both and arrange the scene to make it appear as though your brother had defiled me before we were killedby a vagrant. I was there with your brother when Grimston’s henchman explained the details of the Master of the Rolls’ nefarious scheme to coerce money from the petitioners in his court. I was there when your brother came within an inch of having his blood spewed all over the walls and floor and I am the one who actually swung the wooden plank that knocked out his attacker and saved his life. I was there with your brother forall of itand barely escaped with my own life.”
“What?”
It is Mama.
