“You see, Louisa!” Mr. Holcroft says, jabbing his finger in the air in my general direction. “You see! Sheissecretly working for Eldon. At this very moment she is looking for compromising information to use against me to further immiserate my friend.”
Chester finds the conclusion specious. “I say, Father, if she is working secretly for Eldon, wouldn’t she do her business in secret?”
“It is a mark of her boldness!” Mr. Holcroft cries, gathering up the pages, including the will and his own correspondence, which is actually helpful because it gives me access to what lies beneath. “She is a bold hussy!”
His wife concedes it is highly unusual behavior. “Not what I would call goodton.”
“She is looking for the note you had from Nutting expressing his sympathy,” Mrs. Dowell explains. “He is her prime suspect.”
Mr. Holcroft scoffs. “Good God, Louisa,thisis what meets your definition ofadequate? If I had known that you would hold our future son’s prospects in such low esteem, I might have thought better of making an offer.”
“Well, George, you see… “
Mrs. Holcroft trails off because she is not sure what he should see.
And to be fair, it is not the most heartening experience to watch your possible future daughter-in-law rifle through your husband’s desk.
Oh, but I have not yet begun to rifle, I think in amusement, turning my attention to the top drawer, as there is nothing meaningful on the surface. To my relief, I find the missive from Mr. Nutting quickly, before the scene grows more awkward.
(Moreawkward?)
“Here it is,” I say, holding the sheet aloft and backing away from the desk to make it clear I have no further interest in its contents. I even apologize to Mr. Holcroft for the invasion of his privacy, which I know is problematic.
But justice must be served.
The message is brief, only four lines, and conveys his sympathy for Mr. Holcroft’s loss. He knows intimately how disruptive unexpected change can be to a well-ordered household and trusts his friend will regain his equilibrium soon enough. In the meantime, he stands ready to help, wishes him the best, et cetera, et cetera.
His lack of regard for Mr. Keast, cut down in the prime of his life, is striking.
That is another point in his disfavor.
More than ever, I am convinced that Mr. Nutting is the killer.
Determining whether his handwriting supports this conclusion is impossible without comparing the letters, as the penmanship is not so different as to be immediatelydisqualifying. I hand Nutting’s missive to Sebastian while I retrieve one from Eternally Devoted, then hold them side by side.
It is a match?
“Inconclusive,” Sebastion announces with an air of frustration. “They are similar. There is no question that they are similar enough to raise eyebrows. Nutting’s letters are larger and slightly rounder, but that could be because he had more space to write his note to my father, or he made an effort to disguise his handwriting. Or he is not Eternally Devoted. I find it impossible to say.”
Despite the certainty of the statement, his siblings demand an opportunity to inspect the samples for themselves, which spurs Russell to request a look as well.
While they each render their opinion, Sebastian shares the progress of his investigation, which has not advanced as solidly as my own. In talking to scores of villagers, he found dozens of men who loathed the steward for the changes he had made in the district and planned to make, but no actual suspects. “Few among the horde are literate at all, and those who can read do not possess the sophistication to produce the ten letters signed “Eternally Devoted.” With their limited resources growing ever scarcer, the villagers seem to have few options outside of resigning themselves to their fates and accepting that Keast will be subjected to divine retribution, as counseled by the vicar.”
I furrow my brow sympathetically.
Poor Sebastian, losing an entire day to a wasted investigation.
But it is completely insincere.
“And how many among them appeared to have access to a silk shawl by Madame Valenaire?” I ask innocently. “Was it more or less than a dozen?”
His smile is self-deprecating as he admits he should have known better than to argue with me about a fashion accessory by one of London’s most beloved modistes. “I was out of my depth, which I readily concede. How is Nutting connected to the shawl?”
I explain the roundabout way the garment came to be in the suspect’s possession and his refusal to reveal where it is now. Then I discuss the motive I attribute to him. By the time I am finished explaining the case, the siblings have finished their inspection of the handwriting samples and confirmed that it is impossible to confirm a match.
His eyes agog with curiosity, Chester inquires as to the next step in my investigation, and his father replies snidely, “She will spy on Nutting because that is what she does. A spy spies! She will treat his private study with the same contempt with which she has treated mine, only more covertly.”
I am not immune to the appeal of his proposal!
