“Ha!” Mr. Nutting cries triumphantly.
Miss Burgess glares hotly at me before turning her heated stare on her lover as she leaps to her feet. “Youare trying to sendmeto the gallows because you do not want to buy that little cottage in Marston Bend. I am sorry that you may have to sell some of your wife’s silver to cover the expense, but a promise is a promise!”
“I promised you nothing!” he shouts, his cheeks turning purple again. “I might have grunted at an inopportune time, butI defy any court in the land to hold that an inarticulate rumble is a binding agreement.”
“Any court in the land, you say?” she replies with a jeer. “I am happy to hire a solicitor and bring that suit, which is why you are trying to tie me to this murder. You would rather an innocent woman hang than be publicly humiliated!”
Mr. Nutting waves his hand lavishly in the air, gesturing to the company surrounding him, and says, “Publicly humiliated? Publicly humiliated? What would you call this horrifying calamity if not public humiliation?”
Before Miss Burgess can propose her own name for the event, Mr. Holcroft declares that it would be better for all parties present if the two warring factions’ dispute was resolved privately among them.
Mama concurs, adding that the exchange is unseemly.
“Here, here,” Sebastian says approvingly.
Is he currying favor with my mother?
I think so, which is lovely and sweet.
The fastest way to Vera Hyde-Clare’s heart is to display primness and prudence.
But he is also expressing sincere discomfort.
We are all cringing in embarrassment for the unhappy pair.
“Miss Burgess, it is as my mother said,” Sebastian continues. “We are trying to establish the chain of possession for the shawl that killed Keast. If you have the shawl Nutting gave you, then the trail ends here, and we will have to explore another line of inquiry. That is all. So if you would just present us with the garment in question, we will get out of your hair and leave you to your evening. We have no wish to inconvenience you longer than necessary.”
A tranquil smile spreads across Miss Burgess’s face as she regains her previous composure, and she lowers herself into thechair with the elegance of a society hostess serving tea to a duchess. “I do not have it.”
“Ha!” Mr. Nutting shouts in glee as the room erupts in noise, with Mr. Holcroft crowing over the wickedness of women and Chester calling his hostess a ruthless killer.
Over the din, Miss Burgess pleads her innocence, citing a robbery over and over until she is forced to scream to be heard. “It was stolen!”
“A likely story,” Mr. Nutting says with a chuckle.
She swears it is true. “On my honor, it was stolen by one of the servants—the housekeeper, I think. Her eyes turned as wide as saucers when she caught sight of it the first time. She recognized its value at a glance, as did I,” she says, then casts a bitter eye on Nutting. “A fine one you are, telling me you cannot afford a cottage when you buy fripperies like that! I could pay a year’s salary for a housekeeper who does not steal from me, from just the silk alone, never mind the care of the stitching and design.”
Unimpressed, Mr. Nutting points to his mistress and says, “There is your murderess, Miss Hyde-Clare. If my not having the shawl proved my guilt, then it doubly proves hers because I never denied it. As an innocent man, I readily admitted to having it in my possession. I trust you will pursue her guilt with the same assiduousness with which you pursued mine.”
Naturally, I will.
“Miss Burgess, may we see a sample of your handwriting?” I ask.
She greets this query with alacrity. “That is right! The letters from the killer, Eternally Devoted! They will prove I had nothing to do with it, for their handwriting will not match mine. An excellent suggestion, Miss Hyde-Clare. Thank you!” she says, dashing from the room and returning less than a minute laterwith a notebook clasped in her hand. She passes it to me without a hint of concern. “There you go.”
Having made the comparison almost a dozen times today, I am extremely familiar with the penmanship in question and feel a disquieting tremor take hold as soon as I turn to the opening page.
The capital D.
It has the same elaborate swirl, the winding flourish to the left of the letter.
My heartbeat kicks up.
One letter is not proof, and without assessing them side by side, I do not even know if it is thesameelaborate swirl.
Maybe it is adifferentelaborate swirl.
I hand Sebastian the book as I pull the letter out of my pocket and unfold it to reveal the salutation: “Dearest beloved.”
