Except I would not.
The use of magic violates the investigator’s code.
Stricken, Miss Burgess sinks into the armchair and says with wonder, “You really are going to send me to the gallows to avoid purchasing the cottage.”
Mr. Nutting lifts his chin with self-righteous puffery and tuts at her myopia. “Now, now, my dear, I am not responsible for your actions.”
Detestable creatureis too kind.
Impatient with his son’s progress, Mr. Holcroft strides across the room to stand at Sebastian’s shoulders and hurry him along. “It cannot be difficult to render a verdict. It is obvious to everyone in the room she did it. All avenues of escape are closed to her.”
Quietly, with none of her earlier confidence, Miss Burgess says, “The handwriting does not match. It cannot match.”
Mr. Holcroft begs to disagree. “I have not done a point-by-point comparison, but at a glance I can see the samples share similarities. The capital D,for instance. You and the killer both extend the letter to the left in a curving loop. It is unmistakable.”
Miss Burgess laughs bitterly.
It is a chilling sound.
“Damned by divine affectation,” she says with a grim smile.
Chester, who has also grown weary of waiting for an official pronouncement, struggles to scrutinize the text himself. Bobbing left and right to catch a glimpse over the breadth of his father’s shoulders, he spares Miss Burgess a severe glance and tartly advises her not to compound her sins by drawing God into her wickedness. “You aresisterto the vicar. I would expect better of you!”
He sounds genuinely affronted.
As though it is thestatementthat is beyond the pale, not her affair with a married man.
Peeved by his sanctimony, Miss Burgess snaps, “Not d-i-v-i-n-e, you ninnyhammer. D-e-v-i-n-e. That is my mother’s maiden name. It was she who taught us how to write, and she had a particularly flourishy hand, which she learned from her father. If that is to be the death of me, then I am allowed to damn it, and I can damn God, too, if I want. Damn Him, damn Nutting, damnyou!”
Defiance is all she has left.
Defiance or resignation.
It is a wonder she is able to muster any of the former, for what Mr. Holcroft said is true: All avenues of escape are closed to her. The only hope she has is to convince us to continue to follow the chain of possession to her housekeeper’s door. But if the servant actually did steal it, then in all likelihood she will swear she had long since sold it to pay for food or coal, leaving Miss Burgess with the impossible task of proving a negative.
Chester huffs in insult, then announces that the scripts are replicas of each other. “Seb might not have the spine to say it, but I do. The handwritings are identical! Miss Burgess killed Keast! She knew her handwriting would reveal the truth.Thatis why she gave a verbal reply to my father’s missive. Someone summon Jenner to take her away.”
Resignation takes hold then.
Miss Burgess, her face bereft of color, drops her head in defeat.
A lone tear drops onto her hand, then another and another.
She is weeping.
I cannotstandit.
Murder is terrible and I wholly condemn it, and living by the investigator’s code means I must harden myself against the anguish of an apprehended killer.
Mr. Nutting, as detestable as he is, is correct about one thing: Miss Burgess is responsible for Miss Burgess’s actions.
Even so, it hurts my heart, and I look down at my lap to close it all out, a futile act if there ever was one, for the first thing I see is the puce shawl. It is lying on the floor, half under a chair.
Damnation!
If only she had usedthatmiddling strip of cloth or any of the other half dozen in the valise, then she would not be in this predicament. What had she been thinking?
Oh, but that is the question, isn’t it?
