WhathadMiss Burgess been thinking?
Too calculating for a thoughtless mistake, she had spent weeks, if not months, mapping out every aspect of her scheme. Attributing the murder to a poor widow had been a choice. It did not happen by default or because she could not think of another fiction.
By the same token, she had made a particular decision to leave the Madame Valenaire shawl next to the dead steward’s corpse.
To what end?
Only one possibility occurs to me: She wanted to implicate Nutting in the murder.
In a stroke that perhaps put too much faith in Mr. Jenner’s interest in obtaining justice for a steward, she had expected him to note the discrepancy between the quality of the silk and the situation of the widow. Once the constable realized the self-professed lover was a lie, he would begin to look closer to home, at which point Mr. Nutting’s well-known animosity toward the steward would make him an ideal candidate. Witnesses would recognize the shawl and identify it as belonging to his family, and he would refuse to reply rather than reveal he had given the garment to his mistress.
And why would Miss Burgess go through all these dark machinations to punish her lover?
That is obvious, no?
The shawl, the shawl, the cursed shawl!
She said it herself: A fine one you are, telling me you cannot afford a cottage when you buy fripperies like that!
The resentment it must have stirred!
Although hardly sanguine, this revelation offers me some comfort because it means Miss Burgess is not as hapless as she appears. She tried to do to Mr. Nutting what he succeeded in doing to her: ensure the other was all rolled up.
They are cut from the same cloth.
A wholly dispiriting consequence of pursuing the investigative path is coming into frequent contact with detestable creatures.
I wonder how Bea can bear it.
Sebastian does not quite confirm his brother’s assessment, noting that the handwritings are not exact copies. “It seems as though she made an effort to alter her style. You can see it in the angle of the letters. But there are too many points of similarity to ignore, especially in light of the other evidence against Miss Burgess. I agree that the constable should be summoned. I shall wait while the rest of the party returns home. It has been a long day.”
His mother applauds this sensible suggestion, rising to her feet as the door to the room opens and Mr. Burgess enters the room. Warned by the footman of the horde, he is not disconcerted to see so many of us in his home and greets us cordially with an apology for not being here sooner to greet us.
“I know it is late, and you may be eager to be on your way, but I am hoping to tempt you with a glass of port or sherry,” he says convivially. “It is a rare occasion for us to be blessed with so many of our neighbors, isn’t that right, Eliza?”
As vicar, he has cultivated an air of command, a sense of control, as if he had everything well in hand, and I watch as his sister responds to it, lifting her head slowly to look at him witha desperate glimmer in her eyes, as though he had the power to save her.
Divine intervention.
And then the truth hits me like in a vast, overwhelming wave: divine retribution.
Chapter Eighteen
Ijump to my feet and ask for everyone’s attention.
Those are the words I actually use.
I say, “Good evening, everyone, may I please have your attention?”
Andgood evening—as though I am greeting the company for the first time.
It is madness!
What am I even doing?
I am having my drawing room moment.
Like Bea at Lakeview Hall.
