At some point in every investigator’s career, she is called upon to identify to an assembled group the correct murderer and explain the tangled path her ruminations took to arrive at the correct deduction. We call this presentation the drawing room moment, and here is mine.
Russell darts his head down to examine his fingers, as though unable to watch my inevitable humiliation, while Mama presses her hand against my back, as though to propel me toward the door, and Mr. Nutting’s glare of dislike intensifies.
“Good God, what rackety new notion does the girl have now?” Mr. Holcroft mutters.
Am I unnerved by their responses?
No, I am not.
I have been contemplating the prospect of my drawing room moment for almost a year and do now what Beatrice did then: I smile.
It is the only way to meet the curious gazes of a dozen spectators.
Actually, no, it is only eleven because Russell is still looking studiously downward.
Having gained their attention, I take a deep breath to begin my narration, but Mrs. Holcroft speaks first, echoing her son’s proposal that we leave the Burgesses in private to sort themselves out. “As Seb said, it has been a long day.”
Mrs. Dowell rejects the suggestion, insisting that she wishes to hear my rackety notion. Then she rushes to assure me that her words were meant in the kindest way possible. “You have begun to grow on me, Miss Hyde-Clare, and I do feel genuinely horrible about making you embroider for three hours yesterday, but you must know that your notionsarerackety.”
Mama winces.
Her rackety daughter!
If she has devoted her life to anything, then it is raising anun-rackety daughter.
A pillar.
Doric in style, if you please.
(Unless there is a column with even less ornamentation. In which case, she would kindly request that I contort myself into the style of that one.)
Mr. Holcroft endorses his wife’s plan of an immediate departure. “Nutting, for one, has to return home to begin the first of a lengthy series of apologies, and I think Miss Hyde-Clare has secured enough attention for herself for one day.”
Papa refuses.
“Like Mrs. Dowell, I should like to hear what Flora has to say,” he adds.
I do not think he actually does.
Rather, he is taking the opposite stance of Mr. Holcroft out of pique.
Regardless, I appreciate his support, which is echoed by Sebastian, who invites everyone to return to their seats. All the occupants of the room comply except Chester, who stands stiffly next to the settee, staring at me with the utmost suspicion, as though I were about to announce thatheis the murderer.
Mr. Burgess, not insensitive to the peculiarity of my request, casts a concerned look at his sister, whose ashen features still glisten from the tears that lately scorched her cheeks. Something is obviously wrong, and he asks her if she is all right before offering to ask the guests to leave. “I am sure they will understand, as it is indeed late for a visit.”
“It does not matter,” she replies softly.
She means nothing matters.
But she is wrong.
The truth matters.
As long as I am able to see the facts clearly, the truth still matters to me.
With everyone settled, I place myself in front of the fireplace. It bears none of the grandeur of the hearth in a country house in the Lake District, but that is unavoidable. We cannot all have our drawing room moments in centuries-old ancestral manors with arcades and colonnades and parapets. By rights, some of us must make do with vicarages.
I position myself to the left of a bouquet of pink hollyhocks on the mantel. The bunch is a little spare on blossoms, with stems of tear-shaped foliage to fill out the arrangement, but the vase is lovely cut glass. I clasp my hands behind my back to givemyself an authoritative air, then immediately feel self-conscious as my elbows stick out.
