He holds his body steady, his eyes never leaving his sister’s huddled form.
“‘Divine retribution’ is the phrase Sebastian encountered repeatedly during his visit to the village this afternoon to talk to the farmhands and laborers immiserated by Mr. Keast’s recent changes,” I explain neutrally. “‘Divine retribution’ is the phrase those men had heard from the vicar, who counseled them not to rail against their misfortunes but rather to trust that divine retribution would come for the steward.”
Slowly, my heartbeat ticks up as I realize that I am anxious after all.
The closer I get to lodging the accusation, the less certain I am of its accuracy.
My theory rests on a set of homophones.
A bit of wordplay is a flimsy basis for a drawing room moment.
And yet here I am.
This, too, is part of investigating. Identifying similarities between seemingly disparate elements is integral to the practice, and sometimes those connections are simply wrong.
Sometimes unrelated events are unrelated.
Disconcerting, I know, but such is the way of the world!
To calm myself, I take another deep breath, then forge ahead. “I believe ‘divine retribution’ is not ‘divine’ retribution but ‘Devine’ retribution.”
Mr. Nutting cackles, Mr. Holcroft smirks as though every opinion of me has been confirmed, Mama squirms in her seat as though trying to disappear into the cushion (a stratagem she has employed on a dozen previous occasions to little success), and Papa glances down at his fingers. Sarah looks at me with disappointment as Sebastian’s brow furrows.
But Chester—dear, bumbling, Pythagoreanist Chester—understands and spells out the maiden name of the vicar’s mother.
Miss Burgess’s countenance grows even bleaker, and she shakes her head.
Her brother nods.
Unable to believe it, she shakes her head again, and in the wild tremble of her chin, I perceive the depth of her horror. Learning what her brother is capable of is somehow more devastating than the threat of the gibbet.
Mr. Nutting’s amusement deepens in the wake of Chester’s comment, and he makes a great show of doubling over with laughter.
He is a buffoon—a detestable buffoon—and I am relieved for Miss Burgess that she only ruined herself for him, notruined.
Is not staining one’s immortal soul with murder a small consolation?
Indeed, yes.
But it is all that is to be had.
Genially, Mrs. Holcroft tells her neighbor to shut up. “Or I will have that tête-à-tête with Grace after all,” she says before looking at me pointedly. “I would like you to explain the meaning of my son’s cryptic remark.”
Mr. Burgess speaks first.
Without ceremony, he says, “I killed Keast. He was a scourge upon this village, and I removed him before he convinced Mr. Holcroft to do away with traditional farming altogether. What befits one man does not always befit his community. I tried on multiple occasions to explain that to Keast, but he mocked my beliefs and avowed progress was his only religion. After so many months, it became unbearable and I resolved to take action. I was sent here to save men’s souls, but I was losing them: Michael Smith, James Grant, Elias Marsh. They were good men who succumbed to despair. I did what I had to do. My sister had nothing to do with it. Had I not made the mistake with the shawl, her name would never have come into it. I had no idea it was of particular value. I chose it only because it resembled the one worn by Georgiana at the end of chapter seven inThe Fate of the Dark Dawn.”
Miss Burgess gurgles as sobs overcome her, and pulling her feet onto the chair, she presses her wet cheeks against her knees. Stricken, her brother lays a hand against her shoulder and presses it comfortingly, but he is also weeping. He tries to speak softly in her ear but seems incapable of forming words.
It is a pathetic display, saddening and upsetting to watch, and Sarah turns away to glower at her father. “Look what you have done!”
Taken aback by the allegation, Mr. Holcroft returns her glare with bemused patience. “Ihave done? My dear, you seem to forget that I am one of the victims here. Keast was my steward, and I relied upon his good sense. If there were larger concerns inthe village to be raised, then it is not my fault the vicar lacks the wherewithal to raise them with me. I am a rational man.”
“Oh, yes, the man who refuses to believe the evidence presented to himby his own sonis the epitome of rationality,” Sarah replies scathingly.
Eleanor points out that Mr. Burgesshadraised the issue with the powerful landowner several times, as land management and farming practices were the subjects of at least a dozen passionate sermons in the past year.
The notion that he should be expected to listen in church is highly unwelcome to Mr. Holcroft, who considers the two-hour service to be the best rest he gets each week.
