“We were sat down in her sitting room as though we were guests. If anyone knew—”
“No one does, and she isn’t a courtesan, anyway. She’s retired.”
“She traded,” said Cassandra. “Her favors for that house.”
Jane sighed. “Yes, what a thing.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a very nice house,” said Jane. “It’s larger than the house we live in, and there are three of usvery respectableladies.”
“Oh, I don’t believe you!” Cassandra pointed at her. “You are doing this to me on purpose, riling me in this way. I don’t want to sound like a scold, but you make it impossible to react with anything other than a scolding!”
Jane laughed softly. “I have given up on all of it now, have I not?”
Cassandra sniffed.
“What?”
“Well, where did you walk to the other day? You were gone ever so long.”
“I did go to look in on him,” said Jane. “And he had been drinking for three days straight. He smelled like a distillery.He hadn’t been shaved. It was appalling. You are correct, Cassandra. He is not the sort of man I should be associating with in any way. And the murder itself, and all the secrets, they are all tawdry. I do see what you mean. I do. So, I don’t see why you’re scolding me. I am on your side.”
“Are you truly?”
“Yes,” said Jane. “I shan’t do anything else about it.”
Cassandra eyed her. “I don’t believe you.”
“Well, you should, because it’s the truth,” said Jane, sighing.
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Cassandra asked Jane how she was coming along with the letter to the magistrate.
Jane was in the middle of working onFirst Impressions. “We don’t even know who the magistrate is.”
“I can easily find out. I’m sure Edward knows,” said Cassandra. “So, then, write something up and leave a space at the top to fill out his name.”
“I’m busy,” said Jane.
“It won’t take you long,” said Cassandra.
Jane sighed.
“All right, well, you don’t have to do it now,” said Cassandra, “but I think it must be you because I think you know the ins and outs of it the best of anyone. I shall leave you to your writing, though. Let me know when you have the letter.”
At luncheon that day, Jane waited for Cassandra to ask about the letter to the magistrate, but Cassandra never did.
So, eventually, Jane said, “I don’t think I want to write the letter to the magistrate.”
“Why not?” said Cassandra.
“I told you, I’m not sure Mr. Hardy did it. It doesn’t add up.”
Cassandra huffed.
“What if someone planted it there to make him look guilty, someone who knew Betsy would find it?” said Jane.
“Who would do such a thing?”
