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Guilt curled itself in the bottom of Charlotte’s stomach, like a strange and ominous cat. Charlotte pressed her hand against the base of her belly, wishing something she did could calm it. Charles Baxter turned his eyes to each of them, one after another, then settled on her father.
“Would you mind speaking with me first, My Lord?” he asked.
Of all of them, Lord Stanton had assuredly had the smallest and least consequential relationship with Brooks Stanton. Immediately, Lord Stanton reported that this was a complete waste of his time.
“Again, I must assure you. I have to discuss with you at length until I can decide that for myself,” Charles Baxter said. “Perhaps we can speak in your study? If it isn’t too much trouble.”
Her father grumbled with disdain. He coughed, then flashed his finger towards the corridor. “Follow me,” he said.
When her father and Charles Baxter disappeared into the study, Lady Stanton rushed to her feet, cupped her ears with panicked butterfly-like hands.
“What on earth is he doing here?” she cried.
“He’s explained himself well, I think,” Charlotte affirmed with a sad shrug. “I don’t suppose we can get out of it.”
“But to pepper your father with questions like this? When your father hardly knew Brooks at all? It’s a decision that lacks any sort of respect. I suppose your father’s mood will be foul for the remainder of the day.”
“Wouldn’t you rather the investigator find Brooks’ murderer?” Charlotte asked.
“That’s a ridiculous question. Of course, I want him to find the murderer’s identity. I just also want your father to be pleasant at dinner time. I don’t suppose those two things can exist at once?”
Charlotte gave a sad shrug as her mother continued her wild muttering. She turned her eyes towards her hands on her lap and fell into her own panicked, swirling thoughts.
When questioned, what could Charlotte say?
She’d known Brooks would die. The mystic had announced it.
This seemed like appropriate information for the investigator.
But beyond that, Jeffrey had told her that there was nothing she could have done to ensure that Brooks would have remained alive.
What did Jeffrey know of all of this? Why had he run away so swiftly?
Was it possible that Jeffrey had been Brooks’ murderer?
The thought chilled her to the bone.
Her tongue flicked around her mouth, unsure of what to articulate once she arrived in that room before the investigator. She turned her eyes towards the window and watched as clouds billowed up over the treetops. It was mid-June already, but the rain seemed pervasive, disallowing any sort of summer to rear its head. There was something about it that seemed ominous, as though the fact that Brooks couldn’t continue with his existence meant the rest of them couldn’t, either.
Her father reappeared in the parlour doorway announcing that the investigator would see Lady Stanton next. He then stomped towards the far window and gazed out with his hands behind his back. Lady Stanton heaved a sigh, then rushed towards her husband’s side.
“Darling, it will be all right. I’m terribly sorry he put you through such tremendous stress. It’s a horrendous thing, isn’t it? To be belittled in such a manner?”
“Just go,” Charlotte’s father boomed. “I don’t have time for any such niceties. I want that man out of my house as soon as he’s finalized his interviews. The sooner, the better.”
Lady Stanton hurried back across the room, avoiding Charlotte’s eyes. Moments later, Charlotte heard the clip of the door. Her mother’s interview had begun.
After a long, horrible pause, Charlotte’s father rubbed his hand through his greying hair and said, “I suppose your mother will spend the entirety of her interview buttering up the investigator.”
Charlotte sniffed with laughter. “He’ll be invited for dinner by the end of it.”
“He’ll probably own a portion of the estate,” her father said. He flashed his eyes back towards Charlotte to share the joke. It was customary that Charlotte’s mother’s people-pleasing qualities got them into far more trouble than it was worth.
True to what they’d suspected, her mother’s interview went on much longer than her father’s.
“I’m sure she’s told him all about our family history,” her father said, lifting a slice of shortbread from the tray and nibbling.
“She’s assuredly also mentioned all of the mourning clothing she and Auntie have sewed. She’s terribly proud of it,” Charlotte said with a subtle grin.
