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Chapter 25
The morning after Charlotte and Jeffrey’s foray to town for the interview at the brasserie, Charlotte sat at the breakfast table with her parents, ticking the tongs of her fork into a sausage absently and half-listening to some story her father blared from a business meeting gone wrong the previous day.
At that moment, a knock resounded through the house from the front door. The butler marched down the corridor to greet the stranger. In moments, he appeared back to announce, “Charles Baxter, the investigator in charge of your nephew’s murder case, has arrived to speak with the three of you. Do you feel comfortable accepting him now, or shall I ask him to wait in the parlour?”
“What sort of business does he want with us?” Lord Stanton demanded. “So early in the morning, as well?”
The butler lost the colour in his cheeks. “I haven’t a clue, My Lord. Shall I ask him?”
Charlotte’s father scanned the table, seeming to note that nobody had taken much interest in their food in several minutes. He tapped his fork against his plate with a clatter and said, “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
Charlotte furrowed her brow with interest. She’d only just seen Charles Baxter in town and had demanded any news from him. He’d informed her of their apparent “dead end.” Had what she’d told him illuminated a fresh path towards the identity of the murderer?
When they reached the parlour, they found Charles Baxter pacing, his hands behind his back, and his eyes alert. Charlotte had the strangest feeling, suddenly, that everything was about to shift, change, go terribly wrong. She couldn’t fully label why she had this feeling, only that it was one of the truest things she knew.
“Good morning, Stanton family,” Charles Baxter said. His voice simmered with excitement, as though he couldn’t wait to slap them with whatever fresh information he’d just garnered. “I hope you’ll sit. I want you to be fully comfortable.”
“Mr Baxter, I cannot understand why you found it necessary to interrupt our breakfast in this manner,” Lord Stanton said. He pressed his hand across his stomach as his stomach grumbled with anger.
“I can assure you, My Lord. This was nothing I could wait for,” Charles Baxter returned.
“That’s ominous,” Charlotte’s mother breathed.
Charlotte collapsed against the edge of one of the parlour chairs. She crossed and then uncrossed her arms, her eyes continually on the investigator.
“Have you discovered something about Brooks’ murder?” Charlotte whispered.
“Indeed, I believe I have,” Charles Baxter said.
His eyes seemed remarkably small, almost beady.
“What is it?” Lord Stanton barked. “We don’t require this flair for the dramatic. Tell us what’s happened, or leave …”
“Your daughter, Charlotte, seems to know a great deal more than she’s letting on,” he said.
Charlotte’s mother cast her a dark look. “Whatever do you mean, Mr Baxter?”
Charlotte’s lips formed an O. Her heart hammered against her ribcage.
“I was given an anonymous tip regarding Brooks’ death. This, together with Charlotte’s consistent interest in the goings-on regarding this investigation, has led me to cast initial blame on her,” Charles Baxter said. He flashed his horrible teeth, seemingly pleased with himself.
“What on earth …” Charlotte breathed.
“You must have done it,” he said. He took several dramatic steps towards Charlotte, forcing her to draw herself as far back in the parlour chair as possible. She felt cornered. “You’re the killer herself. All these weeks, I’ve been after a man. But when I stumbled into you in the centre of town—so far from where you were meant to be—I put several pieces together. And here you are. A murderer. A beautiful, youthful murderer.”
Silence fell. Charlotte’s eyes turned towards her parents, whose faces were completely stricken with fear.
“Charlotte. Is this … true?” her father finally mustered.
Charlotte shook her head violently. “Of course not.” Her eyes lifted back towards Charles Baxter’s. “I haven’t murdered my cousin. I haven’t a single motive. I cannot understand why you point this finger in my direction.”
“Ah, but how strange was it that you had this supposed letter in your possession?” Mr Baxter demanded. “This letter from some lover, the very letter you asked me about yesterday. When I told you it was a dead-end—something that was very much true—you attempted to push it harder. This, it seems, was your only strategy, the only thing you assumed would get you out of the trouble you knew in your heart you deserved.”
“I told you. I stumbled upon the letter …”
“But everyone states that you and Brooks weren’t entirely close,” Charles Baxter affirmed. “So the fact that you had this letter and this news of an apparent affair, it doesn’t add up. Beyond this, the original eyewitness account stated that Brooks was seen roundabouts where I found you yesterday, speaking to a woman who was dressed beautifully, in a manner that suggested she had money.”
At this, Charles Baxter flashed his hands round, directing them throughout the ornate parlour.
