India, I’m sure you’ve seen examples of it” He looked a question at me. “I’m referring to suttee, the delightful notion men have that their widows should hop on the funeral pyre and join them in the hereafter.”
“Why, that is really a compliment to the ladies, ma’am. Their spouses can’t do without them even in the afterlife.”
“A high price to pay for a compliment! If it is the wife who dies first, the husband doesn’t repay in kind. He manages to get along very well—with another wife.”
“It’s a cruel custom, but you can’t lay it in my dish, Miss Talbot. It was done long before I went to India and will no doubt continue now that I’ve left. In fact, I’ve never seen it myself. Each society has its own customs that often seem bizarre to outsiders. The French eat frogs; we eat cows; the Indians immolate their widows.”
“The customs are hardly comparable!”
“I doubt a cow would see the difference. They’re God’s creatures, too.” He scowled at me and added, “And, yes, I do eat beef.”
“I didn’t ask!”
I was surprised he didn’t mention that the English were trying to ban suttee. Uncle Hillary had more than once spoken hotly on the subject. The Raj was dead set against suttee.
“You’re probably right to suggest man’s ego was at the root of the murder, however,” he allowed. “A blow to his purse or his pride—either one could be the reason. Perhaps a lady is involved.”
“It’s not usually ladies who murder.”
“Not by means of stabbing, at least, though I don’t acquit the fair sex of deadly passion,” he said. “It’s more usual for a lady to use poison. But I said only involved—as the cause, was my meaning.”
When I didn’t reply, he said, “All right-thinking men cherish their wives above rubies, you must know. To have a wife stolen demands some extraordinary revenge.”
“The same revenge that’s customarily exacted when a man cheats at cards, in fact.”
“Or is sold a jade disguised as a goer,” he added, failing to acknowledge my point.
“Why do you assume Mr. Stoddart stole some man’s wife? He didn’t strike me as that sort.”
“Unflirtable, was he?”
“He seemed nice. If a lady was involved, which we don’t actually know, it might have been some man’s daughter or sister.”
“That had occurred to me. I didn’t want to risk offending you again. You would fit into the category of sister. You have me treading on eggs, Miss Talbot. I had forgotten how thin an English lady’s skin can be—and how pretty,” he added, stopping to gaze at my cheeks. “Like rose petals.”
He reached out one finger and touched my cheek gently. “A blushing rose.” I felt the heat flush to my face and immediately suggested we continue on our way.
“Must we, just when things were getting interesting?”
“You promised to behave, Mr. Renshaw,” I reminded him.
“So I did and so I shall, ma’am, or you’ll think me no better than I should be. Shall we blame it, like all my other lapses, on India?”
“You’ve lost that excuse, sir. You told me the Indians were excessively polite.”
As we returned to the curricle, Renshaw said, “You mentioned the name Fanshawe. I heard a rumor that Mr. Stoddart left a book at the inn bearing the name Harold Fanshawe.”
“Where did you hear that? I heard nothing of it!”
“One of the ladies you were kind enough to introduce me to mentioned it. Her name was Carter, I believe. You were speaking to that pretty blond lady at the time. Miss Lemon, I think the name was.”
Minnie Carter was a reliable gossip. Her upstairs maid had a cousin who served ale at the Boar’s Head.
“Do you think he was using an alias, that he wasn’t Mr. Stoddart but Mr. Fanshawe?” I asked. I noticed, but didn’t mention, that Renshaw had found the time to assess Addie’s charms in the few moments we had spent with her.
“It was an old book. It might have been in the family for some time, perhaps
“Why, that is really a compliment to the ladies, ma’am. Their spouses can’t do without them even in the afterlife.”
“A high price to pay for a compliment! If it is the wife who dies first, the husband doesn’t repay in kind. He manages to get along very well—with another wife.”
“It’s a cruel custom, but you can’t lay it in my dish, Miss Talbot. It was done long before I went to India and will no doubt continue now that I’ve left. In fact, I’ve never seen it myself. Each society has its own customs that often seem bizarre to outsiders. The French eat frogs; we eat cows; the Indians immolate their widows.”
“The customs are hardly comparable!”
“I doubt a cow would see the difference. They’re God’s creatures, too.” He scowled at me and added, “And, yes, I do eat beef.”
“I didn’t ask!”
I was surprised he didn’t mention that the English were trying to ban suttee. Uncle Hillary had more than once spoken hotly on the subject. The Raj was dead set against suttee.
“You’re probably right to suggest man’s ego was at the root of the murder, however,” he allowed. “A blow to his purse or his pride—either one could be the reason. Perhaps a lady is involved.”
“It’s not usually ladies who murder.”
“Not by means of stabbing, at least, though I don’t acquit the fair sex of deadly passion,” he said. “It’s more usual for a lady to use poison. But I said only involved—as the cause, was my meaning.”
When I didn’t reply, he said, “All right-thinking men cherish their wives above rubies, you must know. To have a wife stolen demands some extraordinary revenge.”
“The same revenge that’s customarily exacted when a man cheats at cards, in fact.”
“Or is sold a jade disguised as a goer,” he added, failing to acknowledge my point.
“Why do you assume Mr. Stoddart stole some man’s wife? He didn’t strike me as that sort.”
“Unflirtable, was he?”
“He seemed nice. If a lady was involved, which we don’t actually know, it might have been some man’s daughter or sister.”
“That had occurred to me. I didn’t want to risk offending you again. You would fit into the category of sister. You have me treading on eggs, Miss Talbot. I had forgotten how thin an English lady’s skin can be—and how pretty,” he added, stopping to gaze at my cheeks. “Like rose petals.”
He reached out one finger and touched my cheek gently. “A blushing rose.” I felt the heat flush to my face and immediately suggested we continue on our way.
“Must we, just when things were getting interesting?”
“You promised to behave, Mr. Renshaw,” I reminded him.
“So I did and so I shall, ma’am, or you’ll think me no better than I should be. Shall we blame it, like all my other lapses, on India?”
“You’ve lost that excuse, sir. You told me the Indians were excessively polite.”
As we returned to the curricle, Renshaw said, “You mentioned the name Fanshawe. I heard a rumor that Mr. Stoddart left a book at the inn bearing the name Harold Fanshawe.”
“Where did you hear that? I heard nothing of it!”
“One of the ladies you were kind enough to introduce me to mentioned it. Her name was Carter, I believe. You were speaking to that pretty blond lady at the time. Miss Lemon, I think the name was.”
Minnie Carter was a reliable gossip. Her upstairs maid had a cousin who served ale at the Boar’s Head.
“Do you think he was using an alias, that he wasn’t Mr. Stoddart but Mr. Fanshawe?” I asked. I noticed, but didn’t mention, that Renshaw had found the time to assess Addie’s charms in the few moments we had spent with her.
“It was an old book. It might have been in the family for some time, perhaps
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