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Her particular fascination with crime began with a plan to peruse her father’s imported London paper. She intended to read the social column, “Who Is More Respectable Than Who,” but could not get past the grammatically incorrect title and instead turned her attention to a different article: “Gentleman Detective Sir Huxley (and Assistant) Takes the Case.”
Unfortunately in Swampshire all of this made her—one shudders to even say—a morbid creep. There are many types of creeps, of course: the peeping Toms, the lurkers, those who dare to show up at a party twelve minutes earlier than an invitation states—but in Swampshire, creeps of the morbid variety were considered the most unsavory.
It is a fact known throughout Swampshire that a rich gentleman is prey hunted by every young woman.
“Mr. Croaksworth’s parents recently perished, leaving him a great sum of money,” Louisa said hastily, blessedly directing Mrs. Steele away from another lecture. “Oh! How did they die?” Beatrice asked, her interest piqued. “Beatrice!” her mother said warningly. “I just want to know so I don’t accidentally say anything to Mr. Croaksworth that could bring up bad memories,” Beatrice said quickly. “It’s very tragic,” Louisa said. “They had just moved to a new mansion in Bath with fifty-nine bedrooms. Unfortunately, the two of them got lost on their way to breakfast. Their servants didn’t find them
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Edmund has inherited a great deal, and money heals all wounds,” Mrs. Steele said sagely. “Don’t you mean time heals all wounds?” Beatrice asked. “No…that doesn’t sound right. It’s definitely money,” her mother replied.
Mrs. Steele shoved her way in between the sisters to hand Louisa a green gown. Louisa stepped into it and struggled with the buttons, trying to fasten them, but the fabric tore in two. “It doesn’t fit,” Mrs. Steele said impatiently. “I hope all that cake you’ve been eating was worth sacrificing your entire married future and sending us all to our deaths.” “One must always consider the moral cost of a meal,” Mary said darkly.
Caroline was not only the most beautiful lady in Swampshire, she was also the most accomplished. She was excellent at drawing, played the harp and pianoforte, took regular walks to maintain a rosy complexion, spoke French and Italian, read sermons daily, wrote poetic letters, cultivated an understanding of basic botany, danced gracefully, nursed injured baby birds back to health, made scones that were never dry, visited the poor and brought them said moist scones, did excellent needlework, and could juggle without ever dropping a ball. Accordingly, Caroline was considered a pinnacle of
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“Of course,” Mr. Croaksworth said with dawning recognition. “Beatrice Steele. How could I forget? Daniel spoke of you often at school—the girl who once read a thousand-page novel in one sitting!” Beatrice flushed, pleased. “An exaggeration.” “She is being modest,” Daniel said with a smile. “Indeed. It was two sittings,” Beatrice replied. She could practically feel her mother tensing up beside her, so she rushed to add, “Of course, when selecting my reading material, I stick to the stories suitable for ladies.” “How lovely. What are your favorites?” Mr. Croaksworth asked, and Beatrice cleared
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“I have received many love notes about my wit. Though they are often disguised as strongly worded letters which request I hold my tongue.”
“One of the servants can travel to London; their skin is thicker, so they are more likely to survive.
Mr. Frank Fàn: Miss Steele, Miss Bolton—how do you both maintain such ravishing complexions, even in the face of such a trying evening? Miss Beatrice Steele: Perspiration. Mr. Frank Fàn: Ah, yes. It is the dew upon the bloom of your womanhood— Inspector Drake: Sir, please do not force me to arrest you. Mr. Frank Fàn: I am not the murderer! Inspector Drake: That sentence was a crime.
Ladies can perform mathematics for enjoyment but may not invent any new theorems, for this could make a man feel bad about himself because he did not think of it first.