• 18 September

    When I found Mr. Morrison’s body I did not scream. I simply stood there, wondering whether a dead faint or a shriek of abject terror would be construed as the more appropriate response. And after perhaps five minutes, it dawned on me that since I hadn’t incapacitated myself in a ladylike manner, I might as well do something useful. After all, if I had gone into hysterics, no one could have found me for a good three hours at least, and lying in a humid closet for that long is most unlikely to have any good effect upon one’s complexion. So carefully leaning forward and sweeping my skirt aside (his boots were covered in mud), I touched him.

    He was deathly cold, which I suppose is not surprising, considering the circumstances. Deathly cold, not icy, for it was not so much the temperature that sent a shiver across my skin, rather, it was the lack thereof. When one comes into contact with another creature, one naturally expects the touched flesh to possess a greater warmth than that of the surrounding air. I had never paid much notice to this natural supposition until now, but it is surely true. For when I touched the late Mr. Morrison, in terms of temperature, it felt rather more as though I had touched a piece of Mrs. Kingston’s fine china (you know the set I’m sure: the ones with that hideous poppy design), or perhaps an unused candlestick. It was not at all like coming into contact with human flesh as I have previously experienced it. His skin was clammy as well, no doubt a result of the oppressively humid day, and it was rather rougher than I might have expected (Mr. Morrison being who he is, or rather, was, of course). He was so still that had I not known better, I might easily have thought him to be asleep. Or maybe not, since he was lying against a rather sharp garden rake and an instrument that I believe is called a trowel. But if I had seen him in bed (not that I have ever before conceived of such a thing), I would have certainly assumed him sleeping, not dead. To be perfectly frank, the experience was not frightening in the least. The Mistress of Deportment would have been quite horrified at the way that I acquitted myself.

    I was touching his hand, for the palm was open and facing up at the cobwebs that coated the ceiling. He was in the second under gardener’s closet; I was in the doorway. Naturally, I dared not go farther in, for fear there might be blood on the floor, though I saw no evidence of a wound of any kind (I was wearing my pale pink satin slippers, and I couldn’t have them stained, for I plan to wear them with the new gown from London when it arrives. They match the shade of silk exactly). His face was turned sideways, away from me, and his mouth opened slightly. Whatever Mr. Morrison’s other faults may have been, he did have extremely good teeth. In case you don’t remember from your last visit here, the second under gardener’s closet in off the narrow hallway leading to the topiaries. Not that they would have let you see inside it, but the letters on the door mark the room as such and I thought perhaps you might have noticed it. The closet is small and little used; there should scarcely be space for one person to stand there if it were empty. As it is full of various gardening implements and utensils, the area is even more constricted. So Mr. Morrison was not lying down, as I feel my previous description may have implied; he was slumped, neither fully standing nor sitting, upon the afore-mentioned rake and trowel, which lay across some large sacks of something, all shoved haphazardly against the back wall.

    His eyes were closed. Do they close automatically when one dies? I know not, but closed they were. And as I was standing there, I realized that I was standing the closest I’d ever come to someone of the opposite sex. I mean, other than Robert, who doesn’t really count. It was both fascinating and frightening. You know, when men are alive and laughing and watching, one is too busy blushing and whispering to notice this much, but some of them have the longest eyelashes. Mr. Morrison’s certainly were long, and they curled darkly against his cheek. And the way he lay sprawled, there was something so inherently masculine about it. Even in death, he was so different from us. I suppose that difference is precisely why men like to go to war and hunt foxes.

    I think I must have moved closer without realizing it, for soon my dress was brushing against his knee. He looked so peaceful, yet he was dead, and I am far from certain he was the sort to gain quick admittance into heaven. I was now quite sure that there was no blood pooled in the vicinity, so I peered closer through the dim light, attempting to discover how he had died. I couldn’t see any sign of a blow to the head, which I am fairly certain can be lethal, though it was hard to tell through his hair (he had rather a lot of it. It was always a bit unkempt when he was alive, and the same held true now. I believe the most he ever did to it was run a comb through it a few times.). His shirt was clean and white, if a little wrinkled. In short, there was nothing about him that bespoke sudden struggle or violence, not that I would know much of such matters. Upon his neck, there was perhaps a small scratch or two, but these were certainly not severe enough so as to cause a man to die from them. And with my limited knowledge of medical affairs, I could not tell if they were fresh anyway.

    I should have liked to have stayed to examine him longer (a thought that surely ought to frighten me and disturb you. I am sorry, for I know well that curiosity is an unattractive trait in a woman, I shall try to do better with myself). But I soon came to the realization that if I was found there conscious, or worse, if I calmly went and told Mrs. Kingston of Mr. Morrison’s unfortunate situation, I should surely be forced to miss two dinners at least, with a week’s worth of detention for improper behavior. There was nothing to be done but to gently rise and leave the premises (the wind of my passage blew one of his dark curls softly against his cheekbone. It is true what they say, about men looking like little boys when sleeping. Had it not been for that ghastly pallor, the whole effect would have been rather sweet. Fancy that of Mr. Morrison!). But as I walked away, I couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for poor Mr. Morrison, though I never entertained anything like such kind notions toward him in real life. True, in life he was not a particularly likeable or polite young man, but not so much so as to be universally detested. I wonder who killed him…

    Sincerely,
    Miss Eleanor Elliot