Page 1 of Word of the Wicked (Murder in Moonlight #5)

S olomon Grey woke with a start as his carriage halted. He could only have nodded off for the barest instant, but it was enough to disorient him. It took him a moment to reach for the door and alight.

“Just go home,” he instructed his coachman. “I’ll send if I need you again.”

He turned his weary steps toward the black-painted door, beside which a brass plaque proclaimed Silver & Grey .

Although it was technically daylight, the sky was the dreary, dark gray of February and a fine, cold mist of rain fell on his face, which at least woke him up a little. He let himself in with his key.

Mechanically, he hung his hat and his overcoat on the stand beside the door and walked into his office.

“Good morning, Solomon,” Constance said.

Instantly, the world brightened, as though the sun had come out. He smiled in surprise, opening his arms. “Constance.”

She arrived in a pleased little rush, giving him her lips and the sweetness of her embrace. Well, they were engaged to be married, and had been for some weeks now, so it was a perfectly proper greeting, if one sadly missed recently.

The trouble was, in this new business they shared, they were the victims of their own success.

Word had spread that Silver and Grey were the people who could solve the most difficult and delicate of problems, from pilfering employees to missing family members.

Since they didn’t like to turn anyone away—unless it was a private matter between husband and wife—they had been flooded with work all winter.

Which meant that they had divided the cases and rarely worked together anymore. Solomon missed that.

When he would have hugged her closer, she drew back a little, searching his face. She touched the skin beneath his eyes and cupped his cheek, a frown tugging at her brow.

“You look tired, Solomon. Are you not sleeping?”

Not without you . “I had a few matters to sort out at St. Catherine’s.”

A large building on St. Catherine’s Dock served as the headquarters of his other business, an empire of shipping and trade that was the source of his considerable wealth.

“Trouble?” she asked.

“No, just a few things I had neglected.” Delegation was never quite complete—or right, in some cases.

She linked her fingers to his and drew him toward the comfortable chairs by the fire. On the low table was a teapot, china crockery, and a plateful of scones.

“Our new cook at the establishment is proving to be a roaring success,” Constance said. “Her scones are delicious. Let me butter you one.”

He watched with simple pleasure as she poured his tea, cut a scone in half, and buttered it.

He bit into it immediately to please her, and it melted around his tongue, the fruit within sharp and sweet and demanding his full attention.

“My compliments to the new cook of your establishment,” he said sincerely. “Do I know her?”

Constance’s establishment was her other business, a discreet and very expensive brothel that she owned and managed as much as a charity for desperate women as a house of pleasure.

“Bibby,” Constance replied. “She had been learning from our old cook, who left us last week for one of the more expensive hotels, and she clearly has flair.”

Constance was always proud of her girls who made happier lives for themselves. Solomon was proud of Constance.

It was only as he finished the scone and reached for his teacup that he noticed there were three cups and saucers and three plates on the table. “Are we expecting someone?”

“Dr. Chadwick at half past nine? The man who believes his whole village has a problem? We decided we should both see him.”

“So we did.” There was no point in pretending he hadn’t forgotten, so he merely rubbed his tired head in the hope of restoring some liveliness there and recalled with some difficulty her current case. “Did you find the lost brooch?”

“Under her bed. Her servants are not dishonest, just lazy. I read them all a lecture and collected my fee. How is the bank fraud?”

“Solved. I have my report to write today and then I believe I am clear.”

“Then we are both free to investigate Dr. Chadwick’s problem,” she said. “If his whole village is involved, it might well take both of us.”

“I hope so,” he murmured, and her eyes widened in surprise, even as a smile began to spark there. “I miss you.”

Her hand went out to him, but before she could speak, a knock sounded on the door and Janey—who now worked for Silver and Grey, though she lived at Constance’s establishment—opened the door.

“Dr. Chadwick,” she announced briefly. With Janey, brief was best, since her language was still prone to slipping into old habits.

Solomon and Constance both rose to meet their potential new client, a well-dressed man, probably in his late forties, who walked quickly and decisively, taking in his surroundings before he shook hands with Solomon. His gaze was open and direct.

“Dr. Chadwick,” Solomon greeted him. “How do you do? I’m Solomon Grey. This is my partner, Mrs. Silver.”

Dr. Chadwick bowed and took the hand Constance extended. “How do you do, Mrs. Silver? I had not realized your partner was a lady.”

“I trust that is not a problem,” Constance said.

To his credit, Dr. Chadwick looked surprised. “Oh no. In fact, it might well be an asset in this situation.”

He sat down in the third comfortable chair, and Constance poured him tea and offered him scones.

“What exactly is your situation, sir?” Solomon asked.

“I am a physician, as I believe I said in my letter, serving the village of Sutton May in Surrey.” Dr. Chadwich reached inside his coat and removed a folded sheet of paper, which he passed to Solomon. “A week ago, my wife received this in the post.”

Solomon unfolded the letter, and Constance leaned closer to peer over his shoulder. A gentle waft of her perfume briefly distracted him, though the oddity of the letter quickly brought him back to the matter before them.

The letter was not written by hand but made up from individual printed words and letters that looked as if they had been cut from newspapers and magazines and glued to the page to make one unsigned sentence.

Mrs. Chadwick, return to kindness or pay.

“My wife, naturally, is upset. She is the kindest woman in the world.”

“Have you any idea who sent it?” Solomon asked.

“None. Neither has my wife.”

Constance plucked the letter from Solomon’s fingers. “Then no one has argued with her, accosted her in the street, or made accusations against her?”

“No. Not that we have heard of, and nothing much stays a secret for long in Sutton May. It frightened my wife. I cannot have that. Even so, I told her to put it from her mind and expected to hear no more about it, my belief being that it was intended to frighten rather than actually threaten.”

“The threat is there,” Solomon said, “if vague. Your wife received more such letters?”

“Not my wife,” the doctor replied, “but others in the village have—Mr. and Mrs. Keaton, who run the village shop, and Nolan the blacksmith. And these are the ones I know about because they told me. There could easily be others, like some poisonous outbreak.”

“Do you have these other letters?” Solomon asked.

“Sadly not. Keaton and Nolan both destroyed them.”

“Do you know if their letters used the same words?” Constance asked.

“More or less, I think, but to be honest, when I was told, I didn’t like to ask too closely. If the sender had latched on to some misdemeanor, whether real or merely perceived, I doubt the victims want it revealed.”

Solomon held his gaze. “If you are asking us to investigate this matter and find the culprit, we shall need to ask and be answered.”

“I know,” Chadwick replied with a faint, rueful twitch of his lips. “But you are strangers who will leave again, not the doctor in whose hands you place yours and your family’s health.”

“The others who received letters,” Solomon said, “what sort of people are they?”

Chadwick shrugged, though his eyes were wary.

“Decent. Hardworking. Nolan, the blacksmith, has a bit of a temper. The Keatings gossip—inevitably, since they hear everything in their shop—but they are good people who should not be frightened in this underhand, cowardly way, especially not in their own homes.”

Solomon nodded.

“Did the letters all come by post?” Constance asked.

“No, they seem to have been privately delivered to the house.”

“Did they come with envelopes?”

Dr. Chadwick frowned, as though this was something he had not thought of. “Yes… At least, my wife’s did.”

“Then what happened to the envelopes?” Solomon asked.

“I don’t know about the others, but ours was put on the fire.”

“Was it handwritten?”

The doctor’s eyebrows flew up. “Actually, I don’t know. It must have been, I suppose, or we would have seen at once that there was something wrong with it.”

“You understand,” Solomon said, “that we will ask intrusive questions? Including of your wife?”

The doctor nodded. “My wife has nothing to hide. She will answer you openly. The others might be harder work for you, especially if you inquire as to who else received such epistles.”

“Half our fee is payable in advance,” Solomon said.

“Your letter said so. Does this mean you will help us?”

Solomon met Constance’s gaze. They were in accord. “Yes,” he said. “We can come tomorrow by railway. Is there an inn in the village where we can stay?”

“Yes, there is,” Chadwick said, definite relief in his voice. “I would invite you stay with us, but in truth there is little room and less peace in our house. I will let it be known, however, that you are friends of mine. I can meet you at the railway station.”

*

“Well, this is something new,” Constance said brightly, when their new client had been shown from the premises. “We’ve never had threatening, anonymous letters before.”

“It’s not terribly threatening, though, is it?” Solomon said. “ Return to kindness sounds more like an amiable vicar’s sermon, and or you will pay is almost vague enough to be ignored.”