Page 13 of Word of the Wicked (Murder in Moonlight #5)

“F red Gimlet,” Solomon said over dinner at the inn’s otherwise empty common room, “was very certain that our letters are the work of a woman. Is that fair? Or is he trying to point us away from himself?”

“Without noticing that it might lead us to his wife instead?” Constance chewed thoughtfully and swallowed.

“His grief has not numbed him, as hers has. He could well bear anger against Mrs. Chadwick for not sending the doctor more urgently to his child. He could have heard of Mrs. Keaton’s accusation against Nell Dickie and considered it unfair.

And he is Miss Mortimer’s tenant—there’s bound to be a grudge somewhere in their history. ”

“If not in their future, since she is going to raise the rent. But what has he got against Nolan the blacksmith?”

“He has a farm horse, so he must be a customer. And his son, Richard, was one of those Nolan chased.”

Solomon frowned. “Would an angry father not storm in there and have it out with Nolan? Gimlet did not strike me as a timid man. Then again, wouldn’t he be angrier with his son for causing trouble?

Sitting down and painstakingly cutting out and gluing a lot of bits of newspaper to form a vague message to send anonymously to a neighbor he could easily speak to face to face? ”

Constance sighed. “It’s not a natural reaction, is it?

I can’t see either of the Gimlets doing it, even maddened by grief.

But—” She broke off and slowly lowered her knife and fork to the plate.

“Isn’t it a rather childish thing to do?

A game with the letters that also makes a powerless child’s sense of injustice plain to an adult?

Richard Gimlet must have had his parents’ grievances as well as his own, and his own mother admitted he hated everyone when his sister died. ”

“He might even be a friend of the Dickie children.”

“Or it could be the other way round, and a Dickie child is the culprit.” Constance shoved her plate away from her. “Or any of the children in the village, come to that. They could even have banded together to teach the adults a lesson.”

Solomon’s smile was twisted. “We’re not exactly eliminating suspects, are we? What about Sophie Chadwick, who seems to be always out and about, delivering medicine and good cheer, and making friends like Ogden, the downtrodden schoolmaster.”

“Stubbornly going her own way,” Constance said. “We don’t know her well enough, I suppose, but I can more easily imagine her scolding people for unkindness, false accusations, or whatever. Wouldn’t the sender of our letters be more timid and downtrodden?”

Solomon raised his eyebrows. “Like the schoolteacher? I’m not sure he is downtrodden. Socially awkward, yes, despised by Peregrine Mortimer, yes, though not, apparently, by Miss Mortimer herself.”

“His eyes are sharp enough,” Constance said. “But he doesn’t meet one’s gaze for long, if at all.”

“Something to hide? Devotion to Sophie?”

“I don’t see Mortimer regarding Ogden as much in the way of competition.”

“He was sniping at him,” Solomon pointed out.

“Like a bully picking on the one he sees as powerless… Solomon, would Mortimer send such letters? Despite the effort involved?”

He shrugged. “I can’t see his noticing the things the letters point out, let alone caring about any of them.”

“Oh no, I’m sure he doesn’t care. That wouldn’t be his purpose. But…a bit of stirring for amusement’s sake, with the primary aim of blaming the letters on Hannah Jenson?”

“His aunt’s friend and companion,” Solomon considered, “who might interfere with his inheritance. I could believe that. He might take the trouble for so much gain. Plus…” He caught Constance’s gaze. “How does he know about his aunt’s letter? You said she hadn’t told anyone but you.”

“That,” Constance said, releasing her breath in a rush, “is a very good question.”

They discussed the case further during the rest of the evening, and Constance made up a neat little chart showing the timing and contents of each letter, and the witnesses of the incidents that seemed to have inspired them.

After which, they both knelt on the floor and stared at the document with some discontent.

“Nothing leaps out at me,” Constance said.

“Nor at me. Come, let’s take a walk before bed and begin afresh in the morning with the school and the notorious Dickie family.”

“I suppose it was never going to be as easy as all that.” Constance gave him her hand and allowed him to draw her to her feet.

It seemed a long time since they had spent so much time together.

An ache he had barely acknowledged began to ease within him as they walked as so often before, her hand in his arm, her skirts brushing his legs.

This sense of deep companionship he had only ever known with her had once taken him by surprise—frightened him, if he were honest—for he hadn’t been prepared to lose himself in love.

And yet it had been exciting and wonderful to let it happen, to feel . To be happy.

He had never been a passionless man, but he had been a very controlled one. He cared for causes and justice and for finding his lost twin. Urges of the flesh had been separate and often inconvenient, indulged with care and a fondness he now recognized as mild. Because now there was Constance.

Constance his friend, whom he loved with a passion that only grew, and whom he had taken to bed only once and missed there ever since.

He forced himself to stop thinking and just absorbed her presence, her light, arousing scent, her warmth, the sound of her low, slightly husky voice.

As they walked the length of the village street and turned left to the square bordered by the church and vicarage on one side, and a schoolhouse on the other, it didn’t matter to him that the evening was dark, cloudy, and slightly damp, with a wind that cut like ice.

Until he felt her involuntary shiver, when he turned their footsteps back toward the inn.

The taproom was busy, judging by the noise that greeted them as they passed the door, but the common room was empty, save for a maid polishing the tables who cheerily wished them, “Goodnight!” as they made their way toward the stairs.

When they were married, there would be no necessity of goodnight to each other. For the merely betrothed, in a respectable house, it was a requirement.

When he took her gloved hand from his arm, she was tense, as she had been too often over the last few weeks, during their too-infrequent encounters. She missed him, as he missed her, and yet…

He bent and kissed her lips. “Goodnight, Constance.”

There was a moment’s silence while she gazed into his eyes. Their candles flickered, as if someone had breathed on the flames. She seemed to be waiting. Her lips parted, and in spite of his determination to be good, his heart beat faster.

Her breath hitched, and then she stood on tiptoe and kissed him back. “Goodnight.”

Just for an instant, her alluring softness pressed against him. Desire surged.

And then she was gone, whisking herself into her own room. The door closed behind her with a small click that seemed to break the spell. He walked the few paces to his own door and went inside.

Somewhat mechanically, he lit the lamp from the candle before taking off his coat and his necktie and dropping them on the chair.

He was not really alone. She was no more than a couple of yards away, on the other side of the wall, and he wanted her very badly.

There was no wrong in that. When had he become such a conventional prig that he was bowing to false respectability rather than making himself and his beloved happy? He smiled, imagined the sweep of joy and excitement over her face if he went to her now…

His smile faded.

There had been a reserve in her since that first time she had admitted him to her bed. The happiness of that night and the morning after had got lost in work and in some kind of personal uncertainty. As if she were no longer sure.

And yet he had given her pleasure. He knew enough to be well aware of that.

But her past was a checkered one where men and women traded, and he was afraid he had slipped into that category for her.

Had he lost her in that act—those act s , plural, for it had been a long and glorious night—of love?

Or did she imagine it was all he wanted of her—a warm, willing, and beautiful body in his bed?

He found himself facing the wall that divided them. Almost involuntarily, he lifted his hand and spread his fingers against the whitewashed plaster as though he could reach through it and touch her.

When she was ready, she would tell him.

*

Constance touched the wall between their bedchambers, aching for him. She had tried to tell him, to invite him to come to her, but she had been afraid to speak the words in case he rejected her, whether for foolish respectability or, worse, from lack of desire.

She knew she was a kind of unholy grail for men, because it was the role she had chosen to entice men to her house. She had made herself desirable and unattainable. Only she knew her lack of skill, and yet she had made Solomon happy.

Once.

Perhaps he was not as happy as she had imagined. And having known her once, was that enough? It had not been deliberate seduction. He was not the kind of man to make notches in the bedpost. But the distance between them now… Was he having second thoughts?

Why does he not come?

Her breath caught and her hand fell away from the wall.

Why do I not go to him?

To resolve this one way or the other, it was the only thing to do.

She crossed the room and snatched up the candle again. And paused.

They were in the middle of a case—two cases, counting David’s problem. This was not the time to risk personal emotions.

Was it?

“Oh, damn you, Solomon, why don’t you talk to me?” she whispered. Although even then she knew she was being unfair. Because she had not talked to him either.

*

“Sophie?”