Page 15 of Word of the Wicked (Murder in Moonlight #5)

A s Constance had suspected would be the case, much hilarity was emanating from the village schoolhouse.

It was a long, single-story building, which might once have been two cottages knocked together perhaps at the turn of the century.

There were two doors, so presumably the schoolmaster lived in one part and the classroom occupied the other.

Exchanging glances with Solomon, Constance followed the laughter and gently pushed open the larger door. An adult male voice spoke, not mingling with the laughter as she’d half expected, but talking between bursts.

And the children were loving it.

Constance and Solomon stood in a cloakroom filled with coats and hats, boys’ on one side, girls’ on the other.

A half-glass door provided a window into the classroom, through which they could see Mr. Ogden standing at the far end of the room, leaping from place to place between bursts of talk, and more bursts of laughter.

Sometimes he asked an obvious question and the children shouted out the answer.

At the desks in the front few rows were children ranging in age between about five and ten. Moving position, Constance could see a row of older children with open books who clearly were meant to be working on something else but were grinning as they too watched the antics of their teacher.

It took Constance several moments to realize that Ogden was giving a grammar lesson by pretending to be two different people.

One was calm and poised and just a little supercilious, and spoke correctly.

The other scratched his head a lot and lumbered, saying the same things incorrectly.

The teacher moved from place to place—and character to character—with one great leap of his long legs.

It was so comical that Constance found herself smiling.

Then Ogden caught sight of her. Instead of looking shamefaced or jumping to attention, or even bolting to meet them at the door, he ignored everyone but the children.

Crouching down between the youngest two pupils, he gave them quick instructions and they reached obediently for their pencils.

Then he walked between the desks behind and spoke clearly. “You boys and girls, I want to write a story using as many as you can of the verbs we’ve been talking about. Your story can be as funny or as serious as you like, but your grammar should be perfect.”

Still smiling, the children opened their books and quietened down.

Ogden glanced at the older children, whose grins broadened, though they bent immediately to the work they’d been neglecting. The classroom was not deathly quiet, but everyone was busy. And comfortable.

Only then did Ogden walk to the classroom door and step outside. He closed the door behind him and swiveled so that he could see his pupils through the glass. There was nothing remotely awkward about him. This was his territory, his place, and he was comfortable in it.

“Yes?” he said.

“We met yesterday,” Solomon reminded him. “At the manor house.”

“Yes,” Ogden said again.

Constance tried a little flattery, though she suspected it was not so far from the truth. “You appear to be a gifted teacher. With unconventional methods.”

Solomon cast her a curious glance, as though wondering when she’d had time to observe any methods of education.

Ogden gave a shrug. “Children remember more when you make it funny. Or different. Do you want something?”

“I suppose we want your view of the village,” Constance said. “As an educated man. There has been some…unpleasantness.”

Ogden, apparently, had nothing to offer to that.

“It crossed our mind,” Solomon said, “that one of your pupils might have something to do with it. One who felt strongly about certain things.”

“What things?” Ogden asked, frowning.

“Some delay to the medical treatment of Jenny Gimlet, an accusation of theft made against Nell Dickie, the blacksmith’s chasing a crowd of children away from his forge while wielding a red-hot horseshoe, even some lack of responsibility by Miss Mortimer or her estate people.”

“Making sentences from newspaper cuttings seems quite…childish,” Constance said.

Ogden looked at her, then his eyes slid away. “The accusations you mention are not childish. And these are good children.”

“I heard some of them were a little wild.”

“Of course they are. They’re children. And most of them are too poor to buy the paper and envelopes you’re talking about.”

“I don’t recall talking about paper and envelopes,” Solomon said mildly.

Ogden’s lips twisted into a smile. “There are secrets in this village. That isn’t one of them. Excuse me.”

“One more thing,” Constance said before he could push open the classroom door again. “How well do you know Sophie Chadwick?”

This time he did look alarmed. A storm of color swept over his face, but he didn’t answer, merely bolted back into the classroom—where he once more transformed into the calm, authoritative teacher.

*

“What an extraordinary young man,” Solomon said when they were walking around the square toward the church. “Would you let him near your girls?”

“Yes,” Constance said, “but I don’t think he would accept. I can see why Sophie likes him. He’s…different.”

“Different enough to send the letters? He certainly seemed to know all about them.”

“I’m not convinced other people’s lives impinge on him to that degree. He was certainly defensive of the children.”

“But was he telling the truth that none of them did it?”

“Would he know?” she countered. “Even parents aren’t always aware what their children are capable of.

He’s probably correct that most of them wouldn’t be able to buy paper and envelopes, but some of them probably could—Dr. Chadwick’s son, Edgar, for example, and the Keaton children, whom we haven’t met yet. ”

“But possibly not the Gimlets or the Dickies? The paper could be stolen or provided by friends. Or the children could be in alliance.”

Constance groaned. “How would we ever find that out? We cannot go about interrogating other people’s children.”

“It was just a thought,” Solomon said mildly. “And we haven’t yet met anybody’s children. Does the vicar have any?”

“He’s bound to.”

They found the vicar inside the village church, which was a small, rather charming old place with pews very close together. He wore his vestments, which bunched around his legs as he strode down the aisle toward them.

“Good morning,” he said in surprise, coming to a halt. “Might I be of assistance?”

“I hope so,” Solomon said. “My name is Grey. This is Mrs. Silver. We are friends of—”

“Of Dr. Chadwick,” the vicar said. “So I heard.” He thrust out his hand. “Luke Raeburn. Vicar of this parish.”

Constance became aware of a lone woman sitting at the very end of the front pew, her head bent in prayer. Behind them, the church door opened again.

Shaking the vicar’s hand, Constance said, “Could we talk in private, Mr. Raeburn?”

“Of course, of course. Come back to the vicarage!”

The vicarage was a rambling house, probably built in the previous century, just outside the churchyard. “Come in, come in,” Mr. Raeburn said hospitably. “It’s lovely and quiet at this time of the morning, since the children are all at school!”

Constance pounced on the subject. “How old are your children?”

“Fourteen, twelve, eight, and seven,” the vicar replied proudly.

“Do they attend the village school?”

“They do indeed, and they are all getting on very well. Even the girls. And I have hopes my eldest will follow my footsteps into the church.”

“Then he will go to university?” Solomon said. “Will he need to go to a different school first?”

“Oh, no. Mr. Ogden is an excellent tutor. Odd sort of a fellow, but nothing wrong with his intellect. Got a double first at Cambridge, you know. I did wonder just at first if the children would mind him, but they do… Come into the study, and then when we’ve talked, my wife will give us tea. Sit down! Now, how can I help you?”

The vicar’s study was a comfortable room where he clearly spent a good deal of time. Books lined the walls and cluttered the large desk in the window on which a long sermon—or perhaps some theological paper—appeared to be half written.

Mr. Raeburn indicated two winged armchairs by the fire and pulled over another chair from his desk to join them. After poking the fire into life and adding another log, he sat down and smiled. Behind round spectacles, his eyes sparkled with interest.

“Perhaps you are aware of Dr. Chadwick’s concerns,” Solomon began.

“About his wife’s nasty letter? Yes indeed, he told me. He was concerned that others in the village might have received similar letters, but I could not help him there.”

“Because of your duty of confidentiality?” Constance asked. “Or because you had heard of no other letters?”

The spectacles winked in a passing beam of watery sunshine through the window.

Mr. Raeburn shifted position to avoid it.

“People can be…ashamed to receive such missives, not just because of the objectionable content and accusations that may or may not be true, but because someone they know dislikes them enough to send them such a thing. To say nothing of the fear that secrets or lies might be revealed to the whole community.”

“I can understand those fears,” Constance said.

“Some people need someone to talk to,” the vicar said, “and that, in general, would be me. To others, I would be the last person to confide in just because of my calling and the shame they might feel in front of me.”

“I see,” Solomon said, holding the vicar’s gaze. “Perhaps you can tell us how many such letters you are aware of?”

Mr. Raeburn blinked rapidly, as though debating if this were a permissible revelation. “Two.”

Solomon’s eyebrows flew up. “And yet you would appear to have a knowledge and understanding that goes far beyond a mere two letters.”