Page 16 of Word of the Wicked (Murder in Moonlight #5)

“I do, as it happens, but most of my experience is not from Sutton May. When I was a very young curate in the north, our parish was plagued with a spate of such spiteful letters. They caused a lot of ill feeling, a lot of fear and distrust, even tragedy. To be frank, I find it hard to forgive such plain nastiness.”

There was genuine distaste and an echo of old anger in his voice.

“Did you ever find out who sent them?”

“Oh, yes, eventually. A spiteful spinster who had constituted herself the arbiter of parish morals.”

“What happened to her?” Constance asked.

“Once she was unmasked, everyone turned their backs on her. She left the area soon after—to live with family, I believe. Though whether she truly repented her sins, I do not know.”

“Do you think that is what would happen here? If the culprit is ever discovered?”

“My hope is that my next sermon will deter any further letters and lead the perpetrator into shame and repentance. And there will be no more letters.”

“Given your experience,” Solomon said, “and your knowledge of the community, do you have any idea who might be responsible here in Sutton May?”

The vicar steepled his fingers. “I have thought about it a great deal and prayed. But no one comes to mind. I would say it is almost certainly a woman—women being in general less powerful and resorting to such methods that men do not need to. Women bear grudges that men do not even notice. Generally against other women.”

Interesting, Constance thought. He doesn’t know about Nolan’s letter. Is he even aware that the Keatons’ letter was addressed to them both, or is he just making assumptions?

Solomon said, “What can you tell us about the women in Sutton May? Who might constitute herself the arbiter of village morals?”

The vicar’s wife, Constance thought suddenly.

“It is so hard to judge,” Mr. Raeburn protested. “Our northern culprit did not reveal her spite in any other way until she was caught, literally, with her hand on the letter she was delivering. She was merely nosy and full of gossip. Like many women.”

“And men,” Constance said mildly. “Who is the biggest gossip in Sutton May?”

Mr. Raeburn shifted in his chair again. “I could not say. We are all guilty of it to some degree, are we not? There is a fine line between interest and gossip.”

“What of Mrs. Gimlet?”

“Less of a gossip than most. Poor creature. Despite her grief, I am sure she would not lash out in such a way.”

“Nell Dickie?”

The minutest curl twitched at the vicar’s lips. “I scarcely know her. The Dickies rarely come to church. Except to have their children baptized.”

“Are the women friendly?” Solomon asked.

“Mrs. Gimlet and Nell? Not particularly, though they must know each other.”

“What about the other women? Are there feuds? Even those you and I might find ridiculous. Say, between Mrs. Keaton and someone in the village?”

“I really could not say.”

He would not say. “What about the men?” Constance asked. “Are there particular enmities or ill feelings?”

“Good grief, no. None that would lead to such spiteful letters.”

“Really?” said Solomon. “I have heard disparaging remarks against Mr. Dickie. And against Mr. Ogden.”

“The Dickies tend to be scapegoats,” Mr. Raeburn admitted. “Ogden doesn’t drink at the Goose or attend parties when he’s invited, but I never heard of ill feeling toward him.”

“Not even from Peregrine Mortimer?”

“Ah, well, that’s probably jealousy on Perry’s part, and Perry doesn’t live here officially. He is a mere visitor and doesn’t appreciate Ogden’s value to the village. Perry judges a little too much by appearance.”

Constance certainly agreed with that. “What is he jealous of?”

The vicar smiled. “Now that would be gossip!”

“Sir, our confidentiality is as rigid as your own,” Solomon said with one of his rare hints of hauteur. “It has to be.”

For the first time, the vicar looked uncomfortable. Constance couldn’t work out if that was in his favor.

“Mr. Mortimer admires Miss Chadwick,” he said at last. “And as a suitor, he is favored by her parents. Well, he is heir to Mortimer Manor, besides being a handsome and charming fellow. Sophie, however, appears to prefer the company of Mr. Ogden.”

And who could blame her? “I see…” Pushing that aside for future mulling, Constance moved on.

“One thing that struck us is the simplicity of the letters’ language, and the way they are formed.

Could this simply be children’s mischief?

They might not fully understand the kind of trouble they are causing.

There is a certain childishness about the accusations. ”

Mr. Raeburn’s jaw dropped. “ Children? I hardly think…” He broke off, his expression momentarily unguarded and yet unreadable. “But the letters are sent to adults, not other children. So far as I know.”

“Do all the children play together?” Solomon asked. “Or do their friendships tend to separate along class lines?”

“I hardly—”

“From your experience, of course,” Constance added. “Who are your children’s friends? Do they go out and play all together?”

“They play more according to age,” he said. “My eldest son is friends with Edgar Chadwick and the oldest Dickie boy, among others. But they don’t get up to mischief.”

“Then they were not among those Mr. Nolan had to chase away from the forge a few weeks ago?” Solomon asked, although he knew from Nolan that at least some of them were.

The vicar closed his mouth. “Perhaps you should be talking to my wife. She has more to do with the children, while my vocation—”

“Of course,” Constance said. She was eager to meet Mrs. Raeburn.

*

Mrs. Abigail Raeburn was also eager to meet her husband’s visitors. She had seen them arrive from an upstairs window and knew at once who they were. Strangers in Sutton May tended to stand out, and in this case, the couple were both attractive and almost exotic.

Even looking down from the window, Abigail could see Mrs. Silver’s beauty—in fact, she was, possibly, the most beautiful woman Abigail had ever seen, which made the woman inherently untrustworthy in her eyes. None of the men would be safe.

As for her companion, he was too dark complexioned to be a proper English gentleman. He might have lived abroad, of course, and he certainly walked with all the elegance and self-confidence of royalty, so she would defer judgment. Surely Luke would bring them to meet her for morning tea?

Which meant she had little time to change…

She wore the new gown, which, though of muted colors, as suited a vicar’s wife, she knew to be flattering. Perhaps it would make the Silver woman feel overdressed for the country.

Abigail knew—as most of the village knew—that they were looking into the anonymous letter received by Emmeline Chadwick.

Not that Emmeline wanted anyone to know.

No wonder. She liked to play the good doctor’s wife to the point of martyrdom, did Emmeline, but the woman clearly had feet of clay.

She was a little too free with her opinions at the Christian Women’s Circle and tended to forget the natural order of precedence.

Even Hannah Jenson, the old biddy who thought her connection to the Mortimers gave her special privileges, had had to put Emmeline in her place.

And goodness, only think how impossible the woman would be if her even more opinionated daughter actually married Perry Mortimer!

She would be lording it over everyone! By far the best match for Perry—should he wish to choose a local girl—would be found in the vicar’s family.

In a few years, of course, when Perry was ready to settle down.

He and her own daughter Bessie were of the same class, at least. No matter what the Chadwicks thought, a country doctor was not a true gentleman.

Not that she had anything against Chadwick. He was a good doctor, and he worked hard. But he let the women of his family too much into his inherently unladylike profession. Even Sophie. One shuddered to think of an unmarried girl attending lyings-in and grisly injuries…

Abigail shuddered and examined her reflection in the glass, patting her hair in a satisfied manner. Still no gray strands there. Whenever there were, she pulled them out at the roots. It was not vanity, of course—she merely had a certain position of respect to maintain as the vicar’s wife.

She went downstairs to the parlor, most curious now to meet Luke’s guests. What on earth could they be talking about for so long?

Oh, the letters, of course . She rang the bell and Alice the maid appeared quickly, drying her hands on her apron. “Tea, ma’am?” she asked cheerfully.

“Indeed. Inform Mr. Raeburn in his study, and make sure his guests know they are invited. Oh, and give the fire a poke, would you? It feels cold in here.”

“I’ll put another log on,” the girl said.

She was a good creature, was Alice. Never questioned, or gave herself martyred airs like her mother, Mavis—despite her fall from grace.

Mavis had once been the late Mrs. Mortimer’s personal maid and seemed to imagine this gave her the right to monopolize the vicar.

She haunted the church at all hours of the day especially to instruct him. A trial to Luke’s patience, poor man.

Alice was a much more comfortable person than her mother. Mind you, she was not so good with flowers. Sighing, Abigail went to rearrange the daffodils in the vase on the windowsill and was still there when she heard Luke’s voice approaching.

She turned quickly, glad to see him ushering in the lovely Mrs. Silver, who was indeed stunning close up, and the elegant Mr. Grey.

Unexpectedly, it was the latter who deprived her of breath. She had graciously given Mrs. Silver her hand and found her friendly, appraising gaze overbold. This woman was not one who could be easily intimidated. Abigail slipped her hand free and smiled into Mr. Grey’s eyes.

It felt almost like blow, like when she had fallen off a horse as a girl and been winded.

Deep, compelling eyes gazed back at her as though seeing into her soul.

His brow was broad and intelligent. His full lips seemed to denote both humor and passion.

And yes, he was a most handsome man in an excitingly dark kind of way.

She just hadn’t expected to be so overwhelmed by…

what? Awareness? Some presence that went beyond rank and wealth and position? It felt like recognition. Fascination.

And she must be staring like the village idiot.

“Mr. Grey,” she managed, forcing a smile. “How do you do? Won’t you both sit down? Alice is bringing tea.”

“Our friends have just asked me a question I can’t fully answer,” Luke said, handing Mrs. Silver into Abigail’s favorite chair. “About the children’s friends.”

“ Our children’s friends?” Abigail asked in surprise.

“If you could give us an idea,” Mrs. Silver said.

“Sherridan spends a lot of time with Edgar Chadwick and Ned Lance from other the hill, though perhaps Ned is more Timothy’s friend.”

“What about the Gimlets and the Dickies?” Mr. Grey said.

“They know each other through school, obviously,” Abigail admitted.

“But not outside school?” Mr. Grey sounded so surprised that Abigail knew he must have heard something different.

“Children can never tell when someone is unsuitable,” she said. “We don’t encourage it, but Richard Gimlet and Joe Dickie do turn up occasionally. Even Bessie, who is most particular, insisted on having Jill Dickie to her birthday party—along with Maria Lance, can you imagine it?”

“No,” Mr. Grey replied, gratifyingly, although he immediately qualified it by adding that he knew nothing of any of the children. “Are they wild? Do they trouble shopkeepers or make a lot of noise? Give insolence to adults? Get into fights?”

“Well…Richard Gimlet and the Dickies might get out of hand occasionally—they have never been taught manners, you understand. Even Edgar Chadwick has been known to bully a bit, though to be fair, Mr. Ogden seems to have weaned him off that. Why do you ask about the children?”

They would be looking for reasons and motives, of course, for Emmeline’s nasty letter.

A matter that certainly did not concern Abigail’s children.

They asked a few more questions—Mr. Grey had the most beautiful voice, like melting chocolate, so she was more than happy to answer just to hear him speak again.

Until she caught an odd glint in Mrs. Silver’s eyes—half cynical, half understanding—and pulled herself up. She was the vicar’s wife, not Bessie in the throes of yet another infatuation!

“More tea, Mrs. Silver?” she said graciously.

“Thank you, no. I’m afraid we have we have kept you both too long already. I believe we shall meet again at Miss Mortimer’s card party this evening, so we shall be on our way. Thank you so much for your help.”

“Then we have helped?” Abigail asked, hiding her unease beneath a hopeful smile aimed at both visitors.

“Indeed,” said Mr. Grey. “And we are grateful.”

At least she would see him again at the manor…