Page 17 of Word of the Wicked (Murder in Moonlight #5)

“W hat is the vicar hiding from us?” Solomon asked as they walked through the churchyard.

Constance took his arm. “At best, something unsavory about his parishioners. At worst, that his wife sent the letters. Or he is afraid that she did.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Not absolutely,” Constance admitted. “But I do find Mrs. Raeburn the likeliest culprit of everyone we have met so far. She is very judgmental and convinced of her right to be so.”

“Would she not be more inclined to speak her mind to those concerned than send letters in such a way? Would she really go to such lengths to remain anonymous?”

“That is the part I don’t understand. What would make her feel she had to?”

“If saying something to someone’s face might adversely affect her children?” Solomon suggested. “Though I admit I don’t quite see how it would.”

“She would not want to make an enemy of Miss Mortimer,” Constance said.

“That was the first letter she sent. Perhaps she liked the feeling of power it gave her, so she sent the others to lowlier people, too.” She sighed.

“No, I don’t quite buy that either, but then, I don’t really understand the mind workings of anyone who would send such letters.

It’s interesting that the vicar has come across such things before. We should…”

She trailed off as someone hurried out of the church and walked toward them. A tall, thin woman in respectable if dull garb, apart from an unexpectedly bright hat decorated with artificial flowers.

“Is that not the woman who was praying in the church?” Constance murmured.

“It must have been a long prayer.”

“Indeed…” Catching the woman’s eye, Constance smiled. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, ma’am, sir.” There might have been the faintest dip of a curtsey, as if she had once been in service, but Constance could find no sign of obvious servility in her manner or her direct, assessing gaze.

Constance stopped in front of her. “Did we not see you in the church a little while ago?”

“You did.”

“It is a very fine old church, is it not?”

“The little bell tower goes back to the fifteenth century, so the vicar says.”

“Then I suppose it must. I look forward to the Sunday service here.”

The woman’s eyes might have lightened a fraction in approval. “Mr. Raeburn preaches a fine sermon.”

“I felt sure he would! I’m Mrs. Silver, by the way. This is Mr. Grey.”

Her gaze flickered from one to the other as Solomon politely touched his hat. “Mavis Cartwright. I suppose you have just come from the vicarage?”

“We have.”

“You’ll have seen my Alice, then. She is parlor maid there.”

“She is your daughter? A very smart and polite girl. You must be proud of her.”

“I could not be prouder. Some think she should be working up at the manor house like I did, but I say she could not do better than be in the service of our own vicar.”

At something of a loss, Constance nodded in what she hoped was a sage manner.

“Have you always lived in Sutton May, Mrs. Cartwright?” Solomon asked.

“Born and bred here.”

“Do you find the village has changed much over the years?”

She blinked as though surprised by the question.

So was Constance.

“Not really,” Mrs. Cartwright said at last. “Mostly the same faces, new generations of the same families… Apart from the vicar, of course. And Dr. Chadwick. And the shop is bigger. They sell all sorts of things now that you’ll never need!

Things the Mortimers and the Lances used to send to London for. ”

“Is that not a good thing?” Solomon asked.

Mrs. Cartwright shrugged. “It’s a different thing.”

“Was it Mr. and Mrs. Keaton who expanded the shop?” Constance asked, catching on to the line of Solomon’s questioning.

“And changed its name,” Mrs. Cartwright said.

“Used to be Corner’s, not Keaton’s. Her father had it, you see, and his before him.

Then suddenly Ralph Keaton came to the village from nowhere and married Corner’s daughter.

Inherited the shop, and now…” She flapped her hand toward the main street.

“Well, as you see! I suppose it does well enough, and Faye Corner’s certainly done very well for herself—more new gowns than Miss Mortimer herself, though she’s only the grocer’s daughter. Well, must get on. Good day!”

“What,” Constance murmured as they walked on, “was all that about?”

“I was thinking, vaguely, about hostility to or from outsiders,” Solomon said.

“Well, Mrs. Chadwick is an outsider, as is Ralph Keaton. I doubt Nolan is, though, and Miss Mortimer certainly isn’t.”

“No. But there has to be some reason for hostility to those particular people.”

“Mr. Raeburn believes the culprit is a woman, probably a spinster who has set herself up to judge. It certainly doesn’t appear to be someone trying to make money out of knowledge. I still don’t see what the perpetrator is getting out of these letters.”

“Perhaps that is because you’ve never cared for public opinion.”

She turned her head slowly toward him. “Except I do now, because of you. Has something changed recently for someone in the village, that the letters are now their only means of scolding?”

“If so, I can’t yet see what that is. Perhaps we need to look at the letters again, and go over what exactly each of them said.”

“The trouble is, we don’t know exactly what half of them said. We only have Mrs. Chadwick’s and Miss Mortimer’s.”

“Then those must be our starting points.”

Constance nodded emphatically. “They’re the only real evidence we have. And then… I’d quite like to see how all these children behave once they’re out of school.”

*

For David Grey—it was becoming more natural for him to think of himself by that name—being cooped up between four walls did not work well.

For one thing, it caused horrific memories to resurface too often, memories of the early days of his abduction.

For another, in the nine years since he’d awoken in that French hospital, he’d grown used to going on deck whenever he wished to, seeing the endless sky and far horizons.

The comfort of Solomon’s house did not make up for that.

Even opening all the windows and sleeping with the curtains and shutters open was not enough.

He needed to go out before he went mad or punched a hole in Solomon’s elegantly papered walls.

At first it had not been too bad. He’d felt safe. And it had been interesting learning about Solomon from all the books and maps and mountains of correspondence about business—business that seemed to involve eye-watering amounts of money.

His brother was a very rich man. Which made David feel alien and disconnected, and yet the memories were there, misty and warm, of running around the large plantation house, rooms filled with sunshine, open fields and rolling, forested hills in the distance.

Half of that estate was his . Though he surely had no claim to all that Solomon had built from that beginning. It struck him more than once how trusting Solomon was being, leaving a stranger in his home to rob him or do whatever he chose. A stranger who could easily be guilty of murder.

The servants did not bother him. He had only seen one, a bald man who brought him food and wine without being asked.

David had only ever nodded curtly to him.

He had no idea whether or not one was supposed to thank servants.

His parents did, but then, they were odd, and the servants of his childhood had probably been slaves.

He could not think of that now. He could not even think about the body he had stood over—twice, it seemed to him. No, however many memories seemed to be coming back, he could not trust them.

And he would go mad pacing the space between the walls of this house, without even the creaking of a ship to remind him there was open air and expanse beyond.

He strode through to the bedchamber, examining himself in the mirror. It could have been Solomon looking back at him. Apart from the fear and desperation in his reflection’s eyes.

I was not always like this…

He had a sudden image, so vivid it felt like longing. Walking beside Solomon, even running, in the hot countryside of their youth—only they were adults now. They weren’t speaking, but they didn’t need to. They were happy.

Was that really how it had been? How it could have been if he had not been taken? After twenty years spent so far apart from his brother in every conceivable way, he didn’t see how it could ever be that way again. But Solomon had given him the means of freedom if he chose to take it.

David no longer looked like the fugitive seaman who had run from the hue and cry at the Crown and Anchor. He looked like Solomon. A gentleman, waited on by white people.

David went to the wardrobe and took out the overcoat, hat, and gloves he had been wearing yesterday.

Donning them and lifting a cane from the stand, he walked past the mirror.

He adjusted his shoulders, lifted his chin, and imagined himself swaggering down the street with Constance Silver on his arm. Damaged but undeniably beautiful goods.

And she was kind.

God, I need out of here…

He went, almost creeping down the stairs to the front door. Listening to the silence of the house, he eased open the door and strode into the street with a massive sense of relief.

He doubted he’d ever go back.

*

After a light luncheon at the inn, during which they picked the innkeeper’s brains as to who drank with whom of an evening, they repaired to Constance’s room to re-examine and update her lists.