Page 20 of Word of the Wicked (Murder in Moonlight #5)

“Constance.” She replied with some misgivings, for her name was certainly notorious in some circles. However, a maiden lady of good family was hardly likely to have heard it, and several people in the village knew her Christian name by now.

Besides, Miss Fernie had already moved on.

“My father founded the school, you know. Until then, no one taught the village children. Some still chose to remain in ignorance, of course, as if education was a waste of time for any but gentlemen.”

“Yours was an enlightened family.”

“Oh, indeed we were. I like to think I still am, although, of course, things can be too enlightened and then standards drop. Our first teacher was our curate, you know. A most clever gentleman of excellent family. And then the son of one of my father’s friends took over.

A very fine, upstanding man, but sadly of indifferent health.

I began teaching merely to cover for his unavoidable absences, and then I took over altogether.

I like to think the school ran perfectly when I was in charge.

The children read and wrote and counted and learned how to behave.

Now they run wild, like mannerless little animals, but what can one expect with such a man in charge? ”

“Mr. Ogden?” Constance said in surprise. “I have heard him very well spoken of.”

Miss Fernie wrinkled her nose. “An example, sadly, of Society changing too far and too fast. I understand he is a clever man—though one would never think it to speak to him—but honestly, what is the son of a laborer even doing at Oxford? Or was it Cambridge?”

“I expect he was well taught by someone like you,” Constance said lightly.

“Indubitably, and inevitably a charity case, but the results are before us all. He cannot maintain discipline and has no idea of manners or morals.”

“Tell me,” Constance said, “about the local families. The Dickies, for example, and the Gimlets…”

*

“Forgive me,” Miss Jenson murmured, sidling up to Solomon as he gathered the cards after his game with Mrs. Raeburn, “might I have a word?”

“Of course.” Half standing. Solomon watched her slip into the vacant chair. Her slightly beaky face expressed discomfort.

“It’s about Mrs. Silver,” she confided. “I would hate her to be taken in by Mr. Mortimer’s—um…playful manners.”

Solomon glanced around, almost involuntarily. Constance was turning away from Mortimer, smiling at Mrs. Lance and Miss Fernie. It was Mortimer himself who looked discomfited, blinking rapidly, his half-smile rigid on his lips.

Solomon returned his gaze to Miss Jenson. “I believe Mrs. Silver is the least likely person to be taken in by Mr. Mortimer. Do I take it you do not trust him?”

“He cheats,” Miss Jenson said bluntly. “At cards and love. Jessica—Miss Mortimer—won’t hear a word against him, of course, but I felt as strangers amongst us, you and Mrs. Silver should be warned.”

“Thank you,” Solomon said. He had the feeling she had more to say and was struggling with the impulse.

“You will think me foolish,” she blurted, “or even jealous, but my fear is that no one takes him seriously. And I’m sure he is.”

“You’re sure he is serious?” Solomon said, trying to uncover her true meaning.

“About Jessica? Oh yes. He wants her money very badly. Needs it, in fact. I’m fairly sure he’s living off his expectations as it is, and I don’t know how long he can go on doing that.

She has bailed him out several times already—boys will be boys, she says with foolish indulgence—but he doesn’t want to keep begging her for tidbits.

He wants it all. Mr. Grey, I’m afraid she is in danger from him. ”

Solomon’s hands stilled on the cards, his attention all on Miss Jenson, whose color was changing rapidly from pink to white to pink again.

“Did you write a letter to warn her of this?” he asked.

She blinked. “A letter? I told her to her face, but she laughs at me for a silly old fool. She probably thinks I am jealous. And he has probably told her I want her money.”

He had certainly told Solomon and Constance that.

Solomon shuffled the cards. “Forgive me, but what is your position in Miss Mortimer’s will?”

“I don’t know,” she said impatiently. “What does it matter? I’m five years older and likely to die before her. But I do know he will inherit virtually everything, and he is too impatient for that to happen.”

His previous words seemed to come back to her, for she broke off quite suddenly, staring at him, though he could not read her expression. “Letter? You mean Jessica has received one of those nasty letters?”

“I did not say so.” He set the pack of cards on the table. “Would you blame him for that if it were true?”

“For hers? I wouldn’t put it past him, to frighten her or convince her to give him what he wants now… But I can’t see his annoying the Chadwicks with such a thing. After all, he wants their goodwill so he can seduce their daughter!”

“Then he does not seek Miss Chadwick’s hand in marriage?”

“As the master of Mortimer Manor, he probably imagines he can snare an heiress. I don’t think he has any idea how little an estate of this size produces in terms of profit. Even well run as it is. He will run it into the ground and have nothing to pass on to his own children, God help them.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“Would you like me to speak to Miss Mortimer?”

“She might listen to a stranger more than a friend. Thank you,” she said suddenly, smiling brightly as Dr. Chadwick approached. “A little refreshment would be lovely.”

It was clearly said to prevent any suspicion that their conversation had been serious, but obediently, Solomon rose and went in search of some wine and food for her.

En route to the buffet table, he encountered Constance.

“Miss Fernie is unhappy with both Ogden and school manners,” she murmured for his ears alone. “She likes to be charitable but has no egalitarian leanings. She is, on the other hand, a busybody. And the walking definition of judgmental.”

“What did she tell you?”

“That Alice the vicar’s maid was born out of wedlock, and her mother Mavis no better than she should be. Mavis is never out of the church, apparently, because she has every reason to beg the Lord’s forgiveness.”

“I see. Did she say anything about Mortimer?”

“Neither of the Mortimers in a critical way, nor even Miss Jenson, whom I think she regards as impoverished gentility. Why?”

“Miss Jenson is afraid for Miss Mortimer’s life at her nephew’s hands.”

Constance blinked. “Seriously?”

“I think she has been getting a few ill feelings off her chest, but there may be truth in it. What is your impression of him?”

“Well, he cheats his aunt’s guests at cards. He is also young, too convinced of his own charm, and much too entitled. But I would have thought self-preservation alone would prevent his actually harming anyone. Do you think Miss Jenson might have sent the letters?”

“She certainly keeps her eyes open and judges,” Solomon said. “And though she denied knowing about Miss Mortimer’s letter, I could not be sure whether she was acting. But my impression is she would tell someone their faults to their face, not disguise her identity in such a way.”

“Miss Fernie seems much the same in that regard. And I suppose they both fit the vicar’s theory of a judgmental spinster with too much time and too little power. Who is your next conversational target?”

“Miss Mortimer herself, to please Miss Jenson.”

“Then perhaps I shall speak to Mr. Lance from over the hill. Unlikely to be involved on this side of the hill, perhaps, but his children do attend school here.”

“Good luck,” Solomon said, as she strolled on her way.

Approaching Miss Mortimer turned out to be easy, for she had stopped beside her companion at the little table where Solomon set down the plate and glass.

“Mr. Grey,” his hostess said, smiling at him, “I trust the luck of the cards has been with you?”

“I believe I am breaking even. Might I escort you to a table or bring you some refreshment?”

“What exquisite manners you have,” she replied, taking his arm. “Come to the fireside with me and let us talk.”

“Gladly,” Solomon said. Deciding his hostess would appreciate bluntness, he settled himself on a pouffe beside her and said at once, “Miss Jenson is concerned for your safety—and your nephew’s desperation.”

The old lady sighed. “Hannah is a silly old thing. As if I don’t know my own nephew.

On the other hand, he does snipe at her verbally, which I have told him off for, so she is disposed to think the worst of him.

He is undisciplined and a shocking hedonist, but truly, there is no harm in him.

And if she is thinking of him as the writer of these letters—”

“I don’t think she is.” He searched for a tactful explanation of Miss Jenson’s fears. “Her concern is more that his need for money may overset his good sense and family devotion.”

“Well, she needn’t worry about that. How do your inquiries progress?”

“Slowly,” Solomon admitted. “The trouble is, we do not have a lifetime’s knowledge of these people, their histories, grudges—everything you, having lived here for so much of your life, will have absorbed over the years without noticing.”

“Ask me whatever you wish. Any loyalty I feel to Sutton May, which is considerable, must be balanced by the harm these foolish letters are doing. Suspicion and fear can quickly become intolerable, and that is when true tragedy occurs.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “You sound as if you speak from experience.”

“I am an old lady,” she said tartly. “Experience is not something I lack simply because I have chosen not to marry.”

Chosen not to marry . “Why did you make that choice?” he asked, because it appeared to be relevant. To her, if not to him.

“My mother did not have an easy life,” Miss Mortimer said, “which gave me, perhaps, a somewhat jaundiced view of marriage as an institution. And yet I have enjoyed my life and have, I believe, done some good in the world. At least in my little corner of it. Who is it you really want to know about?”

“Busybodies,” Solomon said. “Tell me about Miss Fernie. Are you friends?”

“Of a kind. We grew up together, the only girls of genteel family in the neighborhood at that time. Of course, her birth is better than mine, as she never tired of telling me, since her family is titled, and mine never was. On the other hand, mine is landed and my home my own, while hers lost the right to live in the vicarage when her father died.”

“Is that why she became a teacher?”

Miss Mortimer’s lips twitched. A sardonic gleam lit her eyes.

“No, I think that was a favor she elected to bestow upon the children of Sutton May. To be fair, she really did teach them to read and write and count. But her pupils could recite poetry without feeling or understanding of the words. They could tell you the names of countries without knowing anything else about them. They could recite chunks of the Bible like automatons, with as much accuracy and as little feeling as they did their multiplication tables.”

“She taught by rote?”

“ Only by rote.”

“Is she judgmental by nature?”

“I would say so, and not always rightly. But no, you are quite wrong if you imagine she would send me or anyone else an anonymous letter. She imagines her presence adds more weight to her pronouncements.”

“You don’t like her.”

“I find her a hypocrite.” Miss Mortimer smiled wryly. “But then, so am I, for I still invite her to my parties. The habits of childhood stay with us.”

Sensing more here, Solomon leaned forward. “Hypocritical rather than simply misguided?” he suggested.

“Oh yes.” Miss Mortimer lowered her head, her voice dropping further so that he could barely hear. “We had to retire her from the school for appropriating the funds for books, writing materials, and school outings. That is when we got Mr. Ogden in instead.”

Startled, Solomon cast an instinctive glance in Miss Fernie’s direction. She was playing cards, but her gaze was on Constance.

“Who knows this?” he asked with inexplicable urgency.

“Just Mr. Raeburn and me. We contrived it so that she resigned voluntarily and traveled for her health. I was surprised when she came back, but I suppose Sutton May has always been her home. And I, it seems, will always be her friend.”

But will she always be yours?