Page 31 of Word of the Wicked (Murder in Moonlight #5)

C onstance strolled the village streets with her arm in Solomon’s.

She could hardly believe the difference in her mood since he had returned.

From feeling unsafe and oppressed by the village atmosphere and desperately uncertain both about the case and her future with Solomon, she was suddenly lighthearted and confident.

Because they had stopped overthinking and over-considering each other and returned to instinct, to the basic fact of love, physical and otherwise. This intimacy, this closeness, made her both deliriously happy and determined.

Solomon’s doubts did not upset her. She enjoyed his challenges, his arguments, because they helped clarify her thoughts, and even if he didn’t quite agree—yet—he was listening. He always listened.

They walked past the school, empty of children because it was Saturday, though someone was working in the garden behind the house. Ogden. And some feet away, a woman kneeling on the grass. Sophie, no doubt.

“We don’t know whether she is at home or not,” Solomon pointed out as they came to Miss Fernie’s neat little cottage.

“Which is why we have to wait until we see her leave.”

“If she is so unhinged, she could have written the letters too. She lives alone and would have had every opportunity.”

Constance shook her head. “They’re too… polite .”

He didn’t dispute it. “The other spinster we know who lives alone, and has no doubt borne much scorn from the village, is Mavis Cartwright.”

“I was thinking that,” Constance said unhappily.

“She was wronged by the Mortimers, even if Jessica gave her the box. She has to work for the Keatons in a menial role that she must resent, and they probably lord it over her, too. Nolan the blacksmith rejected her when she was pregnant. And she is powerless to fight back, except in a way that points no more fingers at her.”

“What about Mrs. Chadwick? What grudge could she possibly have against her?”

“I wondered about that. Especially as there’s a gap between most of the letters and Mrs. Chadwick’s.

Perhaps she just felt strongly about the death of the Gimlets’ daughter, imagined her own grief and helplessness if Alice had died in such a way.

I’m sure everyone in the village must know that Richard Gimlet tried to fetch the doctor the day before, and his wife didn’t pass on the message until the following day. ”

“So she creeps around the village in the dark, delivering her anonymous scolds,” Solomon said. “Except for Miss Mortimer’s letter. How did it get into the pile of mail in the front hall of the manor?”

Constance sighed. “That, I don’t know. I can’t imagine her going near the manor. Unless she gave it to one of the servants to deliver.”

“Then why don’t we walk up to the manor now and discreetly question the servants?”

“Because we might miss Miss Fernie going out.”

“The thefts, if there truly were any, are not our primary concern,” Solomon reminded her. “If we solve this today, we can go home tomorrow and concentrate on keeping David out of prison.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday,” Constance objected.

“So it is. And on Sunday, Miss Fernie will most definitely go to church. As will the rest of the village.”

Constance began to smile. “Who won’t then catch us trespassing and peering in windows. You are not just a pretty face, are you, Mr. Grey?”

“I have always said so.”

“Then by all means, let us go the manor house kitchen.”

*

Quintin Ogden leaned against his bare apple tree and watched Sophie plant the last of his summer-flowering bulbs. He liked to watch her, for her movements were graceful as well as quick and efficient. He found the combination rather beautiful. Like Sophie herself.

Patting the earth, she glanced up and caught his gaze. “What are you smiling at?”

“You.” He stepped nearer and stretched down a hand to help her up. “Thank you for the bulbs.”

She accepted his help. He liked that too, for even through the thick gardening gloves, her touch warmed him.

She smelled good, like flowers and grass after rain.

Her breath gave a little hitch as she looked up at him, and he knew an urge to kiss her.

He didn’t, because that would be imposing after her kindness.

She turned away, dropping his hand. “What is the time, Quint?”

He consulted his slightly battered old watch. “Ten minutes past two.”

“I had better go. I promised my father I would look in on the Gimlets.”

Obediently, he began to walk toward the path that led to the front gate. “How will you get there?”

“Walk, of course.”

The strength of his desire to go with her took him by surprise.

Being a shy and humble man, he could see no reason why she should want his company, and yet she often did.

For example, she had had no real reason to come today.

Despite the gift of the bulbs, it was not a charitable visit, and he knew her mother didn’t like him.

But then, her mother liked Peregrine Mortimer, so her judgment was flawed.

“Should you have an escort?” he asked, trying to give her a way out and yet hoping she would say yes.

“No,” she said, and his spirits sank.

Now that he knew her, he was lonely without her. She calmed his spirit and spoke of interesting things, argued sensibly, and made him think. And she made him smile, just by the sound of her own laughter.

Well, he had the children’s work to mark.

“I don’t need an escort,” she explained. “But I would welcome your company, if you’d like to come.”

He smiled. “I would.”

She smiled back, her color just a little heightened. “You had better fetch your hat.”

He could not be bothered with hats, but she was right. People were less critical when one behaved according to rules he never quite saw the point of.

“I’ll wait for you at the gate.”

Re-entering his cottage, he hastily washed his hands, wiped a smut of soil off his cheek, and fetched his hat and slightly worn gloves. Another hour or two in Sophie’s company was more than he had dared hope for.

But when he left the house again, she was outside the gate, talking to Peregrine Mortimer.

His happiness evaporated. She didn’t like Mortimer, who frightened her in some way, and yet, like most people, she felt compelled to be polite to him.

Which meant choosing him over Quintin because of his rank and his relationship to Miss Mortimer, as well as her parents’ wishes.

In truth, Quintin didn’t understand any of that, but he accepted it.

Disappointment and a dislike of confrontation almost caused him to turn and go back inside. But he would stick to the offer he had made until told otherwise. He walked up the path and opened the gate.

Sophie smiled at him as he joined her. He thought there was relief in her eyes. He pulled on his gloves and waited.

“Oggie,” Mortimer mocked as he always did, as though Quintin was one of his own pupils and Mortimer the teacher. “Where are you off to this fine, wintry morning?”

“I’m escorting Miss Chadwick to the Gimlets’ farm.”

Mortimer laughed. “Don’t be silly. What use are you as an escort? If you must go, Sophie—though I have never seen the attraction of mud and pig swill—I shall take you. Run along, Oggie.”

Defeated, Quintin nevertheless refused to retreat until Sophie stated her preference. But it seemed she wouldn’t have to. Mortimer simply took her hand—she had changed her gardening gloves for finer ones—and began to pull it through his winged arm.

Misery swamped Quintin. But he had no time to dwell upon it, for Sophie snatched her hand free of him, moving instinctively closer to Quintin.

“No, sir! I have chosen my escort.”

“Oh, Oggie doesn’t mind,” Mortimer said. “Do you, Oggie?”

He did mind, of course. More than anything, Quintin minded the way Mortimer reached for her again, and the fear in Sophie’s face.

Without conscious thought, he stepped between them. “Miss Chadwick minds. She said no.”

“ What did you say?” Mortimer thrust his face into his, forcing his ugly gaze onto Quintin’s, which was almost painful. He was a bully. Quintin had seen that from the first. But he had been dealing with bullies all his life, on his own account and then on behalf of his pupils.

Quintin held the gaze, and was ready for any violence, though he doubted it would come. “I believe you heard the lady.”

Mortimer’s mouth was ugly too. “Send the half-wit on his way, Sophie. He doesn’t seem to understand he is de trop .”

Sophie’s hand curled around Quintin’s elbow. Which would make it difficult to fight with both hands. Neither of them spoke.

Abruptly, Mortimer spun around and stalked off.

“Oh, well done, sir,” Sophie breathed. “Thank you.”

And Quintin felt he was walking on air, the happiest man alive.

*

It was a pleasant day for a walk, especially in Solomon’s company.

They walked arm in arm, and sometimes, since there were few people about, hand in hand.

For Constance, it was one of those breathless hours of happiness that made everything else worthwhile.

She wanted to think the best of everyone, and so began to wonder if she was wrong about the missing items being thefts.

After all, they spanned more than thirty years, and the numbers concerned were hardly high over such a period.

As for the letters, they were undeniable, but they were not so very threatening, were they?

And Solomon was happy, too. She could feel it in his relaxed posture, in the way his arms swung as he walked. What were the odds, she asked herself in wonder, of her finding such a man, such a friend, such a lover? Such a husband…

She was smiling as they approached the manor house, her mood quite the opposite of the fearful wariness with which she had last come here. This time, they did not walk up to the front door, but skirted around the side of the house to the kitchen garden.