Page 34 of Word of the Wicked (Murder in Moonlight #5)

Nearly everyone she knew in the village was present.

The two Mortimers and Miss Jenson at the front, along with the Lance family, Mrs. Raeburn and Miss Fernie.

All the Chadwicks were in the row behind, along with the Keatons.

Some of the upper servants were scattered among the better-to-do villagers.

Mrs. Gimlet and her son were there. And at the back a gaggle of the lesser folk, who included Mavis and Alice Cartwright, clearly sticking together despite the strict observation of hierarchy.

Ogden was not present. Nor were any of the Dickie clan.

The vicar climbed into his pulpit. Sermon time.

Mavis’s gaze was avid, almost frightened, as if she knew he would preach against the anonymous letters and was already acknowledging her wrong.

What on earth had possessed her to risk what was left of her reputation?

Was it somehow for Alice? Or was Alice actively involved?

And how should the matter be resolved for the greater good?

Silver and Grey was contracted to lay their findings before their employer, Dr. Chadwick, although it was possible the fee would be shared with Miss Mortimer and perhaps the others who had received letters.

He and they must surely decide how to proceed.

It was hardly a matter for the law but… Would they be kind to poor Mavis?

Or isolate her further? Would Mrs. Raeburn dismiss Alice?

Had the letters even done any good? Would Miss Mortimer leave the rents unchanged?

Would Mrs. Chadwick ever again delay a message in order to look after her husband?

Would Nolan control his anger against the rowdy children?

Would Mrs. Keaton stop blaming her poorer customers for anything she mislaid?

Or for anything Miss Fernie stole from them…

The vicar began to speak, beginning with a welcome that pointedly included strangers, causing several heads to turn once more to the obvious newcomers at the back.

He made a couple of local announcements and read the banns for a wedding.

Constance felt her heart lighten as she sought and found Solomon’s hand. His fingers closed around hers.

By the time she returned her attention to Mr. Raeburn, he was closing his Bible after reading a short passage.

“ Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, ” he repeated in a serious voice, leaning forward from the pulpit to gaze around the congregation, making eye contact with as many as he could.

“Can anyone in the world claim that? Can anyone in this church today? God knows I cannot. Can you?”

Mavis bowed her head. Several people shifted in their seats, causing a mass creaking of wood.

The vicar straightened, his whole face suddenly fierce.

“ Judge not, lest ye be judged! ” he thundered.

“ For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged. And with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye? ”

The whole church suddenly felt electric, as though it had been struck by a divine thunderbolt.

The vicar certainly knew how to seize and maintain the attention of his congregation.

A baby began to cry. One of the smallest boys Constance had seen in the schoolroom turned his face into his father’s arm.

“Oh, it is a very human fault,” Mr. Raeburn allowed.

“But one we must at all times be aware of. If our neighbor sins against us, by all means we must seek redress, through law or simple discussion. If we see wrong, we are duty bound to speak out, with quiet and human compassion. What we should not do”—his voice began to rise again, and the small boy clutched at his father in anticipation—“what we must never do, is hide behind a veil of secrecy and spout our own flawed judgments in ways guaranteed to frighten and wound far beyond the original slight, real or imagined. Such a course is cowardly and vile and must lead to tragedy for both recipient and sender. It is always the way! The sender of such letters—and yes, you all know of what letters I speak!—goes against God and will be damned for all eternity to the fires of hell!”

Having reached his bellowing crescendo, the vicar again swept his gaze around his congregation, who were staring at him largely open-mouthed.

Constance knew how they felt. Mr. Raeburn was quite the orator and, unlike his usual mild manner, in full flood he was positively scary, tugging at all the emotions, but mostly guilt and fear.

Mavis was clearly drinking it all in, but she showed no alarm.

Or even shame, for once. It was as though she were distracted by the vicar’s sermon, rather than racked with guilt.

Beside her, Alice was glancing uneasily around her neighbors—to see if they were looking toward her mother?

Or just wondering if one of them had sent the kind of letter so abhorred by God and the vicar?

“Unless,” Mr. Rayburn said, the moderation of his voice so much more moving after the previous haranguing, “the culprit not only desists but repents. And that is what we all must pray for… If we truly repent, God forgives our sins. We should do no less.”

Several of the congregation were nodding gravely in agreement and looking about them much as Alice was.

Mavis appeared to be more focused on her own sin, which seemed to be habitual for her.

Her gaze hovered between the vicar and her own hands.

Occasionally, as the vicar continued his theme of redemption through prayer, her lips moved as though in silent plea.

She prayed all the time, Constance thought, yet still felt herself unworthy of forgiveness. So why had she turned to the letters to point out the faults of others? Because no one would have taken her quiet remonstrance seriously? Because she lacked the courage to say it in person?

Such self-flagellation was beyond Constance. The woman had to allow herself what happiness she could find.

Someone else was gazing toward Mavis. Constance noticed because, on the left of the aisle, he was looking to the right and slightly behind, so she could see his face.

Nolan the blacksmith, who had once been engaged to Mavis and jilted her when her shame became apparent.

Did he too have suspicions? He must have known her very well at one time, have watched her change from whatever bright and promising young woman she had been into the scorned, timid spinster who brought up her child alone in guilt, her only comfort in the church.

Did he recognize her as the same girl he had once loved?

Or did he know only that she had told him off by anonymous letter? Had that always been in her character?

Judging by his expression, Constance doubted it.

For a moment, his habitual scowl vanished.

The fierce eyes softened and displayed something like pity.

Or more than pity. Constance didn’t know him well enough to tell, but there was no accusation there.

He had forgiven her everything, perhaps even felt still the regret-tinged love of his youth.

Did she know that?

The next instant, the frown returned, and he faced the front once more.

Someone brushed past Constance’s skirts—the man with the scared, small boy, who was still sniffing and wiping his tear-stained face on his sleeve while his father led him outside by his other hand.

An innocent casualty of the vicar’s fierce sermon, and certainly not the one he had been aiming for.

But then, there were a few such innocent casualties of this whole business.

In trying to keep them safe, Nolan had frightened some of the children and even put them at risk.

And hadn’t Nell Dickie had her youngest with her when Mrs. Keaton accused her of stealing and threatened her with arrest?

Mrs. Chadwick had been short with Richard Gimlet and delayed passing on his message.

Those circumstances were what had led Constance and Solomon to consider the children as the senders. Perhaps it had even been the effect of the injustices on the children that had inspired Mavis, without her foreseeing that the vicar’s sermon would be quite so terrifying.

Even though the vicar’s sermons were frequently terrifying, by all accounts… Who would know that better than Mavis?

With unspecific unease, Constance thought of Mavis’s avid face listening to the vicar’s sermon, focused and surely in agreement. God knew she had been judged too much…

So why was she judging Miss Mortimer? Or Mrs. Chadwick? She did not really fit as the judgmental spinster anxious to exert a little power…

Well, every situation, every person, was different.

But Mavis is obsessed with her own sin. Not with other people’s …

The expression on Nolan’s face bothered Constance. There had been no suspicion in it, none at all.

Am I wrong? Are we wrong?

Why had she been so certain? Because Mavis lived alone and could move freely at night, and so could deliver the letters more easily, and because she was a powerless spinster with a grudge, like the woman in the previous case the vicar had come across.

Only Mavis didn’t seem to bear any grudges. Rightly or wrongly, she accepted her sin and the scorn of the village as her due for falling… Was it Alice after all? Her mother’s only defender, furious with all those judgers with their own eyes full of “beams,” as the Bible put it?

Alice did not live alone. She seemed happy and proud of her position in the Raeburns’ household, and the only real opportunity she’d had to deliver one of the letters was when she had gone to the manor house in search of the vicar.