Page 39 of Word of the Wicked (Murder in Moonlight #5)

C onstance saw at once that they had walked into a fraught moment. Everyone in the room was staring at Ogden, who seemed curiously resigned.

Mrs. Chadwick roused herself to welcome them, and everyone else followed suit as though pulled by the puppet strings of civility.

“Forgive the intrusion,” the vicar said. “I suspect we are too late to avert the storm.”

“Mr. Ogden,” Chadwick said furiously, “has just simultaneously confessed to a heinous crime and made my daughter an offer of marriage!”

Constance’s lip twitched, an involuntary gesture caught by Sophie, who stared for instant before a rueful, conspiratorial sort of humor touched her eyes.

“Have I done the wrong thing again?” Ogden asked humbly.

And Sophie choked out a laugh, throwing out her hand to him. He caught it eagerly.

“No!” Mrs. Chadwick exclaimed. “Sophie, you have just heard… You cannot throw yourself away so young on such a-a…”

“A what, Mama?” Sophie said. “A good, clever man who occasionally makes mistakes? Show me anyone who does not.”

“Mistakes!” her mother repeated, flabbergasted.

“Do we take it,” Solomon interrupted, “that Mr. Ogden has just tried to rectify his mistakes by confessing to them?”

“And proposing marriage in the same breath,” Dr. Chadwick said. “ I take it you are aware of what he has done? All of you and Sophie—”

“Oh, Sophie didn’t know,” Ogden said. “I didn’t have the courage to tell her until now. But it had to be done.” He looked from the vicar to Constance and Solomon. “How do you know?”

“Constance worked it out,” Solomon said. “Once she realized that children were the motive for all the letters. And you had the best opportunity, being able to wander about at all hours of the night—and being taken each Wednesday to tea with Miss Mortimer.”

Mrs. Chadwick’s eyes widened. “You sent a letter to Miss Mortimer ?”

Ogden shifted in his seat. “It seemed a good idea at the time.”

“Well now,” the vicar said, “shall we all sit down and discuss this?”

With the same focus he seemed to bring to his teaching, Ogden followed the conversation about his letters and the subsequent arguments for and against dismissing him for it.

He did not contribute, though he seemed puzzled by the vicar’s defense of him, and by Constance and Solomon’s explaining the advantages of forgiveness and silence to Chadwick.

“Sounds fair to me,” Edgar pronounced. “ We always get two chances at school, and Mr. Ogden owned up before he was found out. Besides, school will be terrible if he has to go. We might get Miss Fernie back.”

“Maybe, but it isn’t up to you,” Dr. Chadwick said, scowling. “It is up to your mother. And the others who received the letters.”

Everyone gazed expectantly at Mrs. Chadwick, who took a deep breath. “I am inclined to forgive him. He meant no malice, and I believe him when he says he would never go down such a misguided road again. But I am not the only one who received a letter. Miss Mortimer…”

“I shall ascertain Miss Mortimer’s wishes in the matter,” Raeburn said smoothly. “But I believe she will think as Mrs. Chadwick does.”

“But she’ll tell Perry,” Sophie said, appalled. “And he will persecute Quintin mercilessly!”

“I don’t believe she will. Miss Mortimer and Miss Jenson have ways of keeping their own secrets.”

“And you should know,” Sophie added defiantly, “that there is no way in the world I would ever marry Perry Mortimer. Not even if he asked me, which he assuredly will not.”

“You don’t know that, Sophie,” Mrs. Chadwick began. “You are too young.”

“In this case, I believe she is right,” Constance said. “It is he who is too young. None of his intentions would appear to be honorable at this point in his life, and I believe he sets his matrimonial sights on the aristocracy.”

“Even so, Sophie, consider,” Mrs. Chadwick pleaded. “A poor schoolteacher…”

“A poor physician,” her husband reminded her gently, and she turned quickly to look at him.

“You will allow this?”

“I would allow an engagement—of some months—if it is what Sophie truly wants.”

Ogden’s intensity was painful. Constance had never seen anyone in such an agony of uncertainty. “Did I ruin it, by doing what I did?” he asked hoarsely. “Is marriage with me what you want, Sophie?”

Sophie met his gaze, her color fluctuating as the silence stretched. “No.”

His gaze fell. Everything about him seemed to slump in total defeat.

“No,” she repeated. “You didn’t ruin it, though I’ll confess you took me by surprise. And yes, marriage with you is what I want.”

Happiness seemed to blaze between them. Over their heads, Constance met Soloman’s gaze in a quick, all-too-brief moment of understanding. Happiness seemed to be infectious.

It was time to go.

“Well?” she said, when they were once more in the street, arm in arm. “Shall we go home and be married? There might be a late train.”

“I have one more thing to do. And no, you shouldn’t come. I doubt she would let both of us over the door.”

*

Solomon’s final visit of the day was to Miss Fernie.

When he knocked on the door, she was clearly upstairs, no doubt in her secret parlor of stolen treasures, for he heard her footsteps descending before she opened the door. Her eyes widened in astonishment, then darted to either side, no doubt in search of the absent Constance.

“Mr. Grey.”

He removed his hat and inclined his head. “Miss Fernie. I trust you’ll forgive this intrusion on the sabbath, but there is something I must discuss with you.”

She opened the door wider. “Come in.”

He was led, of course, to the front parlor, where the fire still blazed merrily. Obviously, she did not need to economize on winter warmth.

“Please, sit,” she said politely, although she did not offer refreshments. When he had taken the chair she indicated and she had sat on the opposite side of the fireplace, she said, “Have you come about your betrothed?”

Solomon raised his brows. “I have not. I’m afraid I have come about you.”

She blinked, uncomprehending. “Me? I have already told you everything I know about these foolish letters, which is nothing at all.”

“Oh, we are no longer concerned with that,” Solomon said with an airy wave of his hand. “The matter is dealt with. But during our investigation, another matter came to light which is, sadly, criminal.”

“In Sutton May?” she said incredulously. “Then I would look no further than the so-called schoolteacher. This is what comes of raising common people out of their class.”

Solomon sighed and held her gaze. “Miss Fernie.”

Rather to his surprise, color seeped into her thin cheeks. “Well, what is it?”

“A matter of thefts committed over decades. A bracelet, a carved jewelry box, a Book of Common Prayer valued by the vicar…”

“I have heard of all these. They were not stolen but mislaid.”

“Then what,” Solomon asked, “are they doing in your upstairs parlor?”

Her pursed lips parted in shock. She stared at him but recovered quickly. “I rather think the question is what were you doing in my upstairs parlor? Breaking and entering is a crime I shall be most happy to report to Mr. Heron!”

“Really? For the record, I did not enter but merely climbed up and looked through your window. We can, of course, go down the road of formal accusation and counteraccusation, and let the law sort it out. Miss Mortimer might even save you by claiming she lent you the bracelet for that really rather good portrait above the fireplace.”

“She did!” Miss Fernie gasped.

“No, she didn’t. Nor did Mavis Cartwright lend you the jewelry box. Why on earth did you steal such things? You, who already has so much more.”

Miss Fernie glared at him, half lifted one hand in dismissal, then dropped it and stared into the fire instead.

“None of my family gave me beautiful things. My uncles and cousins were rich, and yet they thought their duty to us done by allowing me to stay in their home during a few London Seasons, attend a few parties with them in my provincial clothes. Jessica always had lovely gowns and jewels to shine in and she never even thought to lend them to me.”

“So you took the bracelet for your own Season, had your portrait painted in it, and never gave the original back. What of the box?”

Her lips twisted. “Jessica would have given that Jezebel the bracelet! And she did give her the box. I saw it every time I called on Mavis, until all I could think was that she did not deserve it.”

“And the vicar,” Solomon said quietly. “Did the vicar not deserve his beautiful prayer book? A gift from his wife?”

“The vicar is a good man,” she said sulkily. “But Abigail Raeburn is a silly, worldly woman who saw fit to dispute with me at the Christian Women’s Circle.”

“And the shawl you stole from the Keatons’ shop?”

She shrugged with impatience. “She can be too sharp, Faye Keaton, imagining she and I are equal because she has a little money now.”

Solomon leaned back in his chair. “They’re excuses, aren’t they? Reasons to justify what you did because you knew you were in the wrong.”

A shudder shook her, but she said nothing.

“Are they the only things you took over the years?” he asked.

Slowly, she shook her head. A tear formed at the corner of her eye and trickled down her winkled cheek.

“I can’t help it,” she whispered. “It just comes upon me, and I have to take them. And then I make the best of them, because after all, I can’t give them back, can I?”

“Why not?”

She blinked at him.

“I had the same kind of problem with an employee of mine once,” Solomon said. “He described it as an illness, and I think it is—brought on, perhaps, by unhappiness at a life that isn’t going according to your dreams. But that does not mean you can’t make it right.”

“How?” she demanded, gulping as though for air.

“Give them back. Sneak them back, if you have to. Make it a game, and smile at your friends’ happiness in finally finding the things that mean so much to them.”

“I could…” She frowned and sat up straighter. “I could!”