Page 7 of Word of the Wicked (Murder in Moonlight #5)

D r. Chadwick was as good as his word and met them at the Sutton May railway station, which was more of a brief halt with a long jump from the train to the ground.

Constance, curiously refreshed after her undisturbed sleep next to Solomon, had no complaints.

Solomon, fully rested, seemed much more like himself.

They had talked mainly about the Sutton May case on the journey, leaving David’s much more complicated matter until they returned.

“Good morning! Welcome to Sutton May,” Dr. Chadwick said in his brisk yet friendly way. He shook hands with Solomon and with Constance before picking up one of the bags and leading the way. “It isn’t far to the inn. How was your journey?”

“Pleasantly uneventful,” Solomon replied. “How are matters here?”

“Oh, just the same, so far as I can tell. I have warned those who received letters that you would be coming and asking questions, so I expect the whole village knows by now.”

“So, everyone in the village knows who has received these letters?” Constance asked.

“It seems likely, so you may receive a few half-baked theories as you investigate… The Blue Goose is the last building you can see at this end of the road, which leads out of the village and up to Mortimer Manor. The Keatons’ shop is behind us, and the blacksmith’s just around that corner.

” He pointed vaguely behind the row of the houses.

“And the school and the church are over there by the green. So is the police house.”

“You have a policeman?” Solomon said in surprise. “Did you consult him about the letters?”

“Well, no.” Dr. Chadwick cast them a half-ashamed glance. “I hardly think the letters are a crime, as such. And to be honest, he is the biggest gossip of the lot, and quite convinced of his own infallibility.”

“I don’t suppose he will like our poking our noses in,” Constance remarked. “Does he have a theory as to who is responsible?”

“To be honest, I doubt he knows anything about the letters. Constable Heron is the last person I would tell.”

Constance caught his gaze. “So the village policeman is the only person who doesn’t know about them?”

“Well, he probably does, by now… Here we are at the Goose.”

The Blue Goose was a traditional country inn built around a courtyard, with a taproom, a common coffee room, and a couple of bedchambers above.

No customers were obvious when the doctor took them inside and introduced them to the innkeeper, who was polishing the bar, and his wife, who showed them to their rooms on either side of the upstairs passage.

They did not linger, for Dr. Chadwick was waiting to take them to his house to talk to his wife.

Mrs. Chadwick, described by her husband as the kindest woman in the world, welcomed them into her parlor with a slightly embarrassed expression. She was a tall, good-looking woman with the faint frown of the constantly busy, and she was dressed neatly, though hardly in the first stare of fashion.

“I’ll get off, then,” the doctor said, kissing her cheek and nodding to his guests. “Let me know how things go. Good day!”

“Please, sit down,” Emmeline Chadwick said, still looking somewhat flustered. “Nora will bring us tea in a moment. I feel I should apologize for my husband’s involving you in this matter—it is really of no account, and I honestly don’t see what good you can do.”

“Did the letter in question not upset you?” Constance asked.

“Well, of course it did. One never likes to think one has been unkind—or that someone dislikes me enough to send such a letter rather than speak to me if they have a problem. I have known everyone in this village for more than ten years!” She laughed with a hint of nervousness.

“Which I suppose makes me a foreign incomer by Sutton May standards.”

“Then neither you nor your husband were born here?”

“Oh, no. I’m from Cambridge, where Charles—my husband—studied medicine. We moved here when he took over this practice ten years ago. But I always thought we were very much part of the community.”

“I’m sure you are,” Constance said. “One incident surely doesn’t reflect the general view. Dr. Chadwick told us he has no idea who might have sent such a note. Do you?”

“Absolutely none. I cannot imagine who would possibly communicate in such a way.”

That line, Constance thought, is rehearsed .

Which didn’t necessarily make it untrue.

“Leaving that aside, has anything unusual happened in the last few weeks that might have caused someone to bear a grudge against you? Anything you have said or done that might have been interpreted—however erroneously—as unkind?”

“I honestly cannot think of anything. I am not a quarrelsome woman.”

“And yet I imagine the life of a doctor’s wife is not easy,” Constance said. “You must be as busy as he is.”

“Almost,” Emmeline replied with the ghost of a smile.

“I arrange his appointments, take messages, and listen to patients who don’t want to disturb the doctor .

In addition, my daughter and I call on those who are convalescing, delivering medicines when necessary.

I help the vicar and his wife in their charitable works.

I honestly can’t think what I might have done that necessitates my return to kindness . ”

“Has anyone treated you differently in recent weeks?” Constance asked. “Perhaps been offhand or rude? Or even given you an odd look?”

Emmeline shook her head. “Not that I have ever noticed.”

There was a pause then while a middle-aged maid brought in a trolley bearing tea and biscuits.

Emmeline began to talk about the countryside. “There are some pretty walks if you care for peaceful scenery. We have a very pleasant lake that you can see on the path up to the manor house, although you should stay on this side of it to avoid the marshland…”

The door closed behind the maid again and Emmeline poured the tea.

“Do you just have the one servant?” Constance asked casually.

“Well, just Nora, who lives in. Mrs. France comes once a week to do the heavy cleaning.” Emmeline met Constance’s gaze. “I know what you’re asking, and I have no cause to suspect either of them of being discontented in our employ, let alone of sending me such a letter.”

“But you have thought about it,” Constance said.

“Of course I have,” Emmeline said tiredly. “I wonder about everyone who calls, everyone I meet in the village or speak to in shops, every patient who knocks on the door. It is not…pleasant to suspect such things of one’s neighbors.”

Constance nodded with genuine sympathy.

Solomon accepted his cup of tea with a murmur of thanks and spoke for the first time. “Have you considered that although the letter was sent to you, it was actually aimed at your husband?”

Emmeline frowned. “What do you mean?”

“He is upset on your behalf, which may have been the purpose. You help Dr. Chadwick, but he is the physician, the man who, without being melodramatic, holds the lives of his patients in his hands.”

“Then why upset him?” Emmeline said tartly.

“Why, indeed?”

She sat straighter, a spark of hostility in her eyes. “My husband is an excellent physician.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Solomon said. “But some things are beyond any doctor. People die, or don’t recover as they should, and doctors can be blamed quite without cause. It’s human nature.”

Her frown deepened while she mulled that.

Then she spoke with reluctance, as though the words were dragged from her.

“There was the Gimlets’ child over at Dravenhoe Farm.

She had always been delicate, and when she caught diphtheria…

The poor little girl died. There was nothing Charles or anyone could do for her. ”

No one could doubt the genuine pain in Emmeline’s face and voice.

“When was this?” Constance asked.

“Two or three weeks ago now.”

Not long before the letter, then. Interesting .

“You mentioned your own daughter,” Constance went on. “Do you have other children?”

Emmeline beamed. “Edgar, our son. He is almost fourteen. He is at school just now, but you are bound to meet him soon.”

“Where does he go to school?”

“Here in the village.” Emmeline’s smile remained but had grown slightly fixed. “For now. Mr. Ogden does his best, of course, but to go to university, Edgar will need more advanced teaching.”

“Does your daughter attend the village school, too?”

“Oh, not anymore! Sophie is nineteen. She should be back from her errands any moment.”

“Are your children aware of the anonymous letter?” Solomon asked.

“Sophie is, though I tried to keep it from her… Ah, here she is.”

The sound of the front door closing was easily heard in the parlor, as was a female voice calling cheerfully down the passage.

Emmeline went to the parlor door. “Sophie? Come and meet our guests.”

A moment later, a tall young woman came in, still untying the ribbons of her bonnet. She had merry eyes, rosy cheeks from the wind, and a perfect complexion. If her features were not quite regular enough for beauty, Constance suspected that few would notice.

The girl’s eyes widened in surprise as her mother introduced them. “Are you Papa’s investigators? I was expecting a couple of slightly seedy old men whom I would resent having to talk to!”

“Then we are glad to disappoint you,” Solomon said, amused.

He bowed over her hand, and Constance did not miss the younger woman’s swift appraisal, the inevitable acknowledgment of an attractive male. But though she flushed slightly, Sophie did not gawp, merely turned to Constance with the same air of friendly surprise.

“Is this a common thing, then? To send or receive such cowardly letters?” she asked them.