Page 8 of Word of the Wicked (Murder in Moonlight #5)

“Personally, I have never come across it before,” Constance said.

In her world, after all, no one cared about respectability.

And until she moved to Mayfair, very few of them could write.

A physical fight was more likely, even between women.

“Perhaps you hear things your mother does not. Have you come across anyone who bears a grudge against her?”

“No, I have not. Nor do I expect to.”

“But someone sent it,” Solomon pointed out.

“Clearly. But I think it must be a one-time moment of madness that will not happen again.”

Such as a parent’s first terrible moments of grief?

Sophie did not speak the words, but she might well have been thinking them. She had intelligent, thoughtful eyes, their brightness seeming to come from some inner vivacity rather than the girlish giddiness of a surely much-admired young woman.

“Do you know of anyone else who has received such letters?” Constance asked.

“No. Papa told us there were a couple of others in the village, but he did not say whose. I think he imagined it would make Mama feel better. Shall I take that medicine up to old Mr. Sewell, Mama?”

“Oh, yes, if you would. And maybe look in on Mrs. Gates to see how she is.” Emmeline turned to Constance. “Mrs. Gates is nearing her time to give birth, so we are keeping an eye on her for Charles. Have a cup of tea first, Sophie.”

“Oh, no, I might as well go now, and then I shall be back in time if Papa needs me this afternoon.” Rushing to the door, Sophie paused to throw, “Good luck!” over her shoulder to Constance and Solomon.

There was a short silence in the room.

Constance set down her teacup, ready to depart.

“Don’t you think,” Emmeline said quickly, “that this matter would be better left to blow itself out naturally? After all, it has not hurt me, and there is no real crime involved. It was one rude letter, sent, presumably, in a moment of frustration, never to be repeated.”

“But it has been repeated, has it not?” Solomon said. “Several of your neighbors have received similar letters.”

“Maybe they—” Emmeline began impetuously, and broke off, biting her lip.

“Deserved it?” Constance suggested.

“Not that,” Emmeline said, flushing. “But maybe did something that set the sender off on this path. I don’t know. I’m just not sure making it public in this way will help any of us.”

“We can only try,” Solomon said, rising with Constance. “Can you think of anything you and the other recipients have in common? Are you members of the same committee or club? Do you have much contact with them?”

“Well, the Keatons own the only shop in the village, so naturally we are customers. The same with Mr. Nolan, the blacksmith. My husband keeps a pony and a gig for local journeys, so we are customers there, too. Mrs. Keaton is on the same church committee as I am, but these are our only outside connections.”

“Are they not also your husband’s patients?”

“Well, yes, but surely that is not relevant.”

“Probably not,” Solomon said peaceably.

“One last thing for now,” Constance said. “Have you received any demands for money since this letter came?”

Emmeline stared. “Not apart from the usual accounts from local tradesmen. You surely don’t think the threat to make me pay was meant literally ?”

“We are not ruling it out,” Constance said. “And I beg you to tell us immediately if such a thing does happen.”

*

When she had seen her visitors off the doorstep, Emmeline returned to the parlor and sat by the fire, her shaking hands held tightly together in her lap. She felt cold and rattled by the investigators’ questions—prying questions she should not have to answer, even to herself.

Shame washed over her, burning her face and then fading so fast that she felt dizzy.

She knew herself to be a good woman, trying her best, which was all anyone, even God, could ask of her.

And truly, it was not her fault that the Gimlet child had died.

She had never been unkind to any of the family.

And yet she had never been to see them since… She had assumed she would not be welcome, though she had done nothing wrong.

Except make them wait for Charles’s attention. He had been over the hill at the time, delivering a difficult baby at the Lances’ house. He could not have been in two places at once, and even if he could, she doubted he could have saved the poor little girl.

Then why did she feel guilty? As if she deserved that accusation of unkindness, delivered anonymously, as though it was from the whole village?

She should go the shop. But she found she could not face people. Were they all whispering about her? Would they tell Mr. Grey and Mrs. Silver? And would they tell Charles?

Tell Charles what? That she had made a mistake? Indulged in a moment of frustration with a child? Put her husband before a sick child?

A doctor’s wife, this doctor’s wife, had to hold herself to the highest standards. And Emmeline had failed.

*

Constance and Solomon went next to the blacksmith’s shop, a short walk away. They found him hammering away at his anvil, the muscle of his right arm bulging and flexing as he worked. He was a large man somewhere in his fifties, with a graying beard and thick, scowling eyebrows.

“Mr. Nolan?” Constance said pleasantly from the doorway.

The man grunted, presumably by way of greeting, took three more swipes with his hammer, and laid it down. “Yes?”

“My name is Grey,” Solomon said, going up to him. “This is Mrs. Silver. Dr. Chadwick has asked us to look into the matter of the anonymous letters received by several people in the village. We believe you are one of them.”

He grimaced. “Stupid, pointless piece of paper. Burned it.”

“Did you burn the envelope too?” Constance asked without much hope.

“Course I did.”

“Can you tell us anything about it?”

“It was an envelope. Like those in Keaton’s. What else is there to tell you?”

“Was it written by hand?” Solomon asked patiently.

“All in capital letters.”

“Well, what about the letter itself? I gather it was composed of letters and words cut from newspapers?”

Nolan nodded, curtly, and picked up his hammer again.

“What did it say?” Constance asked.

He glowered at her. “Some rubbish I paid no attention to.”

“And yet you told Dr. Chadwick about it. It must have affected you in some way,” Constance said.

Nolan glared at her. “It annoyed me at the time. Doctor’s got no cause to go pulling strangers in to talk about it.”

“Well, it seemed a good enough cause to him,” Solomon said. “And it would help us to know the wording of your letter.”

“We’re not here to judge the accuracy or otherwise of these accusations,” Constance added. “As you say, we are strangers and it’s not our business. But if we know who’s sending them, perhaps we can—er…discourage them. Do you know or suspect anyone?”

Nolan sighed. “No. Not sure I care. It said something like, Keep your fists away from the children or lose more than your temper .”

Constance blinked. “Do you beat your children, Mr. Nolan?”

“I don’t have any children,” he retorted. “If I did, I’d bring ’em up with more manners than some of those little tearaways. I have to chase hordes of them out the shop some days before they burn themselves. It’s not a toy shop in here.”

“No, indeed,” Constance soothed. She had once been quite used to the blows of the adults she annoyed, till she learned to avoid them by smiling and dodging. “Was there one particular incident when you had to do so, perhaps a little roughly?”

“Aye,” said the blacksmith, hitting the horseshoe before him with more aggression than seemed necessity. “School was out, and it was pouring wet, so they all came rampaging in here. Ain’t safe, is it? So I told ’em to get the hell out, and when they didn’t, I chased them.”

“With fists?” Solomon asked, just a little too smoothly.

“With fist, singular,” Nolan snarled, showing them his left hand suitably clenched. He sniffed. “Never touched them. Never had to. But…I had a red-hot shoe in my tongs. Forgot about it, to be honest, but it certainly made the little tikes run.”

“Did anyone see this happen?” Constance asked. “Apart from you and the children themselves?”

“Nope. They were all inside sheltering from the rain too.”

“Then who do you think sent you the note?” Solomon inquired.

Nolan shrugged. “That’s what I don’t know. One of the little b—children must have blabbed to their parents, though the parents don’t want their precious darlings in here any more than I do. They should be grateful to me, not threatening me.”

Solomon’s parting lips had a caustic look about them, so Constance barged in before he could speak and lose them whatever information Nolan might be harboring.

“That is a fair point,” she said. “Which children invaded your shop that day?”

“Oh, the lot of them. The Keaton brats. Edgar Chadwick, the doctor’s boy.

The Gimlet lad was there, a couple of Dickies, and the vicar’s twins, who’re the worst of the lot, only Mrs. Raeburn will never believe it.

They need a damn good hiding if you ask me, but that schoolteacher’s too lily-livered to do more than look at them—! ”

Nolan broke off and glared between them. “There. Know who it is yet?”

“Not for certain,” Constance said, “but you have been most helpful.”

“I have?” Nolan looked taken aback.

“Absolutely,” Solomon agreed. “Thank you for your time.”

As they left, they heard hammering start up again.

After the heat inside, Constance was glad of the cold wind to cool her face.

“Well? Who did he give away?” Solomon demanded.

“I have no idea. I just don’t want him to think he shouldn’t talk to us. We don’t want to be clueless strangers.”

“So, what are we?”

“Clueless strangers,” she said, smiling amiably at the two elderly ladies who were marching directly toward them. One swung an umbrella like a weapon of war, while the other commanded a walking stick at an impressive pace.

The ladies came to a halt in their path, forcing them to halt.

“Good day,” said the one armed with the stick. This close, she seemed younger than Constance’s original impression, somewhere between fifty and sixty, perhaps. She was a small, round person in well-made if old-fashioned clothing, and she bestowed an unexpectedly sweet smile upon them.

“Good day,” Constance replied, while Solomon tipped his hat.

“You must be Dr. Chadwick’s friends. Welcome to Sutton May.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m Jessica Mortimer—of Mortimer Manor, you know. This is my companion, Miss Jenson.”

Constance dipped a curtsey. Solomon bowed. “I’m Constance Silver. My partner, Mr. Grey.”

“How do you do?” Miss Jenson said. At first glance, she appeared to be the opposite of the first lady, being tall and almost stick thin, her expression one of brisk determination compared to the rather unworldly gaze of Miss Mortimer.

“We have been most curious to meet you,” Miss Mortimer said. “You are not at all what we expected, are they, Hannah?”

The thin Miss Jenson’s nostrils flared. “That remains to be seen.”

“Perhaps you would care to join us at the manor house for tea this afternoon?” Miss Mortimer asked.

“Thank you,” Constance said. “That would be lovely.”

Miss Jenson did not dispute it, though neither did she look delighted.

Miss Mortimer beamed. “Until tea, then. Goodbye!”