Page 9 of Word of the Wicked (Murder in Moonlight #5)

“I could almost imagine I’d met the queen,” Solomon murmured, “only a couple of decades into the future.”

“I wonder what she wants with us? Keeping her eye on her kingdom, I suppose.”

“Or she knows something she wishes to impart.”

“That will be interesting. What shall we buy at the Keatons’ shop?”

“Anything you like,” Solomon replied when he had opened the door, for the shop was positively stuffed with goods, from newspapers to bedsheets, children’s sweets to sides of ham hanging at the back. Constance particularly noticed a shelf full of notepaper and envelopes.

The shop seemed to go on for miles, with little space between the packed shelves to move around. Constance could see no other customers but became aware of a woman in an apron waving from behind a crowded counter of cakes and sweets.

“Good day!” the woman said amiably. “Can I help you?”

“I’m certain you can,” Solomon said, gazing around him. “Is there anything you don’t sell?”

“Fresh meat,” the woman said at once. “But the ham is very popular.”

“It does look good,” Constance said.

“I expect you’ll have it for breakfast at the Blue Goose.”

“Mrs. Keaton?” Solomon said, removing his hat.

“Indeed!” The woman squeezed out from behind the counter. “Come through to the back…”

The back did not mean beneath the hanging ham, but through a half-hidden door at the side, where a middle-aged man was discovered seated at a table, munching a sandwich. He half rose in alarm as they invaded his territory.

“Ralph, my husband,” Mrs. Keaton said, almost apologetically.

Solomon offered his hand. “Solomon Grey. And my partner, Mrs. Silver. I believe Dr. Chadwick has mentioned why we are here.”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Keaton twittered, “though it’s a difficult situation and I’m not quite sure… Impossible to know what’s best.”

“I don’t think that can be decided until we know the facts,” Solomon said, while he and Constance squashed in around the table with their hosts.

Constance felt the urge to laugh as her wide skirts enfolded Solomon’s legs as well as the table’s. “Dr. Chadwick said you had destroyed the anonymous letter you received.”

“Despicable thing,” Mr. Keaton said, shoving his empty plate toward his wife. “I don’t know what the world is coming to. Nor do I know—meaning no offense, Mr. Grey—why Chadwick had to go stirring things up by calling in strangers to investigate.”

“I believe he hopes to stop it happening again,” Constance said. “I take it you have received just the one such letter?”

“And one is more than enough,” Mrs. Keaton said with a theatrical shudder.

“What exactly did the letter say, ma’am?” Constance asked.

Mrs. Keaton flapped her hands. “Oh, I don’t remember exactly.”

“It said ,” Mr. Keaton pronounced, glaring, “that bearing false witness led to the ruin of the accuser and we should repent. As if we don’t go to church like decent Christian folk!”

“Then the letter was definitely accusing you?” Solomon said. “What was it referring to?”

The husband and wife were carefully avoiding each other’s gazes while a moment’s uncomfortable silence passed.

Then Mrs. Keaton flapped her hands again.

“All we can think of is an incident in the shop. It was busy at the time, and both Ralph and I were run off our feet serving different people. We had these rather pretty little shawls in stock—silk, they are. Miss Mortimer bought one for Miss Jenson’s birthday, so that shows you the quality…

“Anyway, I was showing a few of them to Mrs. Raeburn—the vicar’s wife, you know—and while she was making up her mind, I went to serve Mrs. Johnstone.

And when I went back to Mrs. Raeburn, she’d gone and so had one of the shawls, and that Nell Dickie was standing there looking guilty with her youngest in tow.

I asked her if she’d dropped the shawl—giving her a chance to make it right—and she denied it, so I asked her to leave.

Told her not to come back or I’d send for Constable Heron. ”

“And had she stolen the shawl?” Constance asked.

“Someone had, for I never saw it again,” Mrs. Keaton said with an air of triumph.

“And yet this Nell Dickie remained in the shop waiting to be served? While Mrs. Raeburn vanished? Didn’t you think Mrs. Raeburn was more suspicious?”

Both Keatons looked shocked.

“She’s the vicar’s wife!” Mrs. Keaton exclaimed.

Perhaps her husband read something in Constance’s face—or Solomon’s—for he said quickly, “You have to know the local people. The Dickies are all a waste of space. It’s not the first time one of them’s been caught thieving.

But times are hard, and Faye made the kind decision not to charge her. We bear the cost of that theft.”

“I see,” Solomon said. “And you think that was the incident referred to in the anonymous letter? So do you think this Nell Dickie might have sent it? One of her family?”

Keaton scratched his head. “I’d be surprised, to be honest. Not because I think it’s beneath them, but because they’re illiterate.”

“How many of them are there?” Constance asked.

“Dickies? There’s the old man, Harry—he can’t walk anymore. His son, Hen and Nell, the wife—no better than a gypsy, if you ask me—and Lord knows how many brats. Four?”

“Five,” said Mrs. Keaton. “I think.”

“And how long was it,” Solomon inquired, “between this incident of the missing shawl, and your receiving the anonymous letter?”

“A couple of days,” Keaton said. “Maybe three?”

“You said the shop was busy,” Constance pursued. “Did your other customers see and hear what went on between you and Mrs. Dickie?”

The Keatons did exchange glances then.

“Maybe,” Mrs. Keaton said reluctantly. “I kept my voice down, and she slunk off like the guilty creature she is, grateful not to have the constable after her, but Mrs. Johnstone might have heard. And Miss Fernie, who was waiting to be served.”

“There was one of those uncomfortable silences when Nell had gone,” Mr. Keaton offered. “But no one said anything, even Peregrine Mortimer, who was in buying cigars at the time.”

“Peregrine Mortimer?” Solomon asked.

“He’s staying up at the manor. Miss Mortimer’s nephew.”

“Ah. Was anyone else there?”

“Tilly Gimlet, poor soul.”

“The woman who lost her daughter to diphtheria?” Constance asked.

“That’s her. It wasn’t that long before poor little Jenny died…” Mrs. Keaton glanced upward as though to heaven.

“Do you think it could have been any of those people who sent you the letter?” Solomon asked.

“Oh, no!” the Keatons said at once, quite emphatically.

“Then do you have any idea who did?”

They shook their heads.

“None at all,” Mrs. Keaton said. “Never happened before in Sutton May. I think someone’s gone mad—which is how we came to speak to Dr. Chadwick about it, since if someone round here was mad, he’d be likeliest to know.

And then it turned out his wife had received a letter, too.

Which is ridiculous, Mrs. Chadwick being such a good woman. She goes to church, too.”

*

“I don’t even know where to begin,” Constance said as they walked back toward the Blue Goose in search of sustenance.

“Possibly without the judgment you so dislike in Mrs. Keaton,” Solomon murmured.

Constance cast him a glance of disapproval, though her eyes held a rueful twinkle. “Was I that obvious?”

“Not to them.”

“You’re right, though. I don’t know any of these people or their backgrounds. But we do seem to be collecting quite a list of suspects. Interesting that Mrs. Gimlet was in the shop to witness the accusation. It connects her to both letters.”

“Maybe. We should certainly go and speak to her.”

“And to the vicar’s wife,” Constance said.

“To accuse her of stealing a silk shawl from the Keatons’ shop?”

“To see if she has received an anonymous letter accusing her of it,” Constance corrected him.

“A good point worth asking.” Solomon drew her hand into the crook of his arm.

“But this is going to be next to impossible to narrow down. I doubt the perpetrator of the Keaton letter had to have been in the shop the day of the theft. Word of the incident would have spread around the village like wildfire, including the Keatons’ account of it, because I don’t imagine they kept it themselves, however discreet she claims to have been to the unfortunate Nell Dickie. Someone else we should speak to.”

He suspected they would need to speak to the entire village before they were finished. And it was not going to be the quick case he had hoped for. He thought uneasily of David and the dead merchant and the police waiting to pounce—and wondered if he should have stayed in London.

*

It was still morning when Janey swaggered into the Crown and Anchor, the silent Lenny Knox at her heels. The place was dark and dingy, and it stank. But at this hour of the day, it was at least relatively quiet, with only a few elbow movements in the gloom to disturb the rancid air.

“’Ere, you got a rozzer on your doorstep,” Janey threw at the potman who was heaving a barrel into place behind the counter.

“Bloody peelers,” the potman said bitterly. “Not my fault someone croaked outside my pub. What you want?”

“A pint and a half,” Lenny said. “And have you got any work?”

“What d’you think? Course I don’t.”

Janey sniffed. “Wouldn’t work here anyhow, with murderers and peelers all over the place. Who was he, then? Who done him in?”

“How would I know? Happened outside, didn’t it?”

“Probably whoever he was drinking with,” Lenny said wisely, picking up the mug that was almost slammed in front of him.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” said the potman. “Again. ’Cause he left well before the dead cove.”

“Could have lain in wait, though, couldn’t he?” Janey said, and then, as the potman began to look suspicious, she added, “Where is there work going, then? Preferably somewhere no one gets murdered.”

“Thought of Mayfair?” the potman sneered.

“Good idea,” Janey said, nudging Lenny. “Fetch the carriage, James!” She went off into bawls of laughter.

“Cut it out, girl,” Lenny said roughly. “Let’s go. That rozzer makes me nervous.”