“That is the part I don’t understand. What would make her feel she had to?”
“If saying something to someone’s face might adversely affect her children?” Solomon suggested. “Though I admit I don’t quite see how it would.”
“She would not want to make an enemy of Miss Mortimer,” Constance said. “That was the first letter she sent. Perhaps she liked the feeling of power it gave her, so she sent the others to lowlier people, too.” She sighed. “No, I don’t quite buy that either, but then, I don’t really understand the mind workings of anyone who would send such letters. It’s interesting that the vicar has come across such things before. We should…”
She trailed off as someone hurried out of the church and walked toward them. A tall, thin woman in respectable if dull garb, apart from an unexpectedly bright hat decorated with artificial flowers.
“Is that not the woman who was praying in the church?” Constance murmured.
“It must have been a long prayer.”
“Indeed…” Catching the woman’s eye, Constance smiled. “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, ma’am, sir.” There might have been the faintest dip of a curtsey, as if she had once been in service, but Constance could find no sign of obvious servility in her manner or her direct, assessing gaze.
Constance stopped in front of her. “Did we not see you in the church a little while ago?”
“You did.”
“It is a very fine old church, is it not?”
“The little bell tower goes back to the fifteenth century, so the vicar says.”
“Then I suppose it must. I look forward to the Sunday service here.”
The woman’s eyes might have lightened a fraction in approval. “Mr. Raeburn preaches a fine sermon.”
“I felt sure he would! I’m Mrs. Silver, by the way. This is Mr. Grey.”
Her gaze flickered from one to the other as Solomon politely touched his hat. “Mavis Cartwright. I suppose you have just come from the vicarage?”
“We have.”
“You’ll have seen my Alice, then. She is parlor maid there.”
“She is your daughter? A very smart and polite girl. You must be proud of her.”
“I could not be prouder. Some think she should be working up at the manor house like I did, but I say she could not do better than be in the service of our own vicar.”
At something of a loss, Constance nodded in what she hoped was a sage manner.
“Have you always lived in Sutton May, Mrs. Cartwright?” Solomon asked.
“Born and bred here.”
“Do you find the village has changed much over the years?”
She blinked as though surprised by the question.
So was Constance.
“Not really,” Mrs. Cartwright said at last. “Mostly the same faces, new generations of the same families… Apart from the vicar, of course. And Dr. Chadwick. And the shop is bigger. They sell all sorts of things now that you’ll never need! Things the Mortimers and the Lances used to send to London for.”
“Is that not a good thing?” Solomon asked.
Mrs. Cartwright shrugged. “It’s adifferentthing.”
“Was it Mr. and Mrs. Keaton who expanded the shop?” Constance asked, catching on to the line of Solomon’s questioning.
