He didn’t dispute it. “The other spinster we know who lives alone, and has no doubt borne much scorn from the village, is Mavis Cartwright.”
“I was thinking that,” Constance said unhappily. “She was wronged by the Mortimers, even if Jessica gave her the box. She has to work for the Keatons in a menial role that she must resent, and they probably lord it over her, too. Nolan the blacksmith rejected her when she was pregnant. And she is powerless to fight back, except in a way that points no more fingers at her.”
“What about Mrs. Chadwick? What grudge could she possibly have against her?”
“I wondered about that. Especially as there’s a gap between most of the letters and Mrs. Chadwick’s. Perhaps she just felt strongly about the death of the Gimlets’ daughter, imagined her own grief and helplessness if Alice had died in such a way. I’m sure everyone in the village must know that Richard Gimlet tried to fetch the doctor the day before, and his wife didn’t pass on the message until the following day.”
“So she creeps around the village in the dark, delivering her anonymous scolds,” Solomon said. “Except for Miss Mortimer’s letter. How did it get into the pile of mail in the front hall of the manor?”
Constance sighed. “That, I don’t know. I can’t imagine her going near the manor. Unless she gave it to one of the servants to deliver.”
“Then why don’t we walk up to the manor now and discreetly question the servants?”
“Because we might miss Miss Fernie going out.”
“The thefts, if there truly were any, are not our primary concern,” Solomon reminded her. “If we solve this today, we can go home tomorrow and concentrate on keeping David out of prison.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” Constance objected.
“So it is. And on Sunday, Miss Fernie will most definitely go to church. As will the rest of the village.”
Constance began to smile. “Who won’t then catch us trespassing and peering in windows. You are not just a pretty face, are you, Mr. Grey?”
“I have always said so.”
“Then by all means, let us go the manor house kitchen.”
*
Quintin Ogden leanedagainst his bare apple tree and watched Sophie plant the last of his summer-flowering bulbs. He liked to watch her, for her movements were graceful as well as quick and efficient. He found the combination rather beautiful. Like Sophie herself.
Patting the earth, she glanced up and caught his gaze. “What are you smiling at?”
“You.” He stepped nearer and stretched down a hand to help her up. “Thank you for the bulbs.”
She accepted his help. He liked that too, for even through the thick gardening gloves, her touch warmed him. She smelled good, like flowers and grass after rain. Her breath gave a little hitch as she looked up at him, and he knew an urge to kiss her. He didn’t, because that would be imposing after her kindness.
She turned away, dropping his hand. “What is the time, Quint?”
He consulted his slightly battered old watch. “Ten minutes past two.”
“I had better go. I promised my father I would look in on the Gimlets.”
Obediently, he began to walk toward the path that led to the front gate. “How will you get there?”
“Walk, of course.”
The strength of his desire to go with her took him by surprise. Being a shy and humble man, he could see no reason why she should want his company, and yet she often did. For example, she had had no real reason to come today. Despite the gift of the bulbs, it was not a charitable visit, and he knew her mother didn’t like him.
But then, her mother liked Peregrine Mortimer, so her judgment was flawed.
“Should you have an escort?” he asked, trying to give her a way out and yet hoping she would say yes.
“No,” she said, and his spirits sank.
Now that he knew her, he was lonely without her. She calmed his spirit and spoke of interesting things, argued sensibly, and made him think. And she made him smile, just by the sound of her own laughter.
Well, he had the children’s work to mark.
