“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. Aphysical 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 rudeletter, sent, presumably, in a moment of frustration, never to be repeated.”
“But ithasbeen 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 meantliterally?”
“We are not ruling it out,” Constance said. “And I beg you to tell us immediately if such a thing does happen.”
*
When she hadseen 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.
