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 Fayemade 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.”
