*
“I don’t evenknow 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 stillmorning 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, “Whereisthere 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.”
“Maybe he’s got work for the likes of you,” the potman said with a grin.
“I’ll ask,” Janey said. “Put in a word for you and all, if you like!” She let out another shriek of laughter as they abandoned more than half their ale and lurched off out the door. She was pleasantly surprised by how well Lenny played along, even holding her up as they staggered out the door.
“’Ere!” she addressed the tall-hatted policeman. “You got a rotten job, ain’t ya? That’s an ’orrible place, in there. Wouldn’t work there for all the tea in China!”
“Nor for the beer, neither,” Lenny muttered.
