“We were wondering,” Constance said, deciding to start with the easier question, “if you happened to witness an incident inthe village shop, maybe three or four weeks ago? The shop was busy and Mrs. Keaton was showing a selection of new silk shawls to the vicar’s wife.”
“Was she?”
Mrs. Gimlet probably hadn’t noticed. No doubt her daughter was already ill… “One of the shawls disappeared and Mrs. Keaton thought Nell Dickie took it. She asked her to leave.”
“And threatened her with Mr. Heron, the constable. I do remember that. Poor Nell. The Dickies get blamed for everything.”
“With justification?”
“Maybe. Sometimes. But what on earth would Nell want with a silk shawl? It won’t keep her or her babies warm, will it?”
“She could sell it or exchange it for something that would.”
“She could. Maybe.” Mrs. Gimlet didn’t look convinced. But she didn’t look particularly upset either.
“Then you didn’t see her steal it?”
“I didn’t see anyone steal anything. I was looking for a tincture to make my little Jenny better.”
“I heard about your loss,” Constance said quickly. “I’m very sorry.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Gimlet said mechanically.
“Um…did you happen to hear what passed between Mrs. Keaton and Nell Dickie?”
“Not really. I heard Nell raise her voice and then Mrs. Keaton sent her out and threatened her with Constable Heron. Her little lad looked terrified.”
“Are the Keatons kind people?” Constance asked. “Are they liked in the village?”
“I never thought about it,” Mrs. Gimlet said with a shrug. “They’re important to us—because of the shop. And church. They’re charitable people. Gossip, of course, but they hear everything from everyone, and who wouldn’t, in that position?”
It was the most she’d said at one time, but there was no animation, let alone strong feeling, in her voice.
“Can Nell read?” Solomon asked.
“No, I don’t think so. Neither can old Harry nor Hen. The children must do, though.”
“Why do you say that?”
Mrs. Gimlet shrugged. “Because they go to the village school, same as mine. Mr. Ogden makes sure they all read and write, makes no difference between any of them.”
Solomon met Constance’s gaze. “Interesting.”
“How many children do you have, Mrs. Gimlet?” Constance asked.
“Just the one now. Richard. He’s eleven. Broke his little heart when his sister died. I told him she was with God now, and he said he hated God.”
“It will take time,” Constance said, feeling stupid and helpless, because nothing she said could help a mother, a family, with such grief.
But the woman nodded in acknowledgment. “He hated everyone for a bit.”
Very reluctantly, Constance said, “Including the doctor?”
“At first. But there was nothing Dr. Chadwick could do. She was just too ill. Maybe if he’d come sooner…”
“Did you ask him to?”
“I sent Richard to him, and he spoke to Mrs. Chadwick. Doctor came the next day, and our Jenny was dead by evening.” Mrs. Gimlet stood up, unable to be still. “A cup of tea, maybe? Or some ale? We make our own—Fred says it’s better than the stuff at the Goose.”
