It took Constance several moments to realize that Ogden was giving a grammar lesson by pretending to be two differentpeople. One was calm and poised and just a little supercilious, and spoke correctly. The other scratched his head a lot and lumbered, saying the same things incorrectly. The teacher moved from place to place—and character to character—with one great leap of his long legs. It was so comical that Constance found herself smiling.
Then Ogden caught sight of her. Instead of looking shamefaced or jumping to attention, or even bolting to meet them at the door, he ignored everyone but the children.
Crouching down between the youngest two pupils, he gave them quick instructions and they reached obediently for their pencils.
Then he walked between the desks behind and spoke clearly. “You boys and girls, I want to write a story using as many as you can of the verbs we’ve been talking about. Your story can be as funny or as serious as you like, but your grammar should be perfect.”
Still smiling, the children opened their books and quietened down.
Ogden glanced at the older children, whose grins broadened, though they bent immediately to the work they’d been neglecting. The classroom was not deathly quiet, but everyone was busy. And comfortable.
Only then did Ogden walk to the classroom door and step outside. He closed the door behind him and swiveled so that he could see his pupils through the glass. There was nothing remotely awkward about him. This was his territory, his place, and he was comfortable in it.
“Yes?” he said.
“We met yesterday,” Solomon reminded him. “At the manor house.”
“Yes,” Ogden said again.
Constance tried a little flattery, though she suspected it was not so far from the truth. “You appear to be a gifted teacher. With unconventional methods.”
Solomon cast her a curious glance, as though wondering when she’d had time to observe any methods of education.
Ogden gave a shrug. “Children remember more when you make it funny. Or different. Do you want something?”
“I suppose we want your view of the village,” Constance said. “As an educated man. There has been some…unpleasantness.”
Ogden, apparently, had nothing to offer to that.
“It crossed our mind,” Solomon said, “that one of your pupils might have something to do with it. One who felt strongly about certain things.”
“What things?” Ogden asked, frowning.
“Some delay to the medical treatment of Jenny Gimlet, an accusation of theft made against Nell Dickie, the blacksmith’s chasing a crowd of children away from his forge while wielding a red-hot horseshoe, even some lack of responsibility by Miss Mortimer or her estate people.”
“Making sentences from newspaper cuttings seems quite…childish,” Constance said.
Ogden looked at her, then his eyes slid away. “The accusations you mention are not childish. And these are good children.”
“I heard some of them were a little wild.”
“Of course they are. They’re children. And most of them are too poor to buy the paper and envelopes you’re talking about.”
“I don’t recall talking about paper and envelopes,” Solomon said mildly.
Ogden’s lips twisted into a smile. “There are secrets in this village. That isn’t one of them. Excuse me.”
“One more thing,” Constance said before he could push open the classroom door again. “How well do you know Sophie Chadwick?”
This time he did look alarmed. A storm of color swept over his face, but he didn’t answer, merely bolted back into the classroom—where he once more transformed into the calm, authoritative teacher.
*
“What an extraordinaryyoung man,” Solomon said when they were walking around the square toward the church. “Would you lethimnear your girls?”
“Yes,” Constance said, “but I don’t think he would accept. I can see why Sophie likes him. He’s…different.”
“Different enough to send the letters? He certainly seemed to know all about them.”
