“I’m not convinced other people’s lives impinge on him to that degree. He was certainly defensive of the children.”
“But was he telling the truth that none of them did it?”
“Would he know?” she countered. “Even parents aren’t always aware what their children are capable of. He’s probably correct that most of them wouldn’t be able to buy paper and envelopes, but some of them probably could—Dr. Chadwick’s son, Edgar, for example, and the Keaton children, whom we haven’t met yet.”
“But possibly not the Gimlets or the Dickies? The paper could be stolen or provided by friends. Or the children could be in alliance.”
Constance groaned. “How would we ever find that out? We cannot go about interrogating other people’s children.”
“It was just a thought,” Solomon said mildly. “And we haven’t yet met anybody’s children. Does the vicar have any?”
“He’s bound to.”
They found the vicar inside the village church, which was a small, rather charming old place with pews very close together. He wore his vestments, which bunched around his legs as he strode down the aisle toward them.
“Good morning,” he said in surprise, coming to a halt. “Might I be of assistance?”
“I hope so,” Solomon said. “My name is Grey. This is Mrs. Silver. We are friends of—”
“Of Dr. Chadwick,” the vicar said. “So I heard.” He thrust out his hand. “Luke Raeburn. Vicar of this parish.”
Constance became aware of a lone woman sitting at the very end of the front pew, her head bent in prayer. Behind them, the church door opened again.
Shaking the vicar’s hand, Constance said, “Could we talk in private, Mr. Raeburn?”
“Of course, of course. Come back to the vicarage!”
The vicarage was a rambling house, probably built in the previous century, just outside the churchyard. “Come in, come in,” Mr. Raeburn said hospitably. “It’s lovely and quiet at this time of the morning, since the children are all at school!”
Constance pounced on the subject. “How old are your children?”
“Fourteen, twelve, eight, and seven,” the vicar replied proudly.
“Do they attend the village school?”
“They do indeed, and they are all getting on very well. Even the girls. And I have hopes my eldest will follow my footsteps into the church.”
“Then he will go to university?” Solomon said. “Will he need to go to a different school first?”
“Oh, no. Mr. Ogden is an excellent tutor. Odd sort of a fellow, but nothing wrong with his intellect. Got a double first atCambridge, you know. I did wonder just at first if the children would mind him, but they do… Come into the study, and then when we’ve talked, my wife will give us tea. Sit down! Now, how can I help you?”
The vicar’s study was a comfortable room where he clearly spent a good deal of time. Books lined the walls and cluttered the large desk in the window on which a long sermon—or perhaps some theological paper—appeared to be half written.
Mr. Raeburn indicated two winged armchairs by the fire and pulled over another chair from his desk to join them. After poking the fire into life and adding another log, he sat down and smiled. Behind round spectacles, his eyes sparkled with interest.
“Perhaps you are aware of Dr. Chadwick’s concerns,” Solomon began.
“About his wife’s nasty letter? Yes indeed, he told me. He was concerned that others in the village might have received similar letters, but I could not help him there.”
“Because of your duty of confidentiality?” Constance asked. “Or because you had heard of no other letters?”
The spectacles winked in a passing beam of watery sunshine through the window. Mr. Raeburn shifted position to avoid it. “People can be…ashamed to receive such missives, not just because of the objectionable content and accusations that may or may not be true, but because someone they know dislikes them enough to send them such a thing. To say nothing of the fear that secrets or lies might be revealed to the whole community.”
“I can understand those fears,” Constance said.
“Some people need someone to talk to,” the vicar said, “and that, in general, would be me. To others, I would be the last person to confide in just because of my calling and the shame they might feel in front of me.”
“I see,” Solomon said, holding the vicar’s gaze. “Perhaps you can tell us how many such letters you are aware of?”
