He went, almost creeping down the stairs to the front door. Listening to the silence of the house, he eased open the door and strode into the street with a massive sense of relief.
He doubted he’d ever go back.
*
After a lightluncheon at the inn, during which they picked the innkeeper’s brains as to who drank with whom of an evening,they repaired to Constance’s room to re-examine and update her lists.
“It seems to be more or less as you’d expect in a small community,” Solomon said, throwing himself into the comfortable chair with a sense of discontent. “They all drink amiably together with a certain amount of egalitarianism, but more private discussions are also accepted. Such as the doctor drinking with the vicar, young Mortimer, and the Lances from ‘over the hill.’ Gimlet and Nolan appear to be friends. Dickie occasionally causes trouble but picks on no one in particular and never gets barred for more than an evening when someone always takes him home. There seems to be noenmityamong the men of the village.”
“Apart from Mortimer and Ogden,” Constance pointed out.
“Is that enmity? Ogden never fought back.”
“Unless Mortimer too has received a letter and simply didn’t tell us.”
“Do you believe that?”
Constance sighed. “No.”
“We haven’t actually spoken to the policeman yet, either. Heron.”
“True. I think we need to…” She trailed off, frowning at her lists. “Miss Mortimer’s letter arrived just over four weeks ago. Then the following week came the Keatons’ and Nolan’s. Then there was a gap until Mrs. Chadwick’s, just over one week ago.”
“Is that significant?”
“Well, the first three were sent in quite a flurry, weren’t they? And then she—or whoever the sender is—seems to have given it up, either because it’s ineffective or because she’s afraid of being caught. And then she can’t help herself sending one to Mrs. Chadwick because of the tragedy of Jenny Gimlet.”
Constance spread out the two letters they had and Miss Mortimer’s envelope, which Solomon picked up.
“It looks like an adult hand to me. Not a child’s.”
“It could be an older child,” Constance argued. “We’re missing something. Perhaps we’ll need to catch someone actually putting the letters under someone’s door, like Mr. Raeburn’s previous experience.”
“So when is our culprit doing this?” Solomon said. “Is it someone who has easy access to all those houses? Or do they shove the letters under the door in the dead of night?”
Constance sat up straighter. “It comes back to children again. They run from house to house all the time, looking for playmates, or just playing some game. Or running errands for their parents.”
“The village children wouldn’t be able to just wander into Miss Mortimer’s front hall, where, presumably, her letter was found.”
“True. Though we don’t actually know the precise timings of each delivery. Perhaps we should walk home from the manor house this evening and see who is out and about.”
Solomon’s lips twisted. “Most of the village seems to know what we’re about. They’re hardly likely to go sending more anonymous letters while we’re poking around.”
“Perhaps we should just behave badly and hope the culprit will send a letter to us!”
“It may come to that,” Solomon said with some frustration. “It all seems rather…trivial.”
She met his gaze. “I think we probably need to observe everyone at Miss Mortimer’s party this evening. But I think tomorrow morning you should catch an early train back to London and see how things are.”
He didn’t want to leave her. But she was right. Part of him needed to assuage the guilt of leaving David. Again. He needed to know. “I can come back the same day.”
Her lip twitched. She knew he had already checked the railway timetable.
“You won’t do anything outrageous while I’m gone, just to inspire a letter?”
“I might. If something springs to mind.” She gathered up the papers and shoved them in the drawer of the rickety desk. “Come on, let’s go and skulk around the policeman’s house and the school.”
*
