Constance blinked. “Seriously?”
“I think she has been getting a few ill feelings off her chest, but there may be truth in it. What is your impression of him?”
“Well, he cheats his aunt’s guests at cards. He is also young, too convinced of his own charm, and much too entitled. But I would have thought self-preservation alone would prevent his actually harming anyone. Do you think Miss Jenson might have sent the letters?”
“She certainly keeps her eyes open and judges,” Solomon said. “And though she denied knowing about Miss Mortimer’s letter, I could not be sure whether she was acting. But myimpression is she would tell someone their faults to their face, not disguise her identity in such a way.”
“Miss Fernie seems much the same in that regard. And I suppose they both fit the vicar’s theory of a judgmental spinster with too much time and too little power. Who is your next conversational target?”
“Miss Mortimer herself, to please Miss Jenson.”
“Then perhaps I shall speak to Mr. Lance from over the hill. Unlikely to be involved onthisside of the hill, perhaps, but his children do attend school here.”
“Good luck,” Solomon said, as she strolled on her way.
Approaching Miss Mortimer turned out to be easy, for she had stopped beside her companion at the little table where Solomon set down the plate and glass.
“Mr. Grey,” his hostess said, smiling at him, “I trust the luck of the cards has been with you?”
“I believe I am breaking even. Might I escort you to a table or bring you some refreshment?”
“What exquisite manners you have,” she replied, taking his arm. “Come to the fireside with me and let us talk.”
“Gladly,” Solomon said. Deciding his hostess would appreciate bluntness, he settled himself on a pouffe beside her and said at once, “Miss Jenson is concerned for your safety—and your nephew’s desperation.”
The old lady sighed. “Hannah is a silly old thing. As if I don’t know my own nephew. On the other hand, he does snipe at her verbally, which I have told him off for, so she is disposed to think the worst of him. He is undisciplined and a shocking hedonist, but truly, there is no harm in him. And if she is thinking of him as the writer of these letters—”
“I don’t think she is.” He searched for a tactful explanation of Miss Jenson’s fears. “Her concern is more that his need for money may overset his good sense and family devotion.”
“Well, she needn’t worry about that. How do your inquiries progress?”
“Slowly,” Solomon admitted. “The trouble is, we do not have a lifetime’s knowledge of these people, their histories, grudges—everything you, having lived here for so much of your life, will have absorbed over the years without noticing.”
“Ask me whatever you wish. Any loyalty I feel to Sutton May, which is considerable, must be balanced by the harm these foolish letters are doing. Suspicion and fear can quickly become intolerable, and that is when true tragedy occurs.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “You sound as if you speak from experience.”
“I am an old lady,” she said tartly. “Experience is not something I lack simply because I have chosen not to marry.”
Chosen not to marry. “Why did you make that choice?” he asked, because it appeared to be relevant. To her, if not to him.
“My mother did not have an easy life,” Miss Mortimer said, “which gave me, perhaps, a somewhat jaundiced view of marriage as an institution. And yet I have enjoyed my life and have, I believe, done some good in the world. At least in my little corner of it. Who is it you really want to know about?”
“Busybodies,” Solomon said. “Tell me about Miss Fernie. Are you friends?”
“Of a kind. We grew up together, the only girls of genteel family in the neighborhood at that time. Of course, her birth is better than mine, as she never tired of telling me, since her family is titled, and mine never was. On the other hand, mine is landed and my home my own, while hers lost the right to live in the vicarage when her father died.”
“Is that why she became a teacher?”
Miss Mortimer’s lips twitched. A sardonic gleam lit her eyes. “No, I think that was a favor she elected to bestow upon the children of Sutton May. To be fair, she really did teach themto read and write and count. But her pupils could recite poetry without feeling or understanding of the words. They could tell you the names of countries without knowing anything else about them. They could recite chunks of the Bible like automatons, with as much accuracy and as little feeling as they did their multiplication tables.”
“She taught by rote?”
“Onlyby rote.”
“Is she judgmental by nature?”
“I would say so, and not always rightly. But no, you are quite wrong if you imagine she would send me or anyone else an anonymous letter. She imagines her presence adds more weight to her pronouncements.”
