Miss Fernie might imagine herself wronged, but in fact, she had stolen.Shewas in the wrong. But she had denied receiving any letter. She might have lied, of course, but Constance didn’t particularly want to visit her alone to ask more forcefully.
Then there was Mavis Cartwright, whose illegitimate daughter was the vicar’s maid. Would Mavis not be a traditional target for moral outrage? The children certainly did not appear to respect her, which was probably learned from their parents. Perhaps she was worth talking to again.
Though neither Mavis nor her daughter had pushed Constance down the stairs. If that was related to the matter of the letters, then it was either Miss Fernie or Peregrine Mortimer. Neither of which seemed right.
There were more facts to collect. Someone had sent these letters, and however polite they were, however moral the intention, the nature of the act was malicious and frightening. Good people had been upset and made fearful of their neighbors. Suspicion had been sown, and in such an atmosphere, ill feeling could easily get out of hand. Constance had already been pushed down the stairs.
Her stomach rumbled. She gathered everything up off the bed and put it back in the desk drawer before she went downstairs for breakfast.
“Which house belongs to Mrs. Cartwright?” she asked the innkeeper’s wife.
“Mavis? First in Green Lane behind the square,” came the answer. “But you’re more likely to find her in church. Haunts the place, she does, poor old thing.”
Constance returned to her room, donned her hat and coat, and sallied forth to church. She hoped she would find Mavis there, for it struck her that the woman might be more inclined to tell the truth—whatever that might be—in God’s house.
In fact, she sat in the same pew as before, or at least knelt there, clearly praying. Unwilling to interrupt her, Constance walked quietly around the church, admiring a stained-glass window and enjoying the sense of timeless peace generally found in churches. She could understand why a troubled soul would come here so often.
When the figure in the corner rose from her knees to her seat, Constance walked toward her, though she gazed up at the vaulted ceiling in an admiring kind of way.
“Good morning,” she said, as though noticing Mavis for the first time—then, as the other woman jumped to her feet, “Don’t let me disturb you.”
“You’re not. It’s time I got on, anyway. I’ll come back later.”
Constance sat down next to the place Mavis had been occupying. “Do you know all about the church and its history?”
“Not really. Mr. Raeburn is most knowledgeable, though.”
“Then I shall ask him. Actually, it’s quite fortuitous I ran into you here. I had been going to call on you later.”
Mavis blinked. “You had?”
“Indeed. Knowing the village as well as you must…”
“Idle tongues…” Mavis began, bridling visibly.
“Oh, not idle,” Constance said, hoping she looked suitably shocked at the very idea. “I’m sure you know—because everyone else seems to—that Mr. Grey and I have been asked to look into the matter of some unpleasant letters sent anonymously to various people in the village.”
To her relief, Mavis sat down again. “Mrs. Chadwick. That’s why the doctor brought you.”
“Yes, but it isn’t just Mrs. Chadwick who has received one. I believe you were the late Mrs. Mortimer’s personal maid? Did you know her daughter well?”
Redness mottled Mavis’s face. “Miss Jessica? Yes, of course. Lovely girl, she was.”
“Pretty? Good-natured?”
“Oh yes. I was always surprised she didn’t marry.”
“Were they a kind family to work for?”
“Oh yes.” Mavis slid her gaze free. “The kindest.”
“But they wouldn’t keep you on,” Constance said delicately, “once you had your baby?”
“Well, they couldn’t really, could they?” Mavis gave a quick glare, shifting on the pew. She seemed to catch sight of the altar and the cross behind it and groaned. “I sinned, but I won’t add to it in this place. They had to turn me off because of the father.”
Constance caught the other woman’s rather desperate gaze. “The father of your child?”
Mavis closed her eyes. “Mr. Mortimer,” she whispered.
