“So you do,” Solomon agreed, sitting down at his desk, more to pacify her for a few moments than because the letters interested him. His mind was already dashing ahead to his own records at St. Catherine’s, and to who among his staff and acquaintances might have relevant information. He rifled through the letters at high speed, took one out and told her to mark the appointment in the book, then came across one from his man of business that brought him to a halt. It was about a house for sale that the solicitor felt sure would suit.
Solomon blinked at it. Had he really forgotten that he and Constance needed somewhere to live together? Far too much had been pushed out of the way to accommodate cases recently.Or to avoid the appearance of overeagerness or unwanted pressure. And it was not making them happy.
He folded that letter and stuffed it in his pocket, too. “The rest can wait,” he told Janey. “All else is well?”
“Course it is.”
“Then I’ll see you in an hour or two.”
Chapter Thirteen
Emmeline herself escortedConstance to the front door. There was a small table in the hall with writing materials and a pen, presumably for the use of callers who missed the doctor and did not wish to confide in his wife or his maid. Constance had noticed this both times she had called. Now, however, three letters lay in a neat heap at the side.
It struck her that they had been too often distracted by the personalities in this case to concentrate on the practicalities.
She halted and turned to her hostess. “Tell me again how your letter was delivered. When and where did you first see it?”
“It was there, where these letters are now, when I first came downstairs that morning.”
“And were you up early?”
“About eight of the clock, I suppose. Charles had already gone off on a call to one of the distant farms.”
“And how did it get on to the table? Did someone leave it there?”
“It had been pushed under the door. Nora—our maid—picked it up and put it there.”
“Do you know what time that was?”
“Well before seven. The letter was on the floor when she came downstairs, so she picked it up and put it on the table. Charles saw it there when he went out about half past seven.”
“And none of you saw or heard anyone approach the house who might have delivered it during the night or very early that morning?”
Emmeline shook her head.
“What time did you all go to bed the night before?”
Emmeline rubbed one finger across her forehead as though trying to dredge up the details from her memory. “Charles and I went up around ten, I think. Sophie was still in the parlor, reading something. We had to tell Edgar to put out his candle in his room. Sophie nodded off in the parlor, reading, but she was in bed by midnight, she says.”
“And the letter was not here by then?”
“She would have seen it and put it on the table, but she didn’t. It was Nora who picked it up.”
So, at some time between midnight and seven in the morning, someone had pushed the note under the front door.
Constance nodded her thanks and wished Emmeline good morning.
Continuing on her way, she at last found the village constable at home. He opened the door in his shirt sleeves, and his jaw dropped.
“Constable Heron?” she asked brightly. “I wonder if I might have your help.”
His long, rather lugubrious face colored beneath his whiskers, and he mumbled something incomprehensible. Only the fact that he stood back told her she was being invited in.
He directed her into the small room on the left that was furnished with a desk at its center, and two chairs, one on either side of it. Mumbling an excuse, he bolted while she sat in the visitor’s chair and reappeared a few moments later buttoning his coat.
“How can I help you, ma’am?” he asked more coherently.
“To be honest, I am not quite sure. My name is Constance Silver, as you probably know. I suspect you also why Mr. Grey and I are in Sutton May.”
