Chapter Ten
Hetty, Fiona, and I waited outside the shop while the young people paid for their purchases. “What a rude man.” Hetty followed her statement with a few tuts. “Berating his wife and sister like that. They were simply trying to help.”
“They were trying something,” Fiona said with a wry tone.
“I believe it was my patience.” Hetty scowled, but Fiona held firm.
“You must admit they have a way of making a long story out of the thinnest scrap of information. Imagine you are Mr. Digby and must listen to that day in and day out. Now I understand why he rarely comes to the mercantile.” She rolled her eyes at the thought.
“They were very helpful,” I said. “I didn’t mind listening at all, and while I, too, thought Mr. Digby a bit ill mannered, I suppose I can understand the impulse.” I glanced at Hetty. “It seemed to me that you slept through most of the talk, so I think you, of all people, would forgive Mr. Digby.”
Hetty frowned. “I may understand, but I don’t forgive. I can’t abide a high-handed man.”
“Fortunately for Gilliam, he is considerate of your feelings and opinion,” I said.
“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “I suppose he is.”
That seemed such a lackluster response to my compliment of her beau that my heart sank.
I worried afresh that something was troubling Hetty in regards to Gilliam.
I would have loved to pursue the matter, but it would have to wait since the three children, along with Lissette and Christine, had emerged from the mercantile and skipped down the two steps from the shop to the pavement.
“Where are we off to now?” Lissette asked.
Her question reminded me that we had intended to see if anyone was in need of our assistance. I mentioned it to Fiona. “Once we began our conversation with Mrs. Digby, I completely forgot to inquire.”
“Not to worry,” she replied. “We can check with the vicar. He will surely know who might need our help.” She raised her voice so everyone else could hear. “For now, I suggest we go to the pub for a nice lunch.”
It was a good idea, and the children showed their agreement by skipping down the street toward the pub.
The sign suspended over the door identified it as THE STRAY DOG with pink lettering on a black background.
There wasn’t much I missed about my previous marriage or my days of living in the country, at Harleigh Manor, but I did have fond memories of village life in Surrey.
As the lady of the local manor, I was welcomed by the villagers but not fully a part of them or taken into their confidence, as Fiona was.
But then we never had anyone like the Digby ladies in our village.
The Stray Dog was exactly what a village pub ought to be.
Not merely a place for men to have a pint, though I did see men inside who had a pint along with their lunches.
There were also the local shopkeepers, men and women, taking a lunch break from their work.
The namesake dog, a medium-sized black beast with a pink bow on its collar, napped on the floor beside the bar.
Everyone knew everyone else, with the exception of Hetty, me, and the trio.
Even Gregory and Grace greeted the proprietress.
Agnes Worth was a stout woman with round cheeks who looked to be upward of fifty.
She was dressed in a very dignified manner in a navy-blue high-collared dress.
Her hair was drawn up in an efficient twist. She looked rather fierce but, according to Fiona, was a friend to all, including stray dogs.
The current one was the third for which she provided a home.
Each time she repainted her sign to match the dog.
“Good day, Lady Fiona,” she called out.
Fiona gestured for the rest of us to take a table while she ordered a hot lunch for our group. She joined us at the long trestle table once we were all settled. “Agnes says they have a large shepherd’s pie that might do for all of us, unless someone is particularly hungry?”
We had just agreed that this would be fine when Agnes stepped up to the table with a heavy tray filled with our drinks and a basket of bread.
“I’ve got ginger beer for the nippers and shandies for the rest,” she said, doling out the mugs.
“Have you heard about poor Dr. Penhollow, my lady?” she asked as she moved the bread from tray to table.
“We found him,” Gregory said in a cheerful voice.
Agnes’s eyes grew round. “Did you? That’s awful!”
Fiona quelled her son with a look before he could regale Agnes with details of our discovery.
“It was certainly not an encounter I’d wish to repeat,” I told her. “Were you a friend of the Penhollows?”
“Naw,” she said. “Well, Ada and Beatrice are nice enough, but—” She reddened and cut herself off, clearly realizing she was about to speak ill of the dead. “I really don’t know them well,” she said instead. “They are new folk.”
Goodness, almost four years wasn’t long enough to establish oneself in the village?
She straightened and slipped the tray under her arm. “Still, I was sorry to hear of his passin’. I wonder if Mr. Timms knows?”
“I doubt the word of Dr. Penhollow’s death has traveled as far as Cromer yet,” Fiona said.
“Mebee not,” Agnes said, “but Mr. Timms is sittin’ right over there.
” She jerked her head toward a table across the room, by the wall, where a lone man sat eating a small meat pie while a pint of ale waited near his hand.
From this distance, he appeared to be in his later years and of average size, with a thick head of white hair.
“I wonder what brings him to Badenworth?” Fiona asked.
Agnes shrugged. “He’s in the village about once a week.” She cast a glance over our table. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll have your food out to you shortly.” She spun on her heel and headed back to the bar.
Fiona touched my arm. “Do you suppose he knows about Dr. Penhollow?”
“I think I shall have to ask him,” I said.
“I’d rather not go with you,” she said, giving me a sheepish look. “I’m known here, and it wouldn’t be good for me to be seen approaching single men, regardless of their age.”
It was one man—on his own, not necessarily single—but I understood her point. Gossip spread like wildfire in a village atmosphere. On the other hand, I ought not speak with him alone, either.
“May I go with you, Auntie Frances?” Gregory’s eyes were aglow with excitement. “You are looking for clues, aren’t you?” Beside him, Rose was squirming in her seat. There would be no accepting Gregory’s company without including Rose—and probably Grace, too.
“You children will stay here with me,” Fiona said firmly. “Auntie Frances needs to have a private word with Mr. Timms.”
“But she ought to have a male relative accompany her when she speaks to him,” Gregory said. Heavens, he was actually making a good argument. Or at least a proper one.
“Not this time, Gregory, dear,” I said. “A female adult will be just as acceptable under these circumstances. Hetty, will you join me?”
She glanced up from her conversation with Lissette. I explained who was sitting at the table by himself, and she quickly agreed.
It was impossible to cross the room unobserved.
Mr. Timms was the only person seated on that side of the pub, and though the tables we passed by were empty, as the only moving objects in the area, we drew attention from every corner, certainly from Mr. Timms, who came to his feet before we even arrived at his table.
“Good day, ladies,” he said. “May I be of some service to you?”
I introduced Hetty and myself and explained that I did indeed wish to beg some information from him.
“Would you care to join me?” he asked, immediately pulling out a chair at the table.
I gestured for Hetty to take that chair, and waving away his offer of assistance, I slid into an empty one on his other side, so Hetty and I flanked him.
Once he was seated, I struggled for a way to begin this conversation.
That’s when I recalled that he was from Cromer.
“Can you tell us the condition of the roads from the north?” I asked.
“My husband and Sir Robert were recruited by Sergeant Hewitt to assist in clearing the roads to the east coast. I was wondering how bad things were around Cromer.”
He gave me a warm smile. “I was traveling by train, but I’ve heard the main road to Cromer is clear.
The east coastline took the worst of the storm, but I hear they have plenty of help and the crews are making good progress.
You may rest easy, madam. Your husband should be back home to you in a day, possibly two, most assuredly by Christmas. ”
“Did you arrive just today?” Hetty asked. Bless her. She was the perfect teammate.
“Yesterday. I took the afternoon train.”
Too late, then—if he was telling the truth, that is. But he must be known in the village. The stationmaster or one of the clerks might have noticed him and would likely recall if Mr. Timms arrived in the afternoon or the morning.
“Then perhaps you have already heard the news,” I said.
He slid his fingers around the mug of ale. “If you are referring to the death of Dr. Penhollow, then you are right. I have heard.” He brought the mug to his lips and took a deep swig.
Wondering if he had anything more to say, we waited until he set his drink down and tapped his mustache with his napkin. Finally, he did. “I understand he was found on the Nash estate.”
“He was,” I said. “In a field between Hadley Grange and the village. It was rather a frightful discovery.”
His eyes widened. “You found him?”
“I and Lady Fiona.” No point dragging the children into this.
“Then you must know what happened to him?” His inflection turned the statement into a question—a rather demanding one at that.
“I’m afraid we don’t,” I said. “There were no obvious wounds, so our initial reaction was to assume he died of natural causes.”
Mr. Timms frowned. “Heart attack or some such?”