Chorus
Like any other day, I woke to the peal of morning church bells and rose to make the pasties, boiling the onions, potatoes, swedes, and beef before filling the shortcrust, crimping the edges, and popping the pasties into the oven.
Jack always rose as the aroma began to fill the cottage.
He dressed, washed his face, and broke his fast with tea and bread with milk.
It was my habit to wrap a pasty from the first batch and hand it to him as he walked out the door.
I thought he might ask about the number of them I was making this morning, now that he expected me to give up my job.
But Jack was usually too tired from work and foggy from the previous night’s drink to pay much attention to what I did—so long as meals appeared at the expected times—and today was no different.
He never said much in the mornings, and today he kept silent, avoiding my gaze until I was putting the still-warm pasty into his hand.
“You’ll be all right today?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, lifting my chin.
A tiny, tired smile tugged at his lips. “There’s my girl,” he said, and this glimpse of the old Jack wrenched my heart.
Never mind that the whites of his eyes were veined with red, and he looked like he’d hardly slept.
“Nothing’s going to bother you if you stay close to the cottage,” he cautioned gently.
I gave him a short nod, though my face grew hot.
“I’m sorry things can’t be different.”
He might have been referring to a hundred things, but I knew what he meant: Sorry about The Magpie. His words seemed to make plain what I had already feared—that he had no idea of letting me go back, even once the dog, or whatever it was, had been caught.
Truth was, the attack on Mr. Roscoe had given him a reason for doing something he’d wanted to for a long time.
I always figured Jack grumbled about The Magpie because it made me happier, and he couldn’t be happy.
Maybe also because of how it had changed me.
I felt like I understood the world a little better from being around people who were different.
And certainly from reading Mrs. Moyle’s books.
Jack couldn’t escape the life he’d been born to. I guessed he didn’t want me to, either.
He turned and started for Wheal Enys, kicking a lone dandelion stalk that sprouted from the hardpacked road and setting the feathery seeds adrift like souls of the dead.
Recalling that he’d likely be walking home alone from the tavern, as usual, despite his cautioning me, I shouted after him, “You be careful, Jack! Be home before dark!”
He raised a hand without turning and then faded into the morning mist.
Sighing, I closed the door against the chill and went back to finish the baking.
I tried not to think about what would happen when Jack learned I’d defied him.
If I took care to get home before he did, he might not discover it right away.
And if I could stave that off until the danger had passed, he wouldn’t be able to use the same argument against me.
I pulled a pan from the oven and slid the last one in.
Mrs. Moyle always said our customers came as much for the pasties as they did for her scones.
“Oggies,” Da had called them, and I made them the way Mum had taught me, though sometimes I changed up the fillings.
In the spring I put in leeks and a few crumbles of yarg cheese, and those were a particular favorite at the shop.
But the truth was Mrs. Moyle’s scones and jams were known all over the parish.
She’d added pasties to the menu as the ladies who were regulars began bringing their husbands and children with them.
My employer couldn’t do all the baking herself, so besides giving me the old stove, she paid me enough to cover the ingredients and my extra efforts.
This had allowed me to put better food on our own table, too—a fact that seemed to have escaped Jack’s notice.
Once the pasties had cooled enough, I packed them into a basket and covered them with a cloth.
But as I was leaving the cottage, I hesitated, then went back for my paring knife and slipped it in with the pasties.
Maybe it wasn’t much of a weapon, but I kept it sharp, which would count for something in a desperate moment.
Though I didn’t regret my decision, I still felt guilty as I set out for work. I had never defied Jack outright before. But then he had never given me reason to.
The day was bright, and as I walked, the golden autumn sunshine and brisk air gentled my troubled thoughts. People were going about their business; a few strangers rode past me toward the village, and two farm carts full of apples rolled toward Carbis.
But as I drew near the place where I’d found Mr. Roscoe, uneasiness crept over me.
I noticed where the weeds had been pressed down by his body and shivered.
Like the victim, most of the scones that had spilled onto the heath were gone.
A crow pecked violently at the last one, sending crumbs flying into the air.
With a loud caw, a second crow lit beside the first, joining the feast. Mrs. Moyle’s basket lay on its side nearby.
I left it there, thinking I might find the courage to pick it up on my way home.
With less than half a mile of road between me and the tearoom, I hurried along and soon found myself safe inside the warm kitchen. I set the pasties on the long wooden worktable, where rows and rows of scones were cooling.
“How are you this morning, Mina?” asked Mrs. Moyle, coming down the cramped staircase from her room above.
Like every morning, she was neat as a pin, her apron crisp and her magpie hair—black streaked with white—neatly pulled back and coiled.
She looked tired this morning, though—as, I was sure, did I.
“I am well, Mrs. Moyle.”
She eyed me doubtfully. “You know, you needn’t have come today. You’d certainly be missed, but I could have managed. You’ve had quite a shock.”
I gave her a gentle shrug. “I guess I feel like it’s better to keep on with things.”
She pressed her lips together and nodded. She crossed to the stove, picked up a towel, and opened the oven door, hinges protesting with a noise that was part creak, part groan. Removing a pan of scones from the oven, she said, “Mr. Hilliard came back again after you left last night.”
“Oh?” A tremor lifted my voice. “Any news?”
She set the pan down and met my gaze. “Mr. Roscoe was, indeed, Mr. Tregarrick’s solicitor. Down from Bodmin to see his client.”
“I see.” Did he have a wife? Children? I couldn’t bring myself to ask.
“He said Mr. Tregarrick was very distressed at the news, which of course he would be. Though, despite having lived here most of my life, I’ve never met nor even seen the man.”
“Did the constable say anything else about how . . . how it happened?”
Mrs. Moyle frowned, setting her towel on the worktable. “Both Mr. Hilliard and Mr. Perry seem to believe it was an animal attack. His body wasn’t much damaged, but it seems the neck wound was fatal. Only . . .”
I waited, but she looked unsure whether she wanted to say more. “Only?” I prompted.
“Well, the exact cause of death is believed to be a loss of blood, but the gentlemen are puzzled by the fact there wasn’t much blood where you found his body. Forgive me if that was more than you wanted to know.”
“No, I wish to understand,” I replied, though my stomach was souring. “I suppose Mr. Roscoe couldn’t have been moved there from somewhere else?”
“That’s exactly what I asked, but Mr. Hilliard said if an animal had . . .” She closed her eyes, shuddering visibly. “If an animal had dragged him, they would have seen some sign of it.”
“What do they think, then?”
Shaking her head, she said, “I don’t know, but with facts not quite adding up, I daresay there will be a coroner’s inquest.” She took a deep breath, eyes moving over the fruits of her morning labor.
“What I’d be wondering, were I a member of the constabulary, is whether the poor man had been moved by somebody. ”
This sent a chill through me. “Though it’s awful enough, I think I’d rather it was only an animal.”
“I have to agree.” More reassuringly, she said, “And I expect that’s what they’ll conclude.”
Mrs. Moyle began moving scones from the cooling racks to a large platter, and I put on my apron and helped her. Soon I felt her studying me.
“I’m going to guess you’ve done some fretting about what you told me yesterday, before all this started.”
“I have,” I admitted faintly.
“There was nothing you could have done, Mina. No way you could have known.”
“I’ve told myself that, yet I wonder—what’s the point of it, then?”
She nodded in sympathy. “That may come to you in time.”
We heard the rattle of the front door, and Mrs. Moyle looked at the watch pinned to her apron and muttered, “Heavens.” She covered my hand with hers for a moment, and I managed a weak smile. Then she went to open the shop.
I had hoped for a quiet day, but the tearoom filled quickly, everyone curious what their neighbors knew about the night before.
At first I feared they’d stare at or even question me, but it soon became clear that Mr. Hilliard must have kept me out of the public account of the death.
Likely it would come out at some point, but I still felt shaken and was grateful to be left in peace for a while.
As much peace as could be had in a busy tearoom. Mrs. Moyle insisted on working the front room, leaving me in back making tea, arranging scones and pasties on pretty, mismatched china plates, and filling small bowls with clotted cream and jam.
From the kitchen, I could still hear snatches of conversation, and some customers did seem to know that Mrs. Moyle was the one who’d sent for the constable.
When they questioned her, she told them she’d been asked “not to share any information regarding the stranger’s death until the investigation was concluded. ”