Shapes
But I’d always thought Jack more fanciful than I.
Until he went to the mine, he was left more to himself, while I started taking on some of the household chores.
My attention would occasionally drift to the window, where I could see him in the garden behind the house, carving arrows for the bow he’d made or trying to swordfight our goat with a stick.
Sometimes he’d catch my eye and salute me with a flourish of his weapon—like a knight to his lady—and I would have to stifle a giggle. The mine slowly crushed that out of him, though, and what the mine didn’t crush, the drink finally drowned.
Our parents’ passing had been different for me. In some ways, it had freed me; Mum would have laughed at the idea of me going to work at The Magpie when there was so much to do at home. I could never have worn her down about it the way I had Jack.
But then, if she’d lived, there wouldn’t have been a need, and I’d have given anything to have both of them with us again. We’d all worked hard, and sometimes Da could be stern, but there was love in our home, and laughter, too.
We took our meals together and went to church on Sundays.
Evenings when Da wasn’t too tired, he would play his fiddle while Jack and I held hands and twirled around the room, or Mum would tell us fairy stories.
Losing them both almost at once had somehow caused Jack and me to lose each other, too—and sent us off in different directions, looking to fill the emptiness.
I only wished Jack could have found something besides the bottle.
Taking the teapot lid knob between my fingers, I thought again about Mum and her visitors.
Instead of being afraid of what she saw in the leaves, she had used her gift to help our family.
And sometimes there’d been little surprises, too.
An especially fine pudding on a feast day, or a ribbon or sweetmeats on a birthday.
Mum had even given us a picture book with children’s stories for Christmas one year.
When Da looked surprised at these miracles, she’d always say he was lucky he’d married a woman who knew how to make the most of her pennies.
These memories might have played a part in what I now saw in Mr. Tregarrick’s teapot.
Lifting the lid revealed a cluster of leaves that looked like nothing so much as the head of a wolf, nose raised and jaws open.
The only wolf I’d ever seen—besides the one on the sign at the tavern—had been in that children’s picture book, in the story of Little Red Riding Hood.
Letting my breath out in a whoosh, I plunked the pot on the table.
Mrs. Moyle turned, her eyes widening as they moved from the pot to my face. “Oh dear,” she said.
I picked up the pot again and took it to her. “Tell me what you see, ma’am,” I pleaded. “I don’t trust myself.”
She took the pot and squinted into it. After a moment or two, she shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t have the knack for it, Mina. All I see is a teapot that needs washing.” She looked up. “What do you see?”
“A wolf. And I don’t see how that can bode well after last night.”
She looked again into the pot, frowning. “Now you mention it, that clump near the bottom does look like the head of a dog.” She tipped the pot in her hands, studying the outside. “I don’t recall who—”
“Mr. Tregarrick.”
Her gaze came up, mouth forming an Oh.
I folded my arms across my chest, gnawing my lip.
Setting the pot beside the washbasin, she said, “I only exchanged a word or two with him. What was your impression?”
“Well”—I stared into the tub of cooling, soapy water—“by his dress and manner, he’s a well-to-do gentleman, which he would be, born on that estate.”
“Was he well mannered?”
“He was polite and courteous, though awfully serious. I did think it odd that he seemed to know I walk alone to the tearoom, when I’ve never seen him before in my life. And I’m wondering why he chose to come here for the first time today of all days.”
“Maybe the same reason as the rest—hoping for information about the death. Mr. Hilliard may have told him that someone from The Magpie found his solicitor.”
“Aye, he said as much.”
“As for him knowing your habits”—she lifted an eyebrow—“you do pass by his estate most days, twice. Just because you haven’t noticed him doesn’t mean he hasn’t noticed you.”
Heat crept into my cheeks. “I suppose.”
Mrs. Moyle emptied the leaves from the blackberry pot and dunked it first in the soapy water, then in the rinse water.
“What about the wolf?” I said. “What do you think it could mean?”
“I wish I could say. The obvious thing is that he, too, is in danger. Or maybe he is dangerous himself; we know nothing about him, after all. But it could simply be that Mr. Hilliard saying an animal attacked the solicitor—”
“Put an animal into my head.”
She gave me a kindly nod. “It’s something to consider. I’m sorry I haven’t been much help. And I wish Jack didn’t leave you alone so much. I think it’s best you go on home now and stay there until tomorrow. Maybe consider staying there until there’s some resolution to all this.”
“I’m sure I’ll be all right. There are always other people coming and going during the day.”
“Well, you keep your door bolted when you get there.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I picked up my basket, checking under the cloth to make sure the knife was still there.
The day had turned dark, with low, leaden clouds and patches of fog drifting like ghosts over the heath, and my thoughts took a morbid turn.
Though talking to Mrs. Moyle had helped, I couldn’t stop thinking about shapes in teapots.
How the magpie and dagger had seemed to warn me of Mr. Roscoe’s death, yet I’d been helpless to prevent it.
What if Mrs. Moyle was right that the wolf in Mr. Tregarrick’s pot might mean he, too, was in danger?
The killing had happened on his estate, or as good as.
What if I said nothing, and he was the next one they found on the heath?
But what if the wolf means he is the danger?
I pictured him again in my mind. The dark lips and eyes, the smoky spectacles and ash-brown hair.
Mrs. Moyle didn’t seem to find it very surprising that he’d come to The Magpie today.
And, indeed, it wasn’t every day someone was killed in the village of Roche.
It had everyone stirred up. But I couldn’t help thinking that if he had questions about the killing, he might easily have sent again for Mr. Hilliard rather than visit a busy tearoom after so many years hidden away on his estate.
All of it made me uneasy. “Raised my hackles,” as Jack would say.
“Miss Penrose?” I had been so much in my thoughts that I hadn’t seen Mr. Hilliard himself approaching, on horseback, from the direction of my cottage. And now I noticed two riders crossing the heath below Roche Rock.
I recalled that the constable was one of the chorus of people who wished me not to walk alone on the road. “Good day to you, sir,” I said sheepishly. “I’m just on my way home.”
He nodded. “I think you’re safe enough. The danger seems to have passed.”
I knit my brows. “Have you found something?”
“The opposite, in fact. We’ve had men combing the countryside and the moor since early morning and found nothing.
The animal that attacked the solicitor appears to have moved on.
Or it may well have died. A dog, most likely—and most likely a sick one.
Mr. Roscoe, rest his soul, found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, I’ll warrant. ”
My heart thumped as I recalled how easily it could have been me.
“You’re certain it was a dog, then?”
He shrugged. “Though a few things still don’t add up, there’s really nothing else it could have been, considering the wound. That’s according to the surgeon and the coroner, who rode over from Bodmin this morning. Those gentlemen are far more qualified than I to make such a determination.”
I hesitated, then asked, “I don’t suppose we have any wolves in Cornwall?”
Frowning, he replied, “None in England, nowadays, I should think. Though if we did, I imagine a wolf is what we’d be looking for.”
Jack was always complaining about the bosses at the mine—said they were unfair, and they pushed the men too hard.
That may well have been, but I knew my question had probably sounded childish to Mr. Hilliard, and he’d answered plainly and politely.
He’d been respectful with his questions the day before, too.
He raised his eyes, looking out over the heath. “I don’t think we’ll have any more trouble, Miss Penrose. But you keep alert when you’re out walking, just in case, and get home before dark, you hear?”
“Yes, sir, I will.”
He touched his hat brim, clucked to his horse, and moved on.
I wanted to feel relieved. I could see that Mr. Hilliard did.
But I couldn’t let go of the wolf. I found myself hoping the master of Roche Rock would return to the tearoom the next day so I could at least see he was unharmed.
If some accident did befall him on his estate, I wasn’t sure anyone would be the wiser—though he must have had others working for him besides the solicitor from Bodmin.
And if I did see Mr. Tregarrick again, I might get a better sense of him.
As if I’d recognize a man for a killer.
As if a few soggy tea leaves are more to be trusted than the constable and two medical men.
Sighing, I walked on to our cottage, where I exchanged my basket for a bucket. A few paces from our door was a pump that we shared with the other miners’ cottages. The inn just beyond had a well of its own.