But inside, the shopkeeper at first refused to admit he carried any lace at all.
“What!” Mrs. Hobbson said. “What kind of a shop are you running, sir?”
Poppy, who had been silent at first, thought she could guess the man’s concern. So she said, “But Miss Ainsworth spoke so highly of your resourcefulness in procuring good lace, sir.”
“Oh, Miss Ainsworth sent you! Well, that’s all right.” He tapped the side of his nose, then reached under the counter and pulled out a bolt of fine lace. “I remember now. Came in just this morning.”
Poppy and the Hobbsons looked at the lace, but didn’t buy any, despite the fact that it was quite affordable for its quality. Since Poppy’s parents depended on the legal trade of imported goods, it felt very odd to be in a shop where the owner all but boasted of selling illegal products. However, she did purchase several yards of white satin ribbon, mostly so the shopkeeper believed her to be a good customer—there might come a time when she’d need to talk to him again.
With the sale concluded, they stepped outside. “All this walking has me famished,” Mr. Hobbson declared. “Let’s have a bite to eat. The tearoom on Greene Street was recommended.”
The ladies were easy to persuade. The tearoom was well-populated by locals—always the best sign of a quality establishment. The woman who came to serve them looked so like the carriage driver Mr. Kellow that Poppy knew immediately they must be related.
When she mentioned the driver’s name, the girl’s eyes lit up. “My brother Peran, you know! Our mother runs this place, as he no doubt told you.”
The level of service grew even more attentive after that, and the little sweet cakes arriving with the hyson tea were unparalleled. Mr. Hobbson praised them with such fervor that nearby guests chuckled. He showed no remorse at stealing the last one from his wife’s plate. “I shall buy you another dozen, my dear,” he promised.
“Yes, but of that dozen, will I see more than three?” she quipped, evidently quite used to such behavior.
Mrs Hobbson asked what Poppy thought of the town thus far.
“I’m surprised,” she said. “I was expecting, well, a backwater.”
“Oh, no,” said Hobbson. “As you’ve seen, sometimes fashions come here before they reach London. Such is the trade in these parts.”
“Miss Ainsworth’s gowns attest to that,” his wife added. “For all she talks about her modiste in London, the materials for last night’s gown were purchased right here. The finest French linen!”
“She must save a great deal,” Poppy noted.
“Well, it’s far cheaper to buy such fripperies when the duties don’t apply,” Mr. Hobbson said with a chuckle.
“Because the ship didn’t take the usual route?” Poppy asked, hoping to glean some information about the smuggling trade around here. What if she could find out where that opium was destined to go?
“Precisely, my dear!” Mrs. Hobbson leaned closer. “And that’s the same reason why we’ve been sipping Madeira wine at dinner. I shouldn’t tell on the Towers, but at least their housekeeper and butler know how to get goods without the Customs stamp. Such wines would be quite out of my price range, I can tell you…unless it’s sold by a gentleman, you know.”
A gentleman. One of the euphemisms for smugglers, Poppy remembered. The gentlemen are coming by… If a person knew what was good for them, they averted their gaze, lest they see too much. Except here in Cornwall, where the law seemed to hold little sway.
The Hobbsons passed on to other subjects, and Poppy let the conversation go where it would (appearing too interested in smuggling would only lead to very awkward questions). In all, it was a delightful hour, and Poppy nearly forgot the events of the previous night as she listened to their chatter.
As soon as they left the tearoom, Poppy caught sight of the harbor between the buildings.
“You know,” she said to the Hobbsons. “I really would enjoy walking to the harbor and looking at all the ships.”
“Oh, it’s a very long way down,” Mrs. Hobbson said, looking alarmed at the very idea of climbing down (and up) the hill.
“Well, it’s a fine day, and there are many people about. I’ll just stroll a little ways and then go back up and fetch my slippers before returning to the Seven Sisters for the ride home. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about!”
Before the older couple could object, Poppy strolled away, heading towards the harbor, and all the ships anchored there.
* * * *
After visiting the magistrate, Carlos spent a while pacing the streets, heedless of where he was going. (Well, not completely heedless. He knew enough to avoid the high street shops where he might encounter any of the Pencliff guests, especially Blanche.) Over and over, he replayed the conversation in his mind, and he became convinced that Armitage was hiding something. However, he also remembered Rowe’s words. The deputy had rather pointedly mentioned the smuggler Peter Spargo and let Carlos know where the man was likely to be found. He might as well find out where this tavern was, and if he could at least take a look at the notorious smuggler.
In his experience, such men tended to stay near the waterfront. That’s where the rougher taverns were, the ones populated both by typical sailors and the riff-raff who didn’t work honest jobs.
It didn’t take long for him to locate the place. The Red Anchor was a long, rambling building very close to the harbor itself. Though the day was young, hard-drinking sailors and watermen would be inside already. And Carlos didn’t look anything like the typical patron.
He pulled off his jacket, since it was too fine to be plausible for a regular sailor. Luckily, he’d chosen a very plain shirt today, and his pants were a deep brown. In the dimness of the tavern, no one should notice that they were better quality than the average sailor. He tugged at the shirt to make it looser about his body—sailors not being known to be fastidious dressers, unless a naval officer was forcing the issue. To complete the picture, he pulled out the worn, battered compass that he wore on a chain in place of a watch. It signaled louder than words that he belonged on the water.
