But as I was turning to go, he said, “Aren’t you the lass that works at The Magpie? Jack Penrose’s sister?”
“I am.”
Scratching at the stubble on his jaw, he continued, “Sure as the moon, your brother will appear before the evening’s out, so I suppose it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to callhimyour escort.” I could only imagine what Jack would have to say about that. “If you’ll sit down and order a glass of sherry—and if you don’t intend to harangue me about your brother’s habits—I might be persuaded to answer a question or two.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mister ...”
“Couch.”
“Thank you, Mr. Couch.”
I sat at a small table near the door. Though the publican knew who I was, I kept my bonnet on, hoping no one who came in would recognize me. The two men at the bar had turned as I’d entered, but they’d soon gone back to their ale.
Mr. Couch went behind the bar, poured amber liquid into a small wineglass, and returned to my table. Placing the glass before me, he said, “What is it you want to ask me, Miss Penrose? I’ll warn you again—if it has to do with your brother, I don’t discuss my customers’ business.”
“No, sir. Mrs. Moyle, the lady I work for—she was telling me she thought this tavern might be named for a story that used to be told about a wolf people had seen on the heath.”
His brows lifted. “So it was, but that was many long years ago. The Wolf’s Head—used to be an inn as well as a tavern—has stood here for about three centuries. That brute Richard Grenville, who fought for the king during the Civil War—he once stayed here, at least according to my granfer. It’s not as old as the black chapel, but old enough.”
“The black chapel. You mean the Tregarrick place?”
“Mmm.” He tilted his head to one side, studying me. “Maybe you don’t know, but there’s a mineral in that granite called tourmaline that gives it its color.”
“No, I didn’t know.” I sipped my sherry. It tasted sweet and burned in my throat, though not nearly as much as Mr. Moyle’s whisky. “Do you know if there was ever arealwolf, or was it just stories?”
The publican’s lips—and the mustache above them—turned down, his eyes narrowing. But he looked like he might be trying not to smile. “I know I must look pretty old to you, but I’m notnearlyold enough to answer that question.”
“No, sir,” I said, smiling.
It had been worth a try. I reached into my pocket for money to pay him.
“Now if you ask myopinion...”
I looked up.
“I’ve always assumed those stories were really just about folks being scared of the old place and jumping at shadows. Now, with the constable saying a dog killed that solicitor ... I’m not sure what to think.”
I swallowed. “Do people think it has something to do with Mr. Tregarrick?”
“It’s almost all my customers are talking about. Doesn’t help matters that no one has ever laid eyes on the man. Leaves the imagination a little too free.”
So Jack had been telling the truth. “I’ve met Mr. Tregarrick.”
His eyes widened. “You don’t say?”
“He came into The Magpie a few days ago.”
“The Magpie? For what?”
I shrugged. “For tea.”
“Hmph. What did you think of him?”
I rested my fingertips on the stem of my glass. “He was quiet and polite. Seemed a fine gentleman to me.”Let him chew on that.“What doyouthink, Mr. Couch? You don’t really believe Mr. Roscoe’s death had anything to do with Mr. Tregarrick, do you?”
“Well,” he said slowly, “I couldn’t say, Miss Penrose. But you won’t catch me going anywhere near the place.”
I let out a quiet sigh, and I dug a few coins from my pocket. “What do I owe you, sir?”
