He waved my money away. “On the house this time. Your brother must be spending half his pay in here.”
With an inward groan, I replied, “Thank you. For the sherry, and for answering my questions.”
He folded his arms, eyeing me shrewdly. “Can I askyouone?”
Wary, I answered, “All right.”
“Why come in here asking about wolves in old stories? And don’t try telling me again you’recurious. People like us who have to work to put food on the table don’t have time for idle curiosity.”
Why, indeed. My reasons were complicated, to be sure, having been the one to find Mr. Roscoe, as well as being possibly the only one in town who knew Mr. Tregarrick. Andmorethan just knowing him, owing a debt to him.
I decided to give Mr. Couch the reason he’d best understand—and find least concerning. “We practically live on the heath, sir. I walk by Roche Rock every day on my way to work, and Jack comes home by himself, after dark and in his cups most nights. I just wanted to know what people were saying. If I should be worried.”
He nodded, seeming to accept this. “Well, I know Hilliard thinks the danger’s past, but I think you can’t be too careful right now.” He pulled a towel from his shoulder and wiped at something I couldn’t see on the tabletop. “Now, you sit there as long as you like, Miss Penrose. Our rowdier customers won’t be in for some time yet.”
He was going, and I said, “If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Couch, I’d rather Jack not know I came here today.”
He winked at me. “Like I said, I don’t discuss my customers’ business.” Then he went back to the bar.
I didn’t really want the sherry, but neither did I want Mr. Couch to think me ungrateful. So I sat and sipped it, thinking about the thingshe’d said. It seemed to me that until Mr. Roscoe’s death, the publican didn’t believe in the Wolf of Roche Rock any more than Mrs. Moyle did. Yet like most everyone else, he was wary of the place.
When I’d finally emptied my glass, I left The Wolf’s Head and went into the sundries shop. Mrs. Teague had a few ceramic pitchers to choose from, and I bought one with a pattern of pink roses, similar to the one I’d smashed.
The sherry had made me feel sleepy, and the headache was coming on again, so I walked home after that. Back at the cottage, I made Jack’s supper and left it out for him, ate my own, and went to bed early. Before I’d had time for any reflections on my day beyond a growing uneasiness, sleep came.
I’m walking home from The Magpie at dusk.
I hear the call of an owl, and dogs barking in the distance. As I reach the dip in the grass where the hedge meets the old wall, I see a man. Drawing closer, I discover it’s two men—one lying on the grass and another bent over him. Hearing my step, the bending man straightens and turns.
Mr. Tregarrick.Blood dribbles down his chin. I try to scream but can’t make a sound.
I look to the road for someone to help me, and from the direction of the village, I see people marching toward us.Manypeople, as if everyone in the village has turned out. Their voices are angry, and some of them stab rifle barrels or pitchforks into the air. Out in front—leading them—is Jack.
When I look again at Mr. Tregarrick, his face is clean. No blood stains his fine white shirt. His eyes are gentle and sad, like when we talked in the chapel.
He starts walking toward the angry crowd, and I try to cry a warning, but still no sound comes out of me.
Casting a glance over his shoulder, he says, “It’s for the best, Mina.”
I woke suddenly, the warning that I had been trying to shout finally sounding—though no more than a muffled squeak. By the light in the room, I knew it was morning.
How yesterday’s conversations had preyed on my slumbering mind!
Only a dream, but I couldn’t let go of the feeling that I mustdosomething. Yet what was it in my power to do?
Get up and get on with the chores.If nothing else, it might help to order my thoughts.
Things were still cool between Jack and me, and I thought—hoped, even—we’d not speak before he left. But it wasn’t to be.
As I was handing him his lunch on the way out the door, he said, “I won’t hear of you walking to The Magpie this morning, will I?”
Grateful that there’d been no more talk about me at the mine and that Mr. Couch had kept his promise, I said dully, “No, Jack.”
The plain relief in his haggard face caused a twinge of regret. I had blamed his recent outbursts on resentment and the bottle, but I remembered what Mr. Tregarrick had said.Perhaps Jack’s afraid of losing you, too.I harangued him about his drinking for the same reason.
When he was gone, I did something I rarely had time for—sat down to drink a cup of tea by myself in the quiet cottage. As I was about to pour, I thought about my mother and her visitors, and I removed the strainer from my cup.
I took a deep breath. “Show me, Mum.”
