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 magpiehair—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 haddraggedhim, 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. “WhatI’dbe 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.
