I had hoped for a quiet day, but the tearoom filled quickly, everyone curious what their neighbors knew about the night before. At first I feared they’d stare at or even question me, but it soon became clear that Mr. Hilliard must have kept me out of the public account of the death. Likely it would come out at some point, but I still felt shaken and was grateful to be left in peace for a while.
As much peace as could be had in a busy tearoom. Mrs. Moyle insisted on working the front room, leaving me in back making tea, arranging scones and pasties on pretty, mismatched china plates, and filling small bowls with clotted cream and jam.
From the kitchen, I could still hear snatches of conversation, and some customers did seem to know that Mrs. Moyle was the one who’d sent for the constable. When they questioned her, she told them she’d been asked “not to share any information regarding the stranger’s death until the investigation was concluded.”
Before long, my employer began falling behind. On most days, I served customers while she kept to the kitchen, as her aching joints protested all the trips back and forth. A tray with tea service for one had been sitting on the counter long enough that the spout had nearly stopped steaming, so I called up my courage and carried it out to the dining room, trying to both keep my head down and look for someone sitting alone.
My breath caught as I noticed a man sitting at the same window table where Mr. Roscoe had sat, reading a book. My hands began to tremble, causing the teapot lid to clink.
Steadying myself, I moved toward him. Though the dining room was busy and buzzing, it was almost as if I moved through a kind of tunnel with him at the end of it. A strange calm had stolen over me, yet something at the back of my mind warned me to beware of this feeling. As if danger were everywhere, and only the fools around me couldn’t see it.
It’s the shock from yesterday.I drew a slow breath as I reached the table.
The man looked up from his book—not a novel like those that lined Mrs. Moyle’s shelves, but a thick tome one would need both hands to carry. He wore spectacles with round, smoke-tinted lenses, and I wondered how he could see through them well enough to read.
“Good day, sir,” I said. “Are you waiting for tea?”
He tilted his head forward, eyeing me over the top of his spectacles, and my heart flopped strangely. Often, customers took so little notice of me that I thought they probably wouldn’t recognize me were they to pass me in the street. This man’s eyes were awake and keen. And their color ... a dusty dark blue that reminded me of a prune plum. His hair was wavy and ashen brown, gathered and bound at the back of his neck. A few strands had worked free and hung alongside his sharp cheekbones. The angle of his jaw swept in strongly from his cheek, gentling at last to the blunted tip of his chin. His lips were very dark, like the stain of a blackberry. Or a bruise. They made a strong contrast against his skin, even-toned and pale.
I realized then that I was staring at this stranger, and he was staring even harderback.
“F-forgive me for disturbing you,” I stammered, dropping my gaze to the tray. “I thought this might be—”
“Indeed, it is. You may set it down.” His bruised lips formed a tight, dry smile. Though I would have guessed he was near my own age, something in his manner made me think otherwise. There was a stillness to him. And watchfulness, too. He also sounded like a man well used to people following his orders.
“Yes, sir.” Quickly I transferred teapot, cup, strainer, and milk pitcher to the table, noting that I’d brewed his tea in a pot patterned with clumps of blackberry fruit, leaves, and flowers.
As I lifted the pot and poured, I frowned at the dark color and lack of steam. “I fear your tea has sat for too long, sir. It’ll be bitter and tepid. I’ll fetch you a fresh pot.”
“It’s not necessary.” His voice was low and smooth, but I had no trouble hearing him, even with the din in the tearoom. I still had the feeling of being in a tunnel with him.
“I’m afraid we’re not up to Mrs. Moyle’s usual standards today,” I said in a fluster. “I hope you’ll give us another chance. We’rethatbusy, what with everybody wondering about the ...”
“About the death.”
“Aye, sir.” Why on earth had I brought it up? Sometimes nervousness made my mouth move when it shouldn’t.
I gave him a short curtsy and was turning to go when he said, “You’re the one who found him, aren’t you?”
I froze, hugging the tray to my chest. I glanced around the room, hoping no one had heard him. Moving close to the table, I said in a low voice, “Begging your pardon, sir, may I ask how you knew that?”
He lifted his teacup and sipped, hand trembling slightly. “Mr. Hilliard told me it was a young woman walking home from her job at The Magpie.”
“Mr. Hilliard?” I echoed, surprised. As I studied the stranger, a thought startled me. “You’re Mr. Tregarrick. Mr. Roscoe was your solicitor.” He was not at all what I had imagined. Even if Iwaswrong about his age, he was still too young to have closed himself up in a medieval tower.
“I am indeed,” he said.
“I’m so sorry, sir.”
His lips curved down. “A tragedy, to be sure.”
“Had he a family?”
The master of Roche Rock lifted a napkin from the table, touching it to his lips, though he’d taken only a sip of his tea. “I believe he did, though our relationship was strictly a business one.”
I clucked and looked away. “The poor things. Everyone’s saying it was an animal of some kind. It’s so strange and awful.”
“Yes. And very worrying. I wonder at your being out alone on the road again today, Miss ...?”
