“Next time you see widow Moyle, you ask her if she knows any of the old stories.”

  “What stories?”

  “Stories about the Wolf of Roche Rock.”

  My heart began to thump as I remembered the wolf in Mr. Tregarrick’s cup. But he had saved my life! Granted, I only had his word for that, but the idea of him attacking me made no sense at all. Yet I knew there were old stories of a wolf on the estate.

  By the light in Jack’s bloodshot eyes, I could see he thought he was winning, and I wasn’t about to go along with the notion that Mr. Tregarrick might be guilty of murder.

  “That’s nonsense, Jack,” I snapped. “This comes of too much drink, and cheap talk with others who’ve had too much drink.”

  At first, he looked like he’d been slapped. Then his expression hardened, and he stepped closer to me.

  “You’re not to set foot out of this door without my leave. I know you think you’re smarter than me now, but I’m still the head of this house.”

  He turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

  I shook with frustration. I picked up the nearest thing to hand—the small milk pitcher we used for tea—and flung it at the door. It shattered, painted ceramic bits showering the floor.

  I took a deep breath and let it out hard before going for the broom.

  I wrapped a strip of linen around my cut finger and made Jack’s supper anyway. Exhausted, I went to bed with a headache and didn’t hear him come in. Next morning he again ate his cold supper for breakfast and left without a word.

  Things were getting bad between us, and they were likely to get worse. Jack and I had once known each other so well we could complete each other’s thoughts. When we were children, Mum had joked about us talking in half sentences. I knew that Jack was as shaken up by the murder as I was; it knocked another hole in a foundation already unsteady after our parents’ deaths. And I knew he saw my questioning and defiance as dangerous and ungrateful.

  Yet I couldn’t go against my own nature, simply taking his word for everything while remaining safe and quiet at home. We were twins; why couldn’t he understand that such a life would be the death of me?

  Which was why as soon as he left, despite my fear of whatever lurked on the heath, I made pasties and packed my basket. I was about to set out for The Magpie when I remembered Mr. Tregarrick’s request. I climbed back up to the loft and opened a small wooden box that had belonged to my grandmother. Inside were a few precious things I had collected over the years, including Nanna’s wedding ring, hair ribbons Mum had given me on my birthday, and her necklace with the silver cross.

  Tears stung my eyes as I lifted the necklace, watching the cross swing on the delicate chain. After Mum died I’d been too sad to wear it, but more time had passed now, and I’d made a promise. Wear it for me.

  I recalled Mr. Tregarrick’s expression as he made the request. He’d looked fearful, I thought, and maybe a little sad, too. Like it had cost him something to ask.

  I fastened the chain around my neck and went back down.

  Though I felt tired today, the lump on my head had gone down, and the cut—quite small for the amount of blood that had seeped into my hair—had scabbed over. My head still ached, which was just one more reason I probably should have stayed at home. But there were many things I wanted to talk over with Mrs. Moyle.

  As I walked, I couldn’t help looking out for Mr. Tregarrick. I thought about what Jack had said of the talk in the village. I knew, of course, that people had always whispered about the old place and its master, but folk would whisper about anything strange. It was the season for such stories, too. Hallowe’en was only a few weeks away, and Mum had believed it was a time of spirits and fairies.

  Mum and Jack and I had always carved faces in fat, hollowed-out turnips and lit them with candle stubs, hanging them outside the cottage so any evil spirits would pass us by. Now that I thought of it, Da had insisted we hang one in the apple tree in the garden to frighten off the “Wolf of Roche Rock.” He’d wink and we’d laugh—we liked when Da joined in the fun—but he had always been leery of the old estate.

  I glanced through the gap in the hedge as I passed, rubbing Mum’s cross between my fingers. The grove of Cornish oaks, with their gilded autumn leaves, made a papery whispering sound as the breeze rattled through them. But all else on the estate was quiet.

  I arrived at work later than usual and found that Mrs. Moyle had finished all the opening tasks and was boiling water for tea.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Moyle!” I said as I stepped into the warm kitchen. “I’m moving slow this morning.”

  She laughed. “It’s the first time you’ve been late in two years, Mina. I think we can overlook it.”

  She turned as I was removing my bonnet, and her sharp eyes went right to my bump. “Heavens, what has happened to you?”

  I winced. “Is it that noticeable?”

  “Well, perhaps only to me, but are you well, dear?”

  Nodding, I took a deep breath. “I have so much to tell you—and ask you—that I don’t know how I’ll ever get through it before we open. I think I’ll have to go in order of importance and leave some for later.”

  She folded her hands and said, “All right, I’m listening. Only, be kind to an old woman and start with what happened to your head.”

  “I had a fall on the heath,” I said, taking my neatly folded apron from the worktable, “but I’m all right. There’s much more to the story, which I will try to get to in a moment. But first I thought you should know that Jack and I have been arguing about my working here. He says he doesn’t want me leaving the cottage because of Mr. Roscoe’s death, but I don’t think he means for it to be temporary.”

  “Oh, Mina,” said Mrs. Moyle, frowning deeply. “As much as it saddens me to hear that, I can’t say I’m surprised. You’ve hinted before that Jack doesn’t like you working here. And I’m sure he truly is worried about you.”

  “That may be, but I have no intention of giving up The Magpie, and it’s not his business to force me to.” I let out a sigh. “With that said, he’s not himself these days, and I’m not sure he won’t try. If he ever shows up here, I’ll go home with him quietly, before he can make trouble.”

  She reached for my basket and began moving the pasties to a platter. “I’m glad you’ve told me. I think we should talk more about this, but go ahead with the rest.”

  “Well, I met with Mr. Tregarrick again yesterday.”

  Looking more curious than surprised, she said, “Oh, indeed?”

  “He happened by when I fell, and he helped me—there’s much more about that, but it will have to wait. He walked me home, and Jack came home at the same time.”

  Her brow lifted. “And how did that go?”

  Frowning, I replied, “About as well as you might imagine. But something came up that I wanted to ask you about. Jack said you might know some old stories about the Tregarricks? About some kind of evil on the estate? I know people are scared of the place, and my da sometimes mentioned the ‘Wolf of Roche Rock.’”

  Mrs. Moyle let out a sigh and sank onto a stool next to the worktable.

  “Gracious, child. There are a hundred questions I might ask, but to answer yours, yes, there are old stories. And I believe they did grow out of a very old belief that a wolf lived on the estate. But that’s all they are—stories. At least, that’s my view of it.”

  “I guess it’s no wonder people are gossiping, what with the constable saying it was a dog that killed Mr. Roscoe. I asked Mr. Hilliard about wolves, but he said there aren’t any in England.”

  “I would imagine he’s right about that. I’ve never known anyone to have seen one, aside from the one on the sign at the tavern—which may have taken its name from the stories. If a real creature did inspire that tale, it has long since gone to its rest. But to me it sounds like the kind of story the lord of a manor might circulate to frighten off poachers.”

  It did indeed, maybe one of Mr. Tregarrick’s ancestors. And mightn’t the wolf in his cup have simply been a warning about the talk in the village? I thought about the weathered wooden sign hanging above the tavern door—a wolf’s head painted against a background of heather. I had never connected it with the wolf Da had spoken of.

  “So you don’t think there’s anything to this idea that Harker Tregarrick somehow had to do with his solicitor’s death?”

  Something glimmered in my employer’s eyes. “‘Harker,’ is it? First time I’ve heard his Christian name.”

  “That’s how he introduced himself to Jack,” I said, needlessly smoothing the front of my apron.

  “Well, what I think is that people are frightened because of the death, and probably shut inside too much now that the weather’s changing, and it gives them something to talk about. It doesn’t help matters that the constable and his men couldn’t find the animal responsible.”

  I looked at her. “Jack’s got the idea that Mr. Tregarrick moved the body, and that’s why there was no blood where I found it.”

  Her brow knit as she went to the stove and moved the steaming kettle from the fire. “I can’t see any sense in that. Why would he kill his own solicitor? And how could he make it look like an animal attack well enough to convince both the surgeon and the coroner?”

  “It really only makes sense if he’s some kind of monster,” I said faintly.

  “I daresay you’ve exchanged more words with the man than anyone in the village. Is that what you think?”

  I hesitated, unsure how much to tell her. But Mrs. Moyle was my friend as well as my employer. Who else could I talk to, now that Jack and I no longer saw eye to eye?

  “I was alone with him,” I confessed. “For quite a while. He could have killed me if he wanted to. Instead he carried me to Roche Rock and gave me medicine for tending my wound. The man is afraid of blood. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  I could see that I’d finally managed to surprise her with these details, yet all she said was, “Well, there it is, then.” She raised a finger. “But you take care, Mina. I’m not worried about wolves or monsters, but there may still be some diseased creature lurking about. And just as worrisome is people in the village getting too worked up about all this. You don’t want to get caught in the middle of it.”

  I nodded. “I’ll be careful, Mrs. Moyle.”

  She turned and started toward the front room. “We’ll talk more about all this after closing.”

  We didn’t get the chance, though. Business wasn’t exactly brisk that morning, yet still I only made it until the noon hour before I had to sit down in the kitchen and rest.

  “Drink a cup of tea, and then I want you to go on home,” said Mrs. Moyle, smoothing her hair so she could take my place in the front room. “And I want you to stay home tomorrow, too. You need to rest and make peace with your brother.”

  “But how will you manage, ma’am?” I protested.

  “The same way I managed before you came to work for me—poorly. But you’re not of much use to me right now, anyway.”

  My employer said this with kindness, yet it was just the bit of honesty I needed to convince me. She came to the door as I was going and touched a hand to my back. “I must say I envy you your youthful adventures, and I expect details about Roche Rock when you come back.”

  I smiled, though I knew her tone would have been very different had I told her the whole story of how I’d been injured.

  “And try not to worry yourself over the events of the last few days,” she continued. “These dark clouds will pass over, you’ll see. Even the trouble between you and Jack.”

  How I hoped she was right.

  Once on the road, with the fresh air cool against my skin, I began to feel better. At the gap in the hedge, I paused, thinking I might glimpse Mr. Tregarrick and speak a word of warning to him about what Jack had told me. I owe him that much. But I saw no more sign of him than I ever did on these walks.

  “Mr. Tregarrick?” I called, in case he might be on the grounds within hearing.

  No answer.

  The estate was clear of fog today, and I knew now that it would only take a few minutes to walk to the chapel from here. But the path edged the woods, and if ever there was a place for a creature to hide . . .

  For my sake if not for your own—take more care, Mina Penrose.

  It was hard to believe the master of Roche Rock had ever said such a thing to me.

  Even if he hadn’t, I wasn’t fool enough to take the risk.

  I walked on home, and by the time I got there, my head hurt from both the lump and too much thinking. I went straight up to my bed.

  On waking, I was confused about the time of day. But I felt well enough, and I tossed back the coverlet and climbed down the ladder.

  I slipped out the back door of the cottage for some fresh air and to reset my clock, and Jenny, our old nanny goat, bleated a greeting. The hens came running, expecting scraps.

  “Don’t come to me,” I scolded them. “Get to work on those apples on the ground, so they don’t go to waste. Might even get a worm or two in the bargain.”

  I felt guilty I hadn’t pickled more of them this year, but my job didn’t leave me enough time to do all the things Mum used to do. I’d put by enough for Jack and me for the winter, though. It occurred to me that I should pick a basket for Mr. Tregarrick. Despite him using bread baking to explain alchemy, I got the impression he didn’t eat very well.

  Peckish myself after my nap, I plucked an apple from the tree. The fruits were big this year—dark red, tart, and crisp—and I ate only half of it before holding the rest out for Jenny. We no longer got any milk out of the sweet old thing, and we could afford cow’s milk since I’d been working for Mrs. Moyle. Jack was always after me to boil Jenny for stew, saying there was no point in feeding such a useless animal, but mean as Jack could be these days, I knew he wasn’t serious. Mum had loved Jenny. And she was no trouble. There was so much bramble and sweetbriar for her to eat around the house—not to mention the apples—that the only time we had to feed her was in the bleakest weeks of winter.

  Rubbing between her curved horns while she grunted, I looked out and tried to guess the time by the light. Cloudy again today, but I thought it was around the time The Magpie usually closed. Three, most days. Four if the afternoon business was brisk.

  Though Mrs. Moyle had asked me to spend the day at home, I felt restlessness coming on. I wasn’t used to being idle. I remembered the milk pitcher and got the idea to go back to town and buy a new one. Then Jack wouldn’t have to ask me where it was, and I wouldn’t have to tell him I’d smashed it in a fit of temper, and just maybe he wouldn’t notice the difference. Especially if I could find a pattern that was similar.

  It won’t hurt me to walk a little. If I did start feeling poorly, I could turn back.

  I donned my bonnet and shawl and set out. It was warmer today and, though overcast, less dreary. A breeze moved through the weeping boughs of the old willow next to the road, halfway between our cottage and The Magpie. The branches reached all the way to the ground, and their swaying made the tree look like a golden waterfall.

  Those branches had been a favorite hiding place of mine and Jack’s when we were children. We’d often pretended it was Camelot and we were Knights of the Round Table. One time Billy Budge—our neighbors’ son, who was close to the same age as Jack and me—burst in on us and tried to take over our game. He said he would play Lancelot and that I must play Guinevere because girls couldn’t be knights. Jack took one look at me trying not to cry and knocked Billy to the ground.

  As The Magpie was on the outer edge of the village, I had to pass it on the way to the other shops. I knew Mrs. Moyle wouldn’t like my being out after she’d sent me home to rest. I told myself that if she saw me, I could blame it on the broken pitcher and my fear of Jack’s temper. (Who did the smashing?) But I knew she’d only offer me one of The Magpie’s pitchers, and then I’d have no excuse to do the thing I’d really come to town for—might as well be honest, at least with myself.

  I held my breath as I passed in front of St. Gomonda, the parish church, which was directly across from The Magpie. Looking through the tearoom’s windows, I could see that it was empty.

  I continued up Fore Street, passing Teague’s Sundries Shop—where I was most likely to find the pitcher I needed—and stopped outside the business next door, The Wolf’s Head. A low-slung building of rough, grayish brick—blotched here and there with whitewash that had all but faded away—the tavern might just be the oldest in the parish. The sign above the door creaked as it swung in the stiffening breeze.

  I studied the sign more closely in light of my conversation with Mrs. Moyle, and I noticed something I hadn’t before—a dark blob among the heather in the background.

  Roche Rock.

  Gaze lowering to the door, I took a deep breath. A clump of Michaelmas daisies had sprung up from the hard earth beside the entrance, pale-purple heads bobbing on thin stalks.

  Am I really doing this?

  This was the place Jack had spent most evenings since Mum died. It looked quiet now, too early for the mine workers. Maybe not even open yet. Holding my breath, I reached for the door handle.

  The Wolf’s Head

  The door swung open and I stepped inside, hesitating as my eyes adjusted to the low light.

  Wood paneling completely covered the tavern’s walls and ceiling, and a couple of oil lamps gave off a dim yellow glow. Two heavy wooden chandeliers hung from the ceiling, but none of their candles had been lit.

  A potbellied coal stove put out heat at one end of the room, and at the other end was a large, open hearth, looking as though it hadn’t been used in some time. Tables were scattered around the floor, and a bar with a snug at one end lined the back wall. A couple of men too old for the mines sat on barstools with pints in front of them, but otherwise the place was empty. A gangly, sandy-gray wolfhound had flopped down on the flagstone floor near the stove. The dog’s eyes noted my presence before its tail gave one heavy thwack and then stilled.