“Yes, he did at first, but …”
“Ah, yes, I can see it. Perhaps a masked ball on Midsummer’s night, with everyone dressed as fae folk. We shall have costumes for hire. Plenty of work for the women of the village who are skilled at sewing.” The innkeeper stared into the middle distance, his thoughts clearly painting a future intended to turn the village, and the Queen’s Barque in particular, into a desirable holiday destination.
Barnaby looked around at the dank paneling, the likely source of the overpowering smell of persistent mold and the lemon that had proved insufficient to curb its growth. Clearly the ongoing repairs had not yet reached this room. Barnaby lacked the sort of imagination that could picture this building as a desirable anything.
“Exactly,” said Miss Tully, to Barnaby’s immense surprise. “But think how much more successful such a campaign would be if we knew the full story. Did the lovers remain in Fenwick? If so, which cottage was once theirs? What we are trying to establish, Mr. Brewster, is whether there is anyone who might have answers to these questions. Even if it is merely a legend, folk may have spoken of it in the long ago, passing it down through the generations by word of mouth. Who, in the village, would remember such talk? I can only think of Old Magda. Can you suggest anyone else?”
“Hmm, Old Magda is certainly the best keeper of Fenwick’s history, being the oldest among us,” agreed the innkeeper. “But whether she can recall anything at a given moment… you know how it is.”
Miss Tully nodded, her expression grim. “Don’t you think it strange that we have never heard of such a tale ourselves? We have both lived here all our lives.”
“People fear what they cannot explain,” said Barnaby, the weight at his back a now constant reminder of such a phenomenon. “Why else would someone tear pages from the manuscript? After all, only two hundred years ago our Puritan forefathers were burning books they deemed unsuitable. Your great grandparents probably ceased speaking of things that might be frowned upon.”
“Nevertheless, we must do what we can to solve this mystery, Mr. Ash,” insisted Brewster. “The future of Fenwick may well depend upon it.”
Barnaby caught Miss Tully fighting to control the corners of her mouth. She understood the innkeeper’s interest in the matter all too well.
“We’d better be off then,” she said, her features once again composed. “Old Magda lives with her son and his family on the edge of the marshes, opposite the harbor. It is quite a long walk.”
Barnaby pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat. “I’m afraid it shall have to wait until tomorrow. Lord Brathwaite is expected back this evening, and I have yet to introduce myself. It would not do for him to return and find me wandering the countryside instead of cataloguing his books.”
“Cataloguing books, too? Got you doing double duty, does he?” commented Mr. Brewster. “That’s the rich folk for you, getting their money’s worth.”
“I’m not actually…” Barnaby began to explain, but Miss Tully was already chiming in with her own thoughts.
“Shall we say after breakfast? What time do you dine at Hill House? I could meet you there, as we have to walk the long way around the inlet and would all but pass the manor along the way.”
“I cannot say with certainty whether I will be able to join you tomorrow,” replied Barnaby. “I would have to obtain my employer’s permission before venturing out on another excursion. I do not know how open-minded he will be to this research. If he is as intrigued by the legend as we are, I may have some leeway in how I spend my time. I shall send a messenger with news once I know Lord Brathwaite’s mind.”
Miss Tully did not offer the sort of bright response Barnaby had come to expect. No doubt she was disappointed that her adventures thus far should be so brief. A visit to the inn could not be considered a noteworthy experience. In this, he shared her feelings. More than that, he already missed the hand that now hung listlessly by her side instead of tucked into his arm.
“I assure you,” Barnaby found himself saying, “I am eager to return to you…”
Her chin lifted, her clear-blue eyes widening.
“To… to…” He stammered. “To continue our investigation,” he managed at last.
It was bad enough that he had made such a fool of himself in front of Miss Tully. But now Mr. Brewster, as sharp of mind as he was friendly, nodded at her and said, “It seems you’ve made a new friend, Miss Joy. Mind your father doesn’t get the wrong idea about this friendship. He may be getting on in years, but his aim with that old blunderbuss of his is second to none.”
“I’m sure there’ll be no need for…” protested Barnaby, his jaw slack, his eyes twitching from the innkeeper to Miss Tully and back.
Brewster burst out laughing and slapped Barnaby on the back so that his chest heaved into his throat.
“Don’t listen to him,” said Miss Tully. “Father is somewhat of a curmudgeon, but harmless.”
Brewster grinned. “Not if you run off with his daughter like Alwin did with Lyra.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” insisted Barnaby.
Miss Tully lifted a hand to her hip and cocked her head. “I’m not the sort of woman you dream of then?” The twinkle was back in her eyes.
Barnaby had no ready answer. How could he tell her the effect she had on him without overstepping? He stared helplessly at her, willing anything intelligent forth from his lips.
“I think you’ve broken him, Miss Tully,” quipped Brewster. “And him being a man of words and all. Who would’ve thought it?”
Barnaby straightened to his full height. It wasn’t particularly impressive, especially given how tall the innkeeper was, but he felt his dignity had been bruised. He began to fold the waterproof wrap around the book once more, a little more hurriedly than he would normally have done. He tucked it back under his arm and touched his hat to the others as a show of manners which he felt they had neither given nor currently deserved.
“I must go. Thank you both for your time. Good day to you, Mr. Brewster, Miss Tully.”
