A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(21)

The grounds were cleverly laid out so that they seemed quite private right until the end, the path winding through copses thick with trees in the full glory of their late summer foliage, dressed in coats of glossy green in every shade imaginable. The air was humid and heavy, pressing close against me as I walked, drawing beads of perspiration from my temples. I picked my way down the path, into the mist-shrouded trees. The formal gardens gave way to orchards and then to wilder patches of forest, little copses that had been so cleverly planted they gave the impression of much larger woods.

I kept to the path and in a very short time found myself at the foot of the mount on the main street of the village. It was a bustling little place, boasting a shop, a church, three schools, an inn, a trio of pubs, and a smithy, all dating from the Tudor period to judge from the architecture. The half timbering was old, but the plastered bits had been freshly whitewashed, and the windows in each were gleaming. It had a tidy, prosperous look. The blacksmith was busy at his forge, shoeing a horse whilst a farmer waited. A few of the island’s women were gathered at the shop, purchasing stamps or exchanging gossip as they waited to be served, falling to interested silence as I posted my letter to Lady Wellie. Strangers were clearly a matter of note in so small a place, and I gave them a cordial nod as I emerged from the shop. Down the street a buxom maid poured a pail of water onto the steps of one of the pubs, sluicing it clean. In a patch of sunlight in front of the church, an elderly woman sat tatting, her cat at her side, licking daintily at its paws. It was as peaceful a place as any I had seen, and I felt a curious somnolence steal over me. It was like walking into a storybook village, a sleepy place where folk never changed and life went on as it always had throughout the centuries.

Even the inn seemed like something out of time, I decided, as I pushed through the door and entered the low-ceilinged main room. The sign out front had depicted a fairly lascivious-looking mermaid, but within all was peaceful. Chairs and tables were scattered about, good plain oak, so darkened by time and polish that they were black as walnut. I glanced about for a proprietor, and to my surprise, the elderly woman from in front of the church appeared, cat trotting neatly at her heels.

“Good day to you, Miss Speedwell,” the woman said in a curious, creaking voice.

“How did you—” I paused and began to laugh. “Of course. It is a small island, after all.”

She smiled, displaying a surprisingly beautiful set of teeth. “Old Mother Nance knows more than you might believe, my dear.” She gestured with one long-fingered hand. “Come into the parlor and sit by the fire. The mist is rising and it won’t be long before the sun is gone. You must warm yourself and take some cider,” she insisted. She guided me into a smaller parlor where a merry fire was burning upon the hearth. It was much colder in this room with its stone walls and tiny windows and she noticed my shiver.

“This is the oldest part of the inn,” she told me. “Built into the living rock, it is. You can feel the damp, can you not? The whole island is laced with tunnels and secret passages.”

“Not surprising for a property owned by a Catholic family in the reign of Elizabeth,” I pointed out.

She laughed, a small wheezing sound that shook her bony shoulders. “Lord love you, my dear. You think they practiced secrecy because they were recusants? Nay, the Romillys were smugglers, child. That is how they made their coin and crafty they were with it. There’s not a square inch of this island that doesn’t hold a secret.” She turned away and busied herself for a moment before returning with a tray upon which perched a tankard. “Take it and drink,” she urged.

“Only if you will drink with me,” I told her.

She seemed pleased at the invitation. She fetched herself a tankard and we toasted before I sipped. Mertensia had been right. The cider was sweet and cold, but behind the bright apple taste was a sharp note of something dark and complex, like an excellent wine.

“You mark the difference,” Mother Nance said.

“Miss Romilly mentioned that the local apples are unique,” I agreed.

“Grown in the bones of a dead man,” she said solemnly.

I stared at her in horror.

“Heaven bless you, miss! Not a real dead man,” she said, wheezing again in amusement. “’Tis only the legend that the island was once a giant who strode across the seven seas before curling up to sleep. It is said the sea washed over him as he slept and he never waked again and only his bones were left, picked clean by the creatures of the deep and that is how the island came to be.”

“I suppose a place like this is thick with legends,” I said.

“That we are. We’ve our giant and a mermaid and more ghosts than we have living folk.”

“Ghosts—” I began, but we were interrupted by the boisterous arrival of a young boy, his dark hair tumbling over his brow as he bounded in. The cat twitched its whiskers at him but did not move.

“Hello, Gran,” the boy said, dropping a kiss to her worn cheek.

“Hello, poppet. Miss Speedwell, this is my grandson, Peter. Peterkin, this is Miss Speedwell from up the castle. You say a proper hello to the lady.”

He bowed from the waist in a gesture of such refined courtliness it would have done credit to a lord. I inclined my head. “Master Peter. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“How do you do?” he asked gravely.