Cat's Quill (10 page)

"I don't see the need to apologize for something which was not my fault," Tomas said stiffly. He folded his arms and leaned back against the nearest wall. "However, I will return the cap so Mikey can deliver his pamphlets."

"See, he doesn't see the need to apologize either!" Mikey muttered, giving his father a smug look.

"I said I don't see the need for
me
to apologize," Tomas corrected, "as it was not
my
fault."

"Then why are you returning the cap, huh?" Mikey demanded, glaring at Tomas.

Tomas glared back. Who the hell did this kid think he was? "It's not my place to stand between you and your ability to perform a community service."

Edward glanced between them, a slow smile tracing his lips. He seemed amused, although given the situation, it was an odd reaction. "Heaven forbid that you would think about doing such a thing. Good works need to be encouraged, don't you think, Mikey?" He looked at the cap sandwiched between Tomas's crossed arms, at Mikey, and then back to the cap.

"Whatever," Mikey said sullenly. "I'm sorry, okay?" He dived for Tomas, snatched the cap, and ran for the door, banging it behind him before Tomas had a chance to react, let alone reply.

"Interesting kid you have there," Tomas said, not bothering to follow Mikey. The boy would be long gone, already on his way to run over another unsuspecting pedestrian.

"He has a few attitude problems," Edward confirmed, "but he's a good kid at heart. Just at that stage where he thinks no one understands him." He smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes. "I'm afraid I don't have the same worldview that his mother had, and he never got the chance to know her as she died shortly after he was born."

Tomas nodded, unsure of how to respond. He'd never been good at social niceties and had been told on occasion he had the tact of a bull in a china shop. Finally he broke the silence, unable to shift the feeling that he needed to at least try. "I'm sorry. It must have been difficult." At least Mikey had a father who loved him, rather than having been through foster care, Kathleen fighting so that the two of them could stay together.

"Yes, it has been on occasion." Edward's eyes clouded over, and he was quiet for a moment. "I tell him to seize the moment and live each day as though it's your last because you never know when it will be."

It was an interesting philosophy and somewhat cynical but also hit rather too close to home for Tomas's liking. Unsure as to why this man he had only just met was being so open to a stranger, Tomas attempted to ignore his growing unease by glancing around the shop. After all, he had come in here to find answers about the postcard in his pocket, not to exchange sob stories. While he did not mind listening, this conversation had already caused him to reveal information about himself that he would not usually.

A revolving metal stand caught his eye. It was full of postcards, some colorful and modern, others black and white, looking somewhat faded as though they had been sitting a while, stock not moving in a village which itself was a mixture of the two. Sitting in a pile on a shelf behind the postcards was a stack of last year's calendars.

"Each month features artwork of local scenes," Edward explained. "It's been years since we've had something like that in print, so I'm reluctant to get rid of them. The odd time we get tourists through here, they like them."

"You get tourists?" Tomas raised an eyebrow, his imagination balking at the thought of lots of people swarming around the village, or worse, in the surrounding countryside.

"Small coach loads on occasion, elderly folks out for a day in the countryside. Ada at the cafe does a Devonshire tea for them, and they seem to enjoy it. Several of the old dears have never been out of London, so it's good for them, and we like the change in company too."

"And the business," Tomas commented. "I expect that doesn't hurt either." Reaching behind the stand, he picked up a calendar from the top of the pile and flicked through it, his hand stilling when he saw one of the inn. It had an almost ethereal look to it, washed-out watercolors capturing the feel of the old house and its surroundings rather than being a photo-like representation. The roses stood out, their colors vibrant, alive on the page. His eye dropped to read the name of the artist, his breath hitching when he repeated the name out loud, his voice barely a whisper. "Alice Finlay."

"You've found our Alice, I see." Edward's tone was quiet, almost apologetic.

"Who is she?" Tomas glanced from the scene brought to life in front of him to Edward and back again. The picture reminded him of something, but he couldn't think what it was. Damn it, he should know why this seemed familiar. It wasn't the inn itself but rather the style of the illustration, the way in which it had been sketched almost lovingly and then gone over carefully to bring dashes of color to what would have otherwise been a drab world of grey.

"She's about the only person with any major claim to fame from around these parts." Edward gestured toward the calendar in Tomas's hand. "She owned the inn once upon a time, long before Donovan and Heidi bought it. The house belonged to her family for years. It was almost a shame it had to be sold, but sometimes you don't get a choice in these things."

Tomas nodded. "Can you tell me anything else about her?" He hesitated for a moment and then took the postcard out of his pocket, handing it to Edward. "I found this in an old book."

"Where?" Edward turned it over in his hand, frowning. "I haven't seen one of these in years. It was a limited run print done about ten years ago featuring a series of artists, writers, and the like who had local origins. We have a few of them, although not as well known as Alice was in her day." He shrugged. "A number of aspiring types like yourself come here. Some find what they are looking for, some don't."

Usually Tomas would have replied with a tetchy reminder that he was not an
aspiring
writer but a published one, but he didn't want to risk alienating Edward and cutting off a potential source of information. "In the library."

The admission received a raised eyebrow in return. "Phoebe must be slipping," Edward mumbled under his breath. "Where in the library, exactly?"

"Inside a book," Tomas replied, wariness still whispering that he needed to be careful. Admitting too much would not be wise. "It appeared to be used as a bookmark."

"I see." Edward turned it over again. He stared at it for a few moments and then shrugged. "Betty used to say that nothing happens without reason. She had more faith in such things than I have ever had. Maybe if she'd lived, things would have been different, but you have to make do with what life dishes out."

"Betty?" Tomas put his hand out for the postcard, not wanting to let it out of his sight, Edward's words bringing back memories he'd rather forget. Even though he'd been a small child when he had lost his parents, death was something which had haunted his dreams for a very long time, that and a feeling of great loss. Sometimes he still woke in a panic, sure that he'd lost something or someone very important, the sensation of reaching but not being able to hold, leaving him shaking for several minutes until he convinced himself that it had only been a dream.

"My wife." Edward cleared his throat, giving Tomas back the postcard. "I guess if you found it, it's yours. It's not as though anyone is going to want it back now, is it?" He gestured to the calendar in Tomas's other hand. "Take it if you want it. After all, my son nearly ran you over. It's the least I can do." The bell on the door of the shop rang, heralding the entrance of another customer. Edward's tone shifted, suddenly all business. Tomas quickly slipped the postcard into the pages of the calendar, hiding it from view. "Mrs. O'Neil, what can I do for you today, dear?"

"Hmph." Tomas looked up to see a well-endowed, somewhat elderly lady waggling her finger at Edward. "You know full well only the late Mr. O'Neil, God rest his soul, had the privilege of calling me by that endearment."

Edward gave her a cheery smile. "Of course he did. I keep forgetting."

The comment was answered by a shaking of Mrs. O'Neil's head. "If I didn't know better I would think you were teasing me, Mr. Flynn."

"Now, would I do that?" Edward moved back behind the counter, bringing out a small square parcel. "This came for you this morning."

"Yes, you would." Mrs. O'Neil put her hand out for the parcel, pausing to look Tomas slowly up and down over the top of her spectacles. "Mr. Kemp, I presume? Your reputation precedes you, young man." She lowered her voice. "Not that I put much stock in that kind of thing. It's more important to make your own judgments, don't you think?" Without waiting for his opinion, she placed the large carpet bag she was carrying onto the counter, opened it, and put the parcel inside. "Thank you, Mr. Flynn. I'll be in next week again, of course."

"Of course," Edward replied. "It's a pleasure doing business with you as always, Mrs. O'Neil."

"And you, Mr. Flynn." Mrs. O'Neil scanned the room again before finally settling onto Tomas. "Heidi tells me that you are planning to be here several months." Her mouth turned down in a show of disapproval. "She also informs me that you are a writer." She shook her head sadly. "Young men these days need to return to earning an honest living and keeping their feet firmly on the ground, and then the country wouldn't be in the mess it's in. Now, my late husband, he was very reliable. One could set one's clock by him, I always said."

"Yes, I am a writer," Tomas confirmed, feeling somewhat annoyed by this woman's attitude. "I earn an honest living by it too." He looked her up and down in much the same way she had done him, taking in the many-times-mended cardigan, the way the buttons on her practical seersucker shirt were done right up to the neck, and her lace-up brown shoes. "Keeping your feet on the ground is one thing, but I think it's important to explore other avenues of higher thinking as well." He paused for effect. "Don't you?"

Mrs. O'Neil tsk-tsked. "Didn't your mother ever teach you about manners, young man? It is very rude to stare like that."

"You were staring at me," Tomas pointed out.

Behind the counter, Edward muttered something about needing extra stamps and disappeared out the back of the shop.

"Poor man." Mrs. O'Neil shook her head sadly. "He had such a bright future ahead of him before he married into that family. A lovely girl, but no one can hide secrets forever." She lowered her voice confidentially. "Her poor father is crazy, you know, just like his mother before him. They saw... things, or so the stories go." A loud sigh escaped her lips. "I pity that poor child with his drawings. He's obviously touched by the same. I've told Edward that the boy would do better with portraits or local scenes; they at least would bring in some money, but he insists on letting Michael go his own way."

"What kind of things?" Tomas frowned, unable to resist the question. Mikey had seemed like a normal teenager to him, if somewhat rude, a trait that Mrs. O'Neil appeared to share.

"Why, it wouldn't be good manners to disclose that type of information, dear." Mrs. O'Neil glanced around the shop, seemingly perplexed. "Oh dear, I seem to have mislaid my umbrella. I expect one of those children has taken it again. I must go find it. The forecast is for rain later today too."

The bell above the door rang. Donovan entered the shop, an umbrella in his hand. "Hey, Mrs. O. I found this outside; it's yours, right?"

"Mrs. O'Neil, if you please, Mr. Campbell," Mrs. O'Neil huffed, taking it from him. "Yes it is. Thank you for locating it for me." She hooked it over her free arm. "Well I must be off. Places to be and people to see." Her voice raised in pitch and volume. "Good day, Mr. Flynn. It is good manners to see your customers off when they leave, you know."

Edward poked his head around the corner, his hand over the receiver of a phone. He looked over apologetically at Donovan and Tomas. "There's a problem with one of the recent orders. I'll be with you shortly." Mrs. O'Neil received a tilt of his head. "Good day, Mrs. O'Neil. Now if you'll excuse me...." He disappeared into the room at the back of the shop again.

After shaking her head in resignation, Mrs. O'Neil began walking toward the door of the shop. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kemp. Good day to you, Mr. Campbell." She paused, giving Donovan a look over the top of her spectacles that was a mixture of disappointment and disapproval. "I'm presuming as I'm taking my weekly constitutional tomorrow that you will be conveniently absent upon my arrival."

"I plan to be, Mrs. O'Neil." Donovan grinned, giving her a shrug and an innocent look that Tomas didn't believe for a moment. "We both know that routines are very important. You have yours, I have mine, and never the twain shall meet." He moved to the door, holding it open for her.

The comment was met by a very unladylike snort. "We'll see, Mr. Campbell, we'll see." And with that, Mrs. O'Neil walked out of the shop, the door swinging on its hinges several times before closing behind her.

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Chapter Six

Donovan shook his head. "She always has to finish every damn conversation with that." He shifted his voice up an octave or so. "We'll see, Mr. Campbell, we'll see." Muttering something under his breath, he tilted his head in the direction of the back of the shop. "You nearly finished out there, Edward? I need to pick up some stamps for Heidi."

"She seems rather--" Tomas paused, looking for the right word to describe Mrs. O'Neil, but there wasn't one. In the end he settled for "--unique."

The word received a snort in reply. "Yeah, thank God." Donovan tapped his fingers on the counter. "Enough to drive a guy to drink, I tell you. There's a theory her husband died just to get some peace and quiet, that it was the only way he could escape her."

"Ah yes, but I'm guessing you don't know who started that rumor." Edward put down the phone and came out to join them, reaching under the counter to pull out a large red book. He flipped through the pages, giving Donovan a grin, already ripping out stamps from first one page and then another. "You'll want the usual for Heidi, I take it?"

"Yeah, thanks. I forgot them earlier." Donovan reached into his wallet. Dropping several notes on the counter, he glanced around the shop, almost as though checking it was safe before lowering his voice. "So I'm guessing you know?"

Edward blinked. "Know what?" he asked.

"Who started the rumor about Mrs. O'Neil's husband," Tomas replied for Donovan, his own curiosity getting the better of him. "Your comment strongly suggests you know." His eyes narrowed. "Was it you?"

"Me?" Edward laughed. "I wish." He counted the money Donovan had given him, punched the keys of the cash register, and smacked the side of it when it refused to open. Finally, after several minutes of convincing it to cooperate by threatening to update it with something more modern, he handed over the stamps and the change. "Now, that would be telling," he said, tapping the side of his nose, "and there are enough foul rumors in this village as it is."

"You're protecting your source," Tomas said slowly, adjusting his bag so he could slide into it the calendar Edward had given him. It was an instinct he could relate to. While not a reporter, he had still interviewed several people for some of the less than nice details of his previous books on the proviso that he did not share their identities, as they had done things they were not proud of. War and human nature did not often mesh in favorable ways. Neither did gossip and small villages.

"I'm protecting myself." Edward nodded sagely. "Things told in confidence are meant to stay that way." He grinned. "Besides, trusted sources keep getting information, so it's in my own best interests to do so."

"Interesting reasoning," Tomas remarked, agreeing with it at least in principle, even if it meant he was no closer to learning the truth.

"Damn convenient, more like," Donovan mumbled, folding the stamps carefully so they fit into his wallet. He glanced at his watch. "If we hurry we can get a beer before we need to go back. I seem to remember you owe me one."

"I seem to remember I don't." Tomas's stomach growled. "I might consider it, though, if this pub has decent meals."

Donovan grinned. "Yeah, they do. One of Tricia's pies and a decent pint of Guinness and I'm happy."

"Pies?" Tomas gave Edward a nod of thanks. "Please tell me they have more on the menu than pies." He'd done research on what went into some of the commercial ones once for an article he'd written for a university magazine. It wasn't a magazine he particularly wished to be associated with nor the article he'd wanted to write, but it had helped toward that week's rent. However, he now had an aversion to anything that combined meat and pastry. Fieldwork, the editor had said. Testing and eating pies of all shapes and ingredients, he'd meant.

"Steak and kidney." Donovan ticked off on his fingers as he waved to Edward and walked out the door Tomas had already opened. "Steak and cheese." He licked his lips. "Hmm, and steak and mushroom. Her steak and mushroom pies are to die for."

"I bet they are." Tomas shuddered, wondering if the village had a local chip shop. Surely the pub would at least sell those small bags of peanuts which might keep him going until he could find some real food. "I don't suppose they sell anything else?" he asked hopefully, wondering if he held his nose and closed his eyes he might be able to imagine the pies were really something else. Of course there was also the option of picking off the pastry top and fishing around the inside for whatever lurked beneath.

"She also does a real good shepherd's pie," Donovan said, adjusting the collar of his jacket against the fine spits of rain which were beginning to fall again. Tomas shrugged down farther into his jumper, deciding this would be the last time he ventured into the village without his jacket. He missed the fleecy lining in particular, his mind casting back to the warmth there had been in the sun just mere hours ago.

"There's that pie word again," Tomas snorted. "How far is this pub?" He glanced up and down both sides of the street as they walked away from the post office, Donovan leading the way.

Donovan shook his head, amused. "It's not a pie--" He paused. "--exactly, and you've obviously had a bad experience." He eyed Tomas up and down for a moment. It was unnerving. "We'll have to do something about that."

"I don't like them," Tomas said firmly. "Pastry brings back very bad memories of some research I did once. I'd prefer to avoid anything even vaguely associated with it."

"Pastry?" Donovan looked blank for a moment before he pointed to the wooden building up ahead which appeared to be their destination. "Shepherd's pies don't have pastry. You need to try one of these. Buy me that beer and I'll get you one of Tricia's pies in return." He grinned. "I'm a reasonable kind of guy, and for this I'll compromise, as you're in sad need of a decent education."

"How self-sacrificing of you," muttered Tomas dryly, looking both ways before they crossed the road to the pub. He wasn't sure why he bothered, as there wasn't a car in sight, just an old lady on a very wobbly bicycle. At least she would not be the risk to pedestrians Mikey had been. A cat dived out onto the road, barely missing her front wheel as she swerved, one hand ringing the bell attached to the brightly colored cane basket strapped to the handlebars. A very loud, unladylike curse filled the air.

Donovan grinned, following Tomas's line of sight. "You haven't had the honor of meeting old Mrs. McPherson yet either, huh?"

"Thank God." Tomas shifted his attention to the sign above the double doors of the building in front of them proclaiming it to be "The Worthington." Smaller letters informed him that it had been established in 1818 by someone called Lucius Worthington, Esq.

There was a snigger beside him. "You'd better not let her hear that," Donovan warned. "While it's okay for her to swear like a sailor, take the Lord's name in vain and you'll get rapped over the knuckles with whatever she has handy. She takes her job as local church organist very seriously. Drives the local minister crazy, although I think it's just a cover for the fact he's got it bad for her."

Taking a moment to stare at Donovan, Tomas digested this latest piece of information. The rumors he'd always heard about small-town, or in this case village, gossip were apparently true. "I think I could do with that beer now," he said hurriedly, not wanting to dwell on that idea in the slightest, especially as he had argued with Kathleen that they only existed in those books she kept trying to inflict on him. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside, glancing around his new surroundings, letting his senses drink in the mixture of warmth, inviting smells, and the roaring fire in the hearth at the far corner of the large room.

A black and white collie was lying at the feet of an elderly man who was nursing a beer at a table under one of the windows. The dog lifted its head, looked at Tomas, whined, but didn't move. It seemed familiar, and Tomas searched his recent memories to try and place as to why.

"Hey, Kip." Donovan crossed the room, dropped to one knee, and scratched the dog between the ears, ignoring the other patrons who for the most part seemed to dismiss his presence in turn. One of the women talking animatedly two tables down stopped, glanced at him, and then returned to her conversation. The dog whined again, giving a sharp bark. "How are you doing, boy?"

"Fine, considering you nearly ran both of us over," the elderly gentleman snorted. "I knew it wasn't Heidi driving that thing." The snort turned into a grin, and he tapped the table with the end of his shepherd's crook. "Take a weight off if you want until young Craig decides to serve you."

Tomas hung back by the door, letting his eyes linger on the room. New places, especially those with character like this one, were to be savored. The pub was fairly old, and the fireplace, with its intricate carved mantel, looked as though it could have been the original from when the building had been constructed. The diamond pattern in the wood was echoed in the coarse felt carpet on the floor, the fawn-colored shapes alternating against a cream background. In contrast, the blue padded material cushions on the barstools, although pale, broke the old-fashioned feel of the place, almost as though a glimpse of modernity had broken through into the past, the same way in which the slivers of sunlight through the windows bathed sections of the polished wooden bar.

Behind the bar, above the oval alcoves which were home to old-fashioned barrels, bottles, and varying-sized glasses, was a selection of horse brasses. Walking over for a closer look, Tomas peered at them at best as he could, trying to remember what he'd read about them online a few months previously. He had been fascinated by them at the time, especially some of the legends attached to the early stories of them, after seeing one referred to in a book he'd been reading while researching something else. It was weird how he'd often become caught up in a piece of information that had nothing to do with what he'd started out looking for, to the extent that it fueled whatever he ended up working on. His last series had begun that way, the historical drama he'd anticipated turning into a study of human nature and relationships set in a future that had taken shape in his mind over several months.

The Worthington's collection was quite impressive, some older designs ranging from the classical designs associated with early sun worshippers to the more common heart motifs. Some even appeared to be hand-cast; Tomas wondered if they pre-dated the pub itself. One in particular, a circular amulet with a Staffordshire knot in the middle of it, caught his attention, and he edged closer for a better look, wishing for a moment that he could step back into times gone by and see the heavy brass discs displayed as they were meant to be as decoration on the tack of the working horses of the area.

"The board lists the specials for today," Craig, the bartender, informed him, interrupting his train of thought. He was a young man with bleached blond hair, in his early twenties. Another wipe of the bar and he threw the cloth to land in a spot on a shelf behind it. It missed and fell onto the floor.

Donovan grinned at Kip, petted him again, and ambled over to the bar. Helping himself to one of the barstools, he propped both elbows on the counter and patted the seat next to him. "Eating while sitting down is better," he drawled.

Settling himself on the seat Donovan had indicated, Tomas dumped his bag on the ground but still within reach. "Two pints of Guinness," he told Craig. "Donovan's buying lunch."

"You're having the usual?" Craig didn't even bother to wait for a reply but reached into the pie warmer to retrieve whatever the usual was. Putting a good-sized pie, cutlery, and sauce in front of Donovan, Craig disappeared out the back into what looked suspiciously like a kitchen, only pausing to pick up the cloth he'd dropped before.

"Yeah, well, guess I am now." Donovan shook his head, used his knife to cut around the top of the pie, and laid the pastry top to one side of his plate. "And a shepherd's pie for Tomas!" he called out, shaking out a good dollop of Worcestershire sauce onto the pie and mixing it through the exposed meat and vegetables.

"He appears to have forgotten the beers as well," Tomas noticed, watching the contents of Donovan's pie very carefully, as he suspected they were probably related to what would be in his own lunch.

"He'll do that when he's ready." Donovan added salt and pepper before tasting the first mouthful. "Hmm, good as ever," he pronounced.

Voices sounded from the kitchen, one of them slightly raised, and the door opened again. The middle-aged woman looked slightly flustered, but she gave both of them a friendly smile, her large, dangly hoop earrings swinging from side to side. "The shepherd pie's nearly done," she said. "There was a bit of trouble with the kids today and I had to go sort them out, so things are running behind."

"Tricia, Tomas." Donovan paused in his eating to wave his hand. "Tomas's got a few issues about pies and some kind of weird aversion to pastry." He paused. "The kids okay? Brendan hasn't been fighting at school again, has he? I can come have another talk to him if you want me to."

"Brendan's fine. Some kid tried to bully him, and he stood his ground like you told him." Tricia nodded in Tomas's direction. "Nice to meet you, Tomas." She glanced at Donovan. "The name's Patricia. Donovan likes to shorten names, and it doesn't matter how many times I remind him, he just keeps doing it anyway." Turning around for a moment, she retrieved two glasses and poured them each a beer. "As it's your first time in here, Tomas, and you're with Donovan, this one's on the house. The refill you'll have to pay for."