West Coast,
Devonshire, Dartmoor
St George, Skirrid Inn
3 November 1898, 8:27 pm

Inside the pub, the three men were greeted by stagnant air thick enough to cut. The incoming breeze of night air met the densely woven tapestry of smells as they entered. It formed a wall that made Kyle and Dr. Archer breathe shallower for a moment. It smelled of alcohol and the unmistakable note of sweat interspersed the scent of freshly baked bread and distinctive sweetness emanating from various bouquets. Where the sounds had filtered out through the open windows, they now assaulted the senses in all their force. The scraping of chairs, creaking of tables under the strain of bodies, and the clatter of dice. The mixture of laughter and conversations outdid each other in volume and created an irregular soundscape.

The taproom was quite small and was also trimmed by a counter where no more than four bar stools had found their place. Behind it, three large barrels made of dark wood were stacked on top of each other. Two narrow paths led past either side. To the left, one set of steps led up to an open door and into the stairway to the upper floor; to the right, the second ended at a passageway from which busy clattering sounded.

A round stove of black-grey cast iron stood against the right-hand wall in the center of the tap room, and coals smoldered behind the open vents. There were similar abodes in London too; some more speakeasies than deserving of the name inn or pub. Kyle expected all this when he entered. What he didn't expect, however, was the mourning decorations. This gave the pub a bizarre, depressing contrast to the prevailing mood. Even though they had known that the landlord had died, they had expected discreet mourning.

Black ribbons had been hung from the ceiling, forming sinister waves. Long runners, weighed down by vases with mourning arrangements, were emblazoned on the worn, angular wooden tables. The flowers in them looked comparatively fresh, unlike those that had been used to decorate the counter and walls. Candles stood everywhere on iron holders or in small jars. On the window ledges, behind and on the counter, and on the wall shelves. Some had already burned down and gone out, and others were struggling, in the last throes of flickering death. Next to hollies, wreaths of yew branches had been woven. Marsh meadowsweet and heather adorned the resinous branches, along with white flowers that were already drooping their heads and scattering their leaves. Everything gave off a sweet note that stung Kyle's nose unpleasantly.

The constable led them to one of the tables where his so-called Custodian Helmet rested. Then he gestured for them to simply leave their luggage at the side. As he settled down, the old wooden chair groaned and strained under the weight of the seasoned man. Kyle resisted the thought of sitting down again. Something to eat tempted him more.

"I trust your journey here was pleasant?" began Constable Baltimore with superficially polite banter.

"Not really. The carriage suffered a broken wheel," Dr. Archer told them dryly. Laughter washed loudly into the room beside them.

A few men sat around two tables pushed together, obviously keeping an eager barmaid on her toes. All of them were bearded men whose wool and linen shirts stretched over their muscular upper arms. Their healthy tans quickly revealed that they probably worked outside a lot. From their stature, they were peat cutters or craftsmen who did physical work every day. There were several empty glasses on the table, a few bowls, and some pitiful slices of bread left on the plates. The constable's gaze followed that of the two gentlemen to the source of the boisterousness in the middle of the parlor.

"Most of them are Mr. Mc Hoon's men. He's sort of the builder of the village. They work on the site where poor Marie Mosten met her death." his tone broke towards the end. Quite as if he had wanted to say more but didn't think it was the right moment. "Most of the village is made up of simple peasants and peat cutters. They often gather here at the Skirrid Inn after work." he finished his explanation.

Just at that moment, the young barmaid approached the table. Kyle recognized her as the young thing who had chased the older lady away sometime before. Straight brown hair reached almost to her hips and was braided into a long plait. A few strands had come out in the busyness of her work and fell into her delicate face. The young woman might have been about 18 years old. She possessed a cute stubby nose and large brown eyes framed by thick lashes, so Kyle instantly recognized a deer in her overall demeanor.

"What interesting guests you bring to our parlor Henry?" she greeted the village beadle first, then smiled at the two strangers. Her tone was warm but very weary. There were tired shadows under her eyes. "Elisabeth Oldren." she introduced herself and two small dimples dug into her cheeks. "But Elly will do just fine."

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Oldren." said Dr. Archer, politely inclining his head in greeting."Elly is the good soul of the house." Baltimore praised, and the young woman's cheeks overlaid with a rosy hue of embarrassment. She nudged his shoulders lightly with her elbow in a friendly manner. Then the constable pointed to his guests and introduced them. Immediately the young woman's features brightened in recognition.

"Ah, the two guests from London, I remember." she put in immediately, brushing one of the loose strands behind her ear as if to tidy herself up a little. Almost casually, she touched Dr. Archer on the shoulder as if they were old acquaintances.

"The journey must have been very tiring." her tone swung between interested and indulgent as she propped the tray against her hip with one hand. Behind her, someone called her name. Elly turned her head, quickly signaling that she had noticed, and her smile faded a little. "Excuse me. It's been very busy since Mr. Andrews passed away."

Kyle noticed her eyes getting waterier. Then she cleared her throat a little and restarted. "So, what can I get you?"

"An ale for me." said Baltimore, without thinking twice, "As always."

The eyes settled on Dr. Archer, waiting for an answer. But his attention was turned in another direction.

In the far corner of the inn, at a smaller, round table, sat a woman all alone. Her blonde hair had been twisted into several strands and pinned up into a chignon at the back of her head. She wore a high-necked dress and, in combination with the veil that fell flowing around her slender shoulders, could almost have been mistaken for a bride, had she not been draped entirely in the black of mourning instead of the white of innocence. She blended so perfectly into the melancholy picture that surrounded her that one immediately understood that she must be the widow. Deep circles lay under the red eyes. The sniffling was lost in the noise as she pressed a handkerchief to her red nose. Damp trails made her cheeks glisten in the light while her gaze was fixed rigidly on a corner of the tavern.

The doctor followed her stare but could only make out a half-height chest of drawers. Books stood there, a few lying overturned or stacked in the wooden compartments. A wicker basket filled with knitting yarn and wool. A half-finished work, perhaps a shawl for the coming winter, filled another compartment. On the shelf above, a few candles stood around the picture of a man, probably between 40 and 50. His round face wore a bushy beard to display a hard expression. It showed the beginnings of broad shoulders and muscular arms that seemed to be tucked into a festive but worn jacket. But this did not seem to have helped him, for black silk ribbon had been wrapped around the corners of the frame. It was undoubtedly the late Mr. Andrews.

"Benjamin?" asked Kyle from the side a little more clearly. Only then did the person addressed turn his head back.

"Excuse me. An ale for me."

"And a black tea for me," added Kyle, studiously ignoring the quirky looks. A grown man ordering tea in a pub. Disparaging looks pricked his neck like needles.

Elly, at least, didn't seem to have time to think any further. She was already scurrying away when even Dr. Archer looked askance at Kyle. "A black tea?" he asked and Kyle leaned back against the backrest, exhausted.

"I don't drink." He explained curtly. His tone already let it be heard that he had no intention of elaborating. Dr. Archer's interest did not change this, even if his gaze dug into Kyle's features with silent questions.

After a short while, the lady of the house finally rose. Black fabrics fell around her legs, opened as she walked, and billowed like the blossoms of a death flower. She left the crowded taproom silently and still as a ghost. Hardly anyone seemed to have noticed her at all.

The three gentlemen spent the rest of the time at the table with superficial topics of conversation. Dr. Archer and Kyle excused Lord Sunderbrandy's absence and promised to attend to this investigation as diligently as he would have done. The elderly policeman seemed a little disappointed but showed understanding that a man in Lord Sunderbrandy's position could not so easily travel to Dartmoor.

Constable Baltimore then told them basic facts about the village and again apologized to the mayor, Mr. Mosten. One of the deaths he had mentioned, the one that had occurred at the construction site, had taken the mayor's daughter from his life. Therefore, the usually responsible man was currently in mourning and somewhat tense.

"The people here are a little cranky," Baltimore said, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. "Strangers rarely come to St George." His beard wobbled as he curled his lips into a smile. "They're a little suspicious of out-of-towners. But when they realize you're not just townspeople but acquaintances of mine, I'm sure that will subside. Bear with them a little." he pleaded."Have any other notable things happened recently? Has anyone new moved here, have any travelers come through, or are there rumors of any events in the forest?" the doctor asked straight out and Kyle wondered who exactly was the policeman here and who was the interviewee.

But to their mutual disappointment, the constable shook his head. His curls wobbled as he did so and a strand fell into his forehead, which he immediately wiped back.

"The community hasn't had any new members move in since me." he finally replied, "Other than that, there haven't been any incidents that I can think of that would have been strange." he was silent for a moment, his gaze latching onto a distant point somewhere. As if he needed to think about it again, or rummage through dusty drawers. "There was a fire at one of the families some time ago, and two people were killed. But that was years ago."

No other useful clues. Kyle drew circles on his temple with his index and middle fingers. Whether it was the journey, the little sleep, or the smell here- his head throbbed uncomfortably.

"Very well. We'll look into the details of the accidents in more detail tomorrow then." he, therefore, steered in rather quickly. They had to start from scratch. Tomorrow, when he was rested and awake, they would be able to tackle the investigations in a concentrated way.

"It would be helpful if you had the death certificates ready. At least a copy," Dr. Archer said, tapping his fingertips on the tabletop in a drumming rhythm.

"I've already had Dr. Simons make me a transcript for the files," Baltimore explained.

"Very conscientious." The doctor praised. Kyle just nodded.

"I explained to the mayor that with this number of dead, I may be assuming other causes." That the constable was not necessarily talking about the murder he left unsaid. "That's why I requested the assistance of other investigators. He probably didn't expect anyone to actually come."

With that, the mayor was not so wrong. The way police departments in larger cities proceeded, such cases would have been waved away with a roll of the eyes. They would hardly have sent criminal investigators to this hinterland.

"Tomorrow we will be able to discuss further action with the mayor. I am sure he will accept any help." Baltimore said seriously.

For even if some villagers did not like to say it, they were still worried about the lurking shadow of death that had recently been hanging over St. George.

Their fear was well-founded.