MRS. POOLE: That must account for your endless baths.
By the time Mary and Catherine returned with the requisite number of wellies and mackintoshes, in what Mary hoped were approximately the right sizes, it was almost dark. The general store was completely out of waterproof hats, having sold all its stock in August. As they passed through the entry hall, Mary saw Diana sitting in a corner of the dining room with the ostler they had seen earlier and what seemed to be three of his friends, one of whom Mary recognized as the boots boy. She was cutting a pack of cards and dealing them to her companions. She must be gambling again. Oh, for goodness’ sake! Would she never learn to act like a young lady?
DIANA: Why do you even continue to ask that question?
MARY: Because I haven’t given up hope?
DIANA: Then the more fool you.
Should Mary try to stop her? Surely it was the duty of an older sister.…
Just then, Mrs. Davies came up to her. “Miss Mulligan, I believe you wanted to see Kyllion Keep? Mrs. Polgarth, the daily woman, came in not half an hour ago. She’s sitting by the window in the dining room having a cup of tea, if you’d like to speak to her.”
Mary turned to follow Mrs. Davies’ pointing finger. By the window sat an older woman, plump and comfortable-looking, in a knitted shawl and an old-fashioned straw bonnet.
“Shall I introduce you to her? She can tell you if it’s possible to view the interior of the keep.”
“Yes, please, Mrs. Davies.” What could the daily woman tell them? Mary was not certain, but any information was better than none. She tugged at Catherine to follow her and gave her a look that she hoped conveyed the message Let’s see what this Mrs. Polgarth has to tell us. Catherine gave her a look that seemed to reply, I’m cold and wet and tired of carrying these damn parcels.
MARY: How can a look possibly convey all that?
CATHERINE: Artistic license. Anyway, that’s certainly what I was thinking at the time!
Mrs. Davies introduced them as two lady visitors eager to see the beauties of Cornwall. “Miss Mulligan and Miss Montgomery,” she said. “All the way from London.” Mrs. Polgarth nodded and said, “How do.” She did not seem particularly impressed.
You can catch more flies with honey than vinegar, Mary reminded herself. How did Mrs. Poole do these things?
“It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Polgarth!” she said. “Do you really live in Kyllion Keep? The only remaining part of Kyllion Castle, built by Sir Allard Kyllion in the fifteenth century, and destroyed in the Civil War by Cromwell himself? I’ve read so much about it! About how Queen Elizabeth herself slept in the Red Bedroom and saw the ghost of Sir Allard carrying his severed head, and how Lady Eselda fell in love with the pirate Black Jack Rackham and sailed away with him on his pirate ship. Is there anything left of the poisonous garden grown by Gryffin Kyllion, whom everyone thought practiced the Black Arts?” Thank goodness the book from the Reading Room had been so thorough. “My friends and I were very much hoping we could visit the keep—but perhaps it isn’t open to visitors?”
“Well, miss,” said Mrs. Polgarth, visibly thawing at this recitation of the glorious and bloody history of the keep, “it isn’t open to visitors at the moment. You see, Miss Trelawny herself arrived home Sunday evening, with a friend from London and her daughter, as well as a distinguished foreign visitor, a lady from Egypt. She’s still in mourning—Miss Trelawny I mean. Her father, Professor Trelawny, was a famous Egyptologist, digging up all them mummies we hear about in the newspapers nowadays. I think it was a curse myself—they do say all those old tombs have curses on them, and whoever opens them is doomed. The professor died in a fire six months ago, along with his assistant, a low sort of fellow that I never liked, and Miss Trelawny’s fiancé. A handsome young lawyer, he was, and very much taken with her. Such a sad business. They say it was an accident, but that’s how curses work, ain’t it? So you see, I don’t like to disturb her at such a delicate time.”
“Oh, I had no idea,” said Mary. “I’m so very sorry! What a terrible loss for Miss Trelawny—her father and fiancé gone, and at the same time. It’s like a novel, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is!” said Mrs. Polgarth, nodding vigorously, as though she too had read those sorts of novels—as she probably had. “To be honest, I thought you might be one of those lady reporters who write for the penny press. We had quite a few of them after the accident. Well, I wish I could show you the keep, seeing as you know so much of its history, but you see I can’t, not while Miss Trelawny and her guests are there. Though it would do the house good to have some young ladies in it! That little girl has no one to play with. I’m taking her a bag of sweeties—lemon and pear drops, peppermint sticks, anise humbugs, and something else.…” She looked into a small paper bag she had placed on the table, beside the teacup. “Oh yes, licorice. She’ll like those, won’t she? Children do like their sweeties. My Bert always did—he’s grown now, of course, and in the navy. Last I heard he was somewhere near Minorca.”
“How old is this child?” asked Mary. “It’s a pity she can’t meet my sister, who is just fourteen.”
“Oh, that is a pity!” said Mrs. Polgarth. “This little girl must be twelve or thirteen, although she’s a small ’un. Is your sister traveling with you?”
“She’s upstairs, resting,” said Catherine.
Mary looked at her gratefully. It would never do to have Mrs. Polgarth learn that her sister was in the other corner of the dining room, gambling with ostlers!
“Well, I’m sorry we can’t visit the keep,” said Mary. “But perhaps we can climb about on the ruins of the castle and look for evidence of Gryffin Kyllion’s garden? It sounds like a wonderful place for a picnic.”
“It is, indeed,” said Mrs. Polgarth. “And you can climb about on the ruins, of course. Miss Trelawny owns the keep itself, but not the ruins or grounds.”
“Could you show it to us on a map?” asked Catherine. “We bought a map of Penzance and environs, all the way from Mousehole to Porthleven. We thought it might come in handy.” She looked about among the parcels and finally pulled out the map.
“Of course,” said Mrs. Polgarth affably. Catherine placed the map on the table and leaned over it, her elbows on the wooden tabletop.
Was Catherine thinking what Mary was thinking? Distract Mrs. Polgarth! Well, whether she was thinking it or not, she was doing it very effectively. While Mrs. Polgarth pored over the map, pointing out the different landmarks, making comments such as “Here is the keep, and if you get to Perranuthnoe you’ve gone too far,” Mary reached over to the paper bag of sweets. Hannah and Greta, the pickpockets who worked for Irene Norton in Vienna, would have done this so much more easily and elegantly! But it would take only a moment—yes, in a moment, it was done.
Ten minutes later, after they had bade Mrs. Polgarth good night and she had disappeared, her tea drunk, into the darkness, Catherine said, “So, what did you do? Send a message of some sort?”