Kettle Lane by B G Denvil

Author:B G Denvil [Denvil, B G]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gaskell Publishing
Published: 2020-07-05T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

“Come on then,” Oswald said as the sun rose on the following morning. “Wake up, sleepy head. Time to get up, time to face the questions.”

The urgency of his call startled Rosie awake. She regarded the hat pin with surprise. She now always wore Oswald on the neck of her smock, but he rarely spoke to her and generally seemed uninterested in everything going on around them. Now, however, he waited only until she had yawned and stretched, and he then began to relate what had been discussed while she had slept that night.

“Reckon you’d better listen to me,” he told her. “We don’t know nothing about the new murder. Not our business. But Whistle was my master. He made me. Made the spoon and the cup and the toadstool too. Not to mention all them papers. He liked parchment best, I reckon. Personally, I think paper is better. They’re building a paper mill somewhere or another, I think. It’ll start getting easier to get hold of soon. Cheaper too. But I reckon ‘tis irrelevant. What matters is my master was mighty clever at making magical things.”

“Goodness me,” mumbled Rosie. “Are you telling me I should buy paper? I still haven’t found the cup.” She dashed into her clothes with a click of her finger and thumb, brushed her hair with another click and pinned the hatpin on the neckline. “Now I’m supposed to go down and do some work.”

“We need to talk first,” Oswald insisted. “Have you ever seen a kitten?”

Rosie stared down at her feet, wondering if the hat pin was even more stupid than she had originally supposed. “Lots of kittens,” she said patiently. “I love kittens. I always sort of feel I can talk to them. But I only see them in the village. We can’t keep cats here because of all the bats and the birds. Most of the cats I see are strays, poor little things, but a lot of the villagers keep them as pets, and the farmers keep them to get rid of mice and rats. But when they have babies, some of the farmers put them in a sack with stones and throw them in a river. I was so upset when I heard that, I cried for three days. Once I rescued one of those sacks and spent all weekend marching around Piddleton finding old ladies who would adopt one of them. I wanted one to keep in my bedchamber, but Mother wouldn’t let me. So now,” she shook her head, “what on earth are you trying to tell me?”

“Oh, nothing,” sighed Oswald. “’Tis clear you ain’t ready yet.”

“No, not for cats, rats, murder or mayhem,” Rosie replied, and hurried down the stairs to collect water, make beds and serve breakfast.

Everyone had now heard of the second horrible murder, and there was no other subject discussed over the breakfast table. They all agreed this had been a shocking act of deliberate cruelty. She was only a maid, after all, and a sad little twelve at that.

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