Affair of Pretense

Eight

Hayworth was a sleepy village bordered by hills and fields at one end, and the grey shore at the other. A battered stone bridge, blackened and moss-covered, gave way to a little marketplace where thatched and timbered cottages surrounded its perimeter. It was usually a bustling place, full of life and vigor of farmers and fishermen alike, teeming with stalls that sold various wares, swarmed by farm animals and wagons that carried crops. But it had been wet and foggy all morning, and without its energetic atmosphere it looked abandoned and reeked with poverty. Just across the street, a posting house and inn stood, its beaten sign saying 'Old Barrow' squeaking and hanging precariously from the post. There was a distinct chill in the air, but since Denver had wrapped himself in his many-caped greatcoat, he was warmed enough. The smoke coming out of the inn's chimney looked inviting; he urged his steed to the direction of the Old Barrow, tossed a coin to the ostler who had been eyeing him in wonderment, and went to the tap room inside.

It was a small space for a tall man such as himself, and drippings were coming rather steadily from the ceiling. The fire, however, was cheery enough and Denver put his hands forward to warm them. Except from the innkeeper, a short, burly man who was wiping some glasses behind the counter, there was no one else in the room.

"Not a good day to travel, guv'nor," said the burly man, his voice deep, and his expression owlishly curious. He noted the newcomer's raiment to be of the first stare: indeed, not every day could he had such a quietly elegant gentleman strolling into his humble inn.

Denver turned to him. "No," he replied. "It seems not a soul has ventured out today, except myself."

"Aye, the weather bein' wet and chilly all week long. From where does guv'nor travel, if I might ask?"

"Kent."

The innkeeper made a soft, clucking sound. "That's a long way to travel, and in this kind of weather. I hope you are warm enough? Would you like some bowl of punch?"

"Yes, thank you. I should like that." Denver approached the counter and waited for his treat. The burly man had disappeared and was back in a trice, bringing a small bowl of punch and a glass. It was a tolerable drink, and Denver drank heartily. The innkeeper, inwardly anxious to please his gentleman guest, seemed satisfied. He said casually: "What brings you in these parts? Visiting someone?"

Denver looked at him steadily. "I am looking for a man named Kentsville."

The innkeeper betrayed some surprise. "Be you a relative of some sort to Mr Kentsville?" he asked owlishly.

"Yes, I am," he said, not hesitating. "Do you know where I can find him?"

"Well, you ain't guv'nor," said the man, shaking his head. "He's dead." The Marquis knew this of course, but he affected a look of shock. "Indeed!" he said softly. "I am sorry to hear it. I've not seen or heard from him for many years." The innkeeper had been sorry to hear the terrible news, too, for he knew the old man to be a kind and decent one. Denver was politely listening and asking more about the late Mr Kentsville without being obviously inquisitive. His host was only too happy to supply more information, for he knew almost every single soul living in his tiny village. Denver, having finally obtained Mr Kentsville's address, thanked the burly innkeeper afterwards, paid his shot, and left.

Outside, the clouds were clearing a bit and the fog already evaporated. It was only six miles to reach the other side of the village where small cluster of cottages ran down a slopping cobbled lane. The Marquis rode past these dwellings, and the lane broke into an uneven patches of ground, then to a hilly grassland, at the end of which was a sparse woodland. It didn't take him long to locate the Kentsvilles' home. It was a small thatched cottage, faded into a muddy brown colour, with ivies crawling the walls and over the square windows. Denver lingered by the overgrown garden at the front of the house, thinking that despite its obvious wear, it had its charms. Suddenly, his mind conjured up Miss Kentsville, looking down from that tiny window of the attic. The image was quite fitting: no wonder that she loved her home so much, and it might have broken her heart to leave it for the shelter of the orphanage.