Page 30 of Beloved Beast

“I believe I have enough points for butter. I was wondering, however”—she leaned across the counter, pushing the glasses up on her nose—“any chance I can buy a couple of fresh eggs? Beyond what I’m allowed? Or any fresh chicken?”

Mrs. Robertson’s eyebrows arched. “Well, you don’t beat about the bush, do you, Miss McKinnon?”

“I’m willing to pay.”

“Well, miss, here’s the thing. That would be against the law,” Mrs. Robertson whispered, “But out here in the country we can bend the rules a wee bit. On one condition. You join our pig club.”

Good God. Gillian stepped away from the counter. “And what is that precisely?”

“We keep a few pigs on the side here in the village. They’re not registered and I’d appreciate you keep it to yourself. We collect table scraps from those who participate to feed the pigs, you see, then we all share in the meat.” Mrs. Robertson leaned in closer. “If you want a few extras, like eggs, bacon, and fresh chicken while you’re here, that’s the price.”

“But I’m alone. I wouldn’t have much in the way of scraps,” Gillian said wistfully.

“We’ll take whatever we can get. So, the scraps, plus three times the going rate. If you agree, I can have four eggs, two plump breasts of fresh chicken, and a rasher of bacon here for you in three days. Deal?”

Gillian almost wanted to laugh at the wheeling and dealing. “Shall we spit in our hands and shake on it?”

Mrs. Robertson laughed. “I like you, Miss McKinnon. You’re all right.”

“I will place the scraps outside the door, but I do not wish to be disturbed while I’m here.”

“Fair enough.” Mrs. Robertson poised her pencil. “Now, what else would you like besides butter?”

As Gillian listed off several items, the door to the shop burst open and three youths strode in, laughing and shoving each other good-naturedly.

“Here, enough of that, lads. Save the roughhouse for out-of-doors,” Mrs. Robertson admonished, but not unkindly.

The three boys quieted as they headed for the bread and bakery display. Mrs. Robertson disappeared out back to gather Gillian’s food items. One of the boys, who appeared to be about fourteen, came to stand beside her, giving her a curious look.

“You new here?”

Bold little bugger. “Yes, I am. For two weeks at least.”

“Well, don’t go out after dark, fair warning, miss. Or the Beast of Charlwood will snatch you up, quick as a wink.”

Gillian couldn’t help but laugh. “Is that right?”

By this time the other two lads had joined their friend. The first boy continued with his narration. “Tall he is, close to seven feet. He used to be quality back in the day, a viscount livin’ up at the big house. Died in a carriage race in eighteen ninety-four…”

“It was eighteen ninety-five, Billy,” the blond boy interjected.

Billy gave Blondie a dirty look for interrupting, but turned his attention back to Gillian. “Tale says he rose from the grave. Dug himself out. Ugly monster. Tried to grab a wee lad playin’ by the brook. The men chased him, but he escaped into the woods. To this day, people have seen him lurkin’ about the graveyard late at night. He comes after those kiddies who don’t behave. And after young ladies. So beware.”

Gillian laughed again. She was utterly charmed. “I will certainly refrain from nightly walks through the cemetery.”

The third boy with red hair gave her a shy look. “The old earl had the grave dug up, it was his son who’s the monster and all. And the grave were empty. It’s all true. My grandfather told me before he died he were one of the men that seen the creature by the brook, and he were one of them that tried to hunt him down.”

She hadn’t been this amused in ages. Gillian decided to play along. “And what did the wretch look like? The Beast, I mean?”

By now the boys were eager and animated. “His skin was gray like a dead man’s, and his face was mangled with white scars all down the left side of his face, spreading out across his cheek like claws.”

“And queer eyes, all different colors like,” the blond boy cried. “And he has real claws, too. And wears one black glove, the better to strangle you with.”

They had described Luke. Except for the claws. But it wasn’t possible. This so-called village myth took place close to fifty years ago. Her heart stuttered in her chest. There was no way these boys could have seen Luke since they arrived last night. Her insides tumbled in apprehension. This all seemed too strange to be a coincidence, but what other explanation can there be? God, the description was accurate enough a chill tore down her spine.

Mrs. Robertson came out from behind the curtain carrying brown paper wrapped bundles. “Be off with you lot, don’t be bothering my customers. Hie yourselves to school, the break must be over. Get yourselves gone!”

The lads laughed as they sprinted out the door, letting it bang behind them. Mrs. Robertson laid the parcels on the counter and began to write in her ledger. “Don’t pay them any mind. They were speaking of the late Viscount Ravenswood, son and heir to the old Earl of Whitestone. The viscount did die in a carriage race decades ago. I’ve never believed those wild stories. Corpses walking about. How daft.”