Excerpt: Brewing a Mystery (or - Miss Emmaline’s Tea Parlor, and what they found inside.)

The tea shop on 46 Baxter Avenue was much like any other shop along that narrow, cobblestone lane. Its door was curved at the top, like an upside-down smile, and it was painted a fresh sort of spring green, with the shutters painted to match. It was a green that looked like the first shoots of spring, and when you looked at it, was like the taste of mint in your mouth. There were flower boxes in the front windows, two lamps on either side of the door, and a narrow little stone pathway leading up to said door, which was never open.

But unlike the other shops which lined Baxter Avenue—a pharmacist's, a delicatessen, and so forth—Miss Emmaline's Tea Shop never seemed to have any business whatsoever. Sure,the man came every Wednesday to tend the flowers in the boxes, sweep the walk, and wipe down the windows, but no-one went in the door, or came out, though school-children on their way home would often scare and tease their younger siblings by saying that a light was flickering in the second-story window, or that, even better, a old witch lived within, and that she roasted and ate children, Johnny so-and-so had it on very good authority from his friend's cousin, who had seen it with his very own eyes and somehow lived to tell, and re-tell, the harrowingly embellished tale.

But this particular story was, of course, not true. Stories like that very rarely are; usually, they are worse.

There was one peculiarity about Miss Emmeline's Tea Shop that was usually missed by the children of the town, though not by the adults, try as they might to mind their own business. It was just so strange, they said, in whispered tones over a pint down at the local pub, that every year, on mid-winter's eve, mind you, at sometime in the evening, a carriage would arrive, a very fine carriage with four lovely matched greys, and a man would get out. Though he was dressed finely indeed, he was always wrapped carefully against the wind and snow that had happened with some regularity this particular time of year. The man would enter the shop, though the door was always locked (and the children had certainly tried it.) He would spend a few minutes inside, then depart. Those who cared to look might have noticed that he had a bit more of a spring in his step upon leaving, but most of the time, it was too blustery to see anything at all. The carriage would pull away, and Miss Emmaline's Tea Shop would be empty again.

It remained so for many years, until the oldest man in the town could recall seeing the New Year's Carriage (for that was what he came to call it, and the other people humored him, because he was, after all, the oldest man in the town, and therefore worth humoring) when he had been a young lad. Every year, the man would arrive, go into the Shop, then leave.
Every year, except this one.

---

John Ainsworth was a sensible sort of man. The only son of Davey Ainsworth,  owner of Ainsworth's Shrubberies, he had tagged along with his father for years as they went about to work in the town, and when his father had declared one crisp, fall day that his intention was to settle down by the fireplace, read a good book and enjoy what was left of his knees, the mantle of shrub-mastery had passed to his son's able shoulders.

That had been five years ago, and since then, John had been a steady and faithful gardener as ever there was. But he also had a keen mind, an inquisitive nature, and an eye for noticing details, patterns, and habits. Some would say (as the mysterious Some always tend to say something) that this was what made him a good gardener: Mrs. Appling wanted her roses trimmed just so; Mr. and Mrs. Davis had a curious fondness for weeds, if they blossomed, and liked them moved off the main beds and saved, if could be done; Old widow Markham hated the sight of yellow flowers - or yellow hair, for that matter - as it remedied her of her poor dead husband, whose memory she kept alive.

These were no trouble to John, and leastwise his hair was dark, so Mrs. Markham tolerated him. But with his hands deep into soil, kneeling in the dirt and tending to other people's gardens, John sometimes wondered, 'Was there more to life than this?'

Such thinking was not encouraged in the town. It wasn't actively discouraged, but the town prided itself on maintaining - things would go on as they always had, why was there any reason to change? So John kept his thoughts and ideas to himself, mostly, having nobody to share them with, though he was fit and fair of face for thirty-two and his father still had all his teeth and hair, which was a good sign.

John's domain included all of Baxter street, as his father had once known the owners of the land on which the shops were placed, and the store owners knew that Ainsworth's Shrubberies came every Wednesday. They would come out and greet his father, maybe offer him a hot mug of cider or some kind of a thank-you treat for his good work. The same tradition continued with John - which, as it was a Wednesday, meant that John's wheelbarrow already contained a piece of good ham, half-wheel of cheese, some home-canned pickles and a cloth bag of beets. Just leaving the tailor's shop, the seamstress ran out after him, blushing as she pressed a paper-and-twine-wrapped packet into his hands, then running back into the shop without looking at him.

John ambled on to Emmaline's Tea Shop, eyes not really looking at it (he was thinking of the seamstress, if truth be told) and jumping slightly when he perceived that a light in the second-story window was on.

He stopped to examine the upper window, at first wondering if what he had  taken to be a light or candle was really just the glint of weak sunlight on mottled glass. But, pausing along the stone walkway and looking upwards, he was certain that the flickering was, indeed, a fire - and what's more, a closer inspection proved that the side door to the back garden was slightly open, the ground scuffed slightly as if it had been recently disturbed.

"Hooligans and scoundrels," John muttered to himself, setting the twine-wrapped package down on top of the rest of the treats in his wheelbarrow, then wiping his hands on the front of his practical wool work trousers.

Though neither he nor his father had ever been in the back garden at this particular shop, John knew the general layout must be similar to the shops on either side; there would likely be a back door that went up into the owner's apartments on the second floor. Young boys often played and made dares with each other to go sneak in to places where they ought not to be going (and John had once been a young boy, so he knew full well the temptation.) Stomping back to the open gate, John guessed that he'd find nothing more than such a lad, playing with fire in the hearth. But an unchecked fire could be dangerous, not only for this building but for those on either side.

John pushed open the gate and it sang a low creak in protest. The back garden was a sorry sight to behold, especially for a gardener; unchecked, weeds and brambles grew everywhere, and it became clear enough after a few paces that there was no way a child could cut through this brush, not unless he or she were very determined indeed. Instead, he wondered if perhaps some vagrant had got in to warm himself in the cold fall day. But John had long legs and a mind to finish what he'd started, more than bothered by the lack of tending as the thorns grabbed at his clothes like tiny, sharply-grasping hands.
He brushed them off with some impatience, worried now that the fire had been set on purpose, and seeing that the back door was also ajar. He felt his face fall into a scowl as he pushed the door open, wiping his muddy boots carefully, yet hastily, on the worn back mat before stepping inside.

"Hello?" He called out, glancing left and right, listening for a response. He was inside what appeared to be a kitchen space, but it was empty, devoid of all life and coated with dust, spiderwebs, and a sort of chilly pallor that made him wonder if anyone could have come this way at all. "Is anyone within?"

There was a faint scratching upstairs, like the sound of nails on wood, and John glanced up, startled. But it didn't sound like crackling flames, nor like footsteps. He stepped through the kitchen, towards the stairwell that went up into a dark second floor. Carefully, yet swiftly ascending, he glanced left and right, walking up the stairs until he rounded the corner at the top, his eyes going wide as he met a sight wholly different than the one he was expecting to see.

---

Meanwhile, in the front garden, Rosalyn Emmett was standing very still, considering the thoughts over which her mind and heart were wrestling. Turn around, go back to the tailor's shop, forget about the dark-haired man with those lovely, sweet grey eyes, and it meant that she would never again work up the courage to speak to him at all. She knew this in her heart, and there was a sort of achy comfort in that thought.

Yet the other option, while terrifying and unlike her in every sort of way - follow Mr. Ainsworth's footsteps around the back gate, say hello, invite him over for tea and biscuits - held the promise of something wonderful. For Rosalyn had worked ever since she was a girl in kind Mr. Emmett's tailor shop, learning everything there was to know about the subject, and she had never met a man who could make her blush and make her head feel like it had been stuffed with bits of fluff and make her hands go all fumbly - no, there was nobody quite like Her Gardener.

That was how she thought of him, privately; she'd never ever admit it to anyone else, not even her dearest sisters - though, to be truthful, Daisy and Flora weren't really her sisters; orphaned as a child, Rosalyn had been left out on Mr. Emmett's doorstep, and though he'd been busy raising his own daughters by himself, he took in her as well. When the three girls stood together, it was easy enough to tell that they weren't related; the twins were fair and blonde and as delicate as the lace that danced to life under their talented fingers, while Rosalyn was more like a bolt of sturdy woolen cloth, stout and brown, good with practical things, and could bind a seam that would last under a trampling horse or brutal storm. She did not think herself particularly beautiful, and had very nearly convinced herself that no one as dashing as Her Gardener would ever notice her.

But, as they say (whomever they are, anyway) that nothing ventured leads to nothing gained. It was high time she took her shears to the good fabric, so to speak.

Rosalyn made up her mind and began to walk forward. As she rounded the corner and walked through the gate, she tucked up her skirt to avoid tearing it on the brambles, and walked confidently back through the garden, seeing that Her Gardener had indeed come this very way. She walked in through the open back door, shutting it behind her; even if nobody did live here, it was nice to shut the door behind you anyway, she thought to herself, and followed the footprints in the dusty floor up the stairs, where the strange and unexpected sound of something yipping and scratching met her very surprised ears. As she poked her head around the corner, she smiled slightly in relief and sweetness at the picture before her.

Her Gardener was crouched on the wooden floor, cradling a whining, squirming dog in his arms, speaking sternly yet consolingly to the poor beast, who – when Rosalyn could tear her eyes away from the dark-haired man and regained her senses – seemed to have a hurt back leg.

“What's happened to the poor dog?” She spoke, and John jumped at the sound of her voice, her soft footsteps and still presence gone unnoticed as she stepped near to him. “Oh, I'm so sorry!”

“Something's gone and fallen on him.” John answered, petting the dog's head and touching the hind leg gently. “I don't reckon how he got in here, but there's a statue sort of thing, and it must have fallen. I think he's more startled than anything.”

Rosalyn agreed with John's assessment, but watched as the dog tried to dig his way out of John's confident hold with some curiosity. “Looks like he can move it all right. But mayhap we should take him to see Mr. Benton. He gave my rabbit, Lucinda, a tonic that set her right as rain in nought but two days.”

John lifted his gaze to meet hers with a little more than a bit of incredulity in his raised eyebrows; immediately, Rosalyn blushed, feeling quite foolish and wishing she'd never said anything, never walked up the stairs, never come in at all.

“You have a rabbit?”

She nodded, still blushing as red as a beet. “Um, yes.”

John grinned, and Rosalyn had to blink several times in quick succession to make her brain function. He was saying something about having a pet rabbit of his own as a boy, and was standing up, holding the dog in the crook of his arm. “...lead the way, then?”

She swallowed. “Oh, yes. Good. Let's go find him.”

As the two of them proceeded down the hall, Rosalyn took one last look into the room, committing the strangeness of its contents to memory. It was a particular gift she'd had ever since she could remember (which, given her gift, was saying something; she could recall the very color of the blanket in which she'd been wrapped that fateful day, nearly twenty-five years ago, when she'd been placed on Mr. Emmett's doorstep. It came in particularly useful in her work, as she could very readily recall all kinds of details and where to place them to make a particular garment especially nice and flattering to the wearer.

But this room in particular would have been easy to recall, as it was just so very unnatural in its contents - the most notable of which were three intricately-carved statues: one of dark stone, one of clear glass, and one of what appeared to be amber. Of course, there was no way such a large piece of amber could have existed, Rosalyn knew, so she supposed that it, too, was some sort of glass. The clear one and the amber-looking one had been standing side-by-side in the room, but the stone one had fallen to the floor.

In fact, it was very likely that it had been the stone statue which had fallen onto the poor dog, which was still whimpering and squirming in John's arms. Rosalyn made to pet the dog, reaching out to comfort it, and at that moment, several things happened in very quick succession: The dog bit down on John's hand; John let out a yell, bringing his hand up to examine it, thereby dropping the dog; the dog landed on its feet, and Rosalyn squeaked, jumping out of the way as the brown-and-tan creature ran back into the curious room; stumbling in surprise, the two humans nearly fell down the stairs, and, as a compromise, decided instead to fall onto each other.

From her horizontal position, Rosalyn came to assess Her Gardener in a closer way than she ever had before, much to her embarrassment and his discomfort; she was splayed across him, arms and legs a-tangle, and in her haste to get off of him, she managed to elbow him right in the sternum.

"Oh! I am so sorry, here, let me help-"

"I've had quite enough of your help today, I wager," John grumbled, but Rosalyn saw there was a curious glint in his eyes. "Let's go see what's got that dog all worked up. Must be something in the room he wants."

Rosalyn got to her feet, brushing off the dust from the floor that had clung to her wool skirt. She offered a hand to the man on the floor, who accepted it gratefully with a firm clasping of his own rather large and slightly callused hand. Rosalyn nearly toppled over again as he hauled himself to his feet, adjusting his own waistcoat and jacket and looking into the room. She followed him in and was surprised to see that the small Beagle was sitting by the fallen statue, whining and licking at it.

As Rosalyn and John approached - now somewhat wary of the dog, given that it had recently bitten one of them - they saw with some astonishment that the stone statue was that of a woman, and the whining dog was licking the cheek of the statue as if it believed it was a real woman. Upon closer inspection, the statue did seem to be carved with an extraordinary level of care and detail; the woman's face was young looking, heart shaped, and faintly smiling, faintly surprised, as if the sculptor had captured her at the moment of the change of her countenance. Her long hair tumbled down the back of the statue in soft, thick curls, which, carved as they were from polished, even stone, seemed to hold the promise of glossy waves, though what color they were could not be determined.

The same was true for her eyes, lips, and clothing, which were wide and startled-looking, plump and full, and rather clinging, in that order. John felt his head turn to get a full assessment of the woman's figure, which looked lovely, though it be of lifeless stone.

Now, lest you, dear reader, think that just because John's cuticles were dirty, so too were his thoughts, let me assure you that this was not usually the case. But the irrefutable fact of the matter was that John was indeed a man, and men tend to think such ways first, when confronted with the image of a beautiful woman, before considering all else.

John shook his head, clearing his thoughts and bringing them back to the issue at hand. "Poor dog, thinks the statue is its master, I reckon."

"I wonder how it got in here," Rosalyn answered, now too perplexed to be embarrassed by the fact that she'd recently fallen on someone she desperately adored. "I fact, I wonder if it belonged to someone here, maybe that fine man who comes every year, at midwinter?"

At this, the dog immediately began to growl, and glared up at Rosalyn with such humanlike understanding that her eyes widened.

"It's as if the beast understands what you're saying," John muttered, his own eyes widening in wonderment. "Strange."

Now, the dog turned to growl at John, and Rosalyn let out a laugh. "I suppose he understands both of us. And I'd guess he doesn't like being called a beast, either."

John raised an eyebrow at her. "Or being carried."

And then, he turned the same exasperated glare on the dog: "Well, fine then, stubborn creature. Stay here and lick that rock, if it makes you happy. But I've got a nice fire at home, and some meat and bread for dinner, and might have someone take a look at that leg of yours. But if you want to stay here in the cold, well, that's your decision."

Rosalyn opened her mouth to remark on how silly it was to talk to a dog and expect it to understand this sort of concept, but her jaw dropped as the dog instantly stopped its whining and licking of the stone, hopped to its feet, and trotted over, tongue lolling, to sit at John's feet. It waited there, looking up at him as if the man had raised him from a puppy all his life.

John continued to glare at the dog, then let out a sigh, and looked across at Rosalyn. "I suppose I must appear ill-mannered, inviting the dog over for a meal and neglecting you. I can't profess that my cooking is anything to sing about, but you're welcome to it."

She grinned. "Oh, please don't believe I followed you up here in the hopes that you'd invite me to dinner!"

But he offered her his arm, smiling, and they walked down the stairs and out the back door together, Him feeling very flustered by the strange dog, room, and statue, Her feeling flustered at the whole situation. Out the back walk they went, careful to close the house's door behind them, and then John pulled aside the brambles for her as chivalrously as he could manage while not wearing any gardening gloves. He was thankful that she wasn't some wilting flower type who was afraid of a few thorns, and laughed to himself as she shook out her skirts impatiently, not caring about whether or not he could see her red stockings underneath.

At last, they made it out front, and she spied the gift she'd run out to hand him sitting op top of other packages in his old, red wheelbarrow. She wanted to ask him about it, yet didn't want to call attention to it and risk another embarrassing situation. But, then again, considering the fact that she'd already fallen on him, it was likely she was fresh out of blushes for a few hours, at least.

The dog connected to jump up into the wheelbarrow, and John pushed him, the packages, and the tools across the mist-covered road and up the street a ways. Rosalyn briefly considered running over and telling her father she was off to visit someone, but thought the better of it. Her adopted father was good friends with Mr. Ainsworth, senior, and surely wouldn't mind her visiting with a friend's son. And anyway, his kindly-meant yet unsubtle comments about how she was more comfortable indoors with her own thoughts than out of doors with another person. So they walked past her house, onwards down the lane where it curved into two different, smaller roads. They turned down the right fork, and there, two houses down on the left side, sat John's home.

Rosalyn smiled; it was easy enough to see which one was his. Though many of the houses along this lane were in keeping with the controlled wildness of flowers, brambles, short trees and shrubs, John's house was clearly the case of the proverbial shoemaker's children having no shoes. Though the front walk was neat and orderly, the stones level and fitted together with a low, springy sort of moss, the rest of the trees were rather wild and the raised beds were filled with earth and devoid of any flowers.

John turned back to Rosalyn, meeting her gaze with a sheepish sort of smile. "I know, I know. Father always says I should tend to my own garden first, but there's just so much work to be done elsewhere. I never seem to find the time to - hey!"

The dog had jumped out of the wheelbarrow and was now darting across the moss bed to bark furiously at a squirrel, which had run up a tree and was chattering back at him angrily.

John wheeled the wheelbarrow around to the side of his house, where a shed sat. He unloaded the tools, putting them into the shed, hanging this one on a peg on the wall, or placing that one carefully on a low shelf beside some empty pots and a packet of seeds. Then, picking up the packages from the wheelbarrow, he shut the door behind him and gestured back to the front of the house as Rosalyn followed happily.

Inside, the home was as cozy as a bachelor's home ought to be, Rosalyn thought to herself as she examined the worn and comfortable-looking furniture, the rugs on the wooden floor that showed signs of use, and the general lack of any color coordination or softening touches. Nothing hung on the walls, save a rack of pegs near the door that held a spare jacket.

But no scarf hung on the peg, which made Rosalyn smile. John set the packages down on his kitchen table, then walked over to take Rosalyn's cloak and hang it on the peg next to his jacket.

"Here, let me stoke the fire. Sorry for the chill."

"I'll do it," Rosalyn smiled at him. "You tend your packages."

He glanced over at them. "All right then."

Rosalyn gathered up the bits of the old fire, which was still barely smoldering in the hearth, with the metal scoop, and began to layer on bits of tinder and scrap paper (mostly seed packets) until the lot of it caught the fire, flames licking their way along the edges as they curled under the heat. She fanned it a bit, blowing air in, then added two small logs and sat back as the dry wood caught the flames.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched now as Her Gardener unwrapped his packages, and marveled at how well-liked he must be to receive such nice gifts. But one still remained unwrapped - the one she was most worried about. Woud he appreciate such a gift? What would he think of it? Once again, the tingle of self-doubt ran up her spine, and she was fretting about her gift when John returned from the kitchen, carrying her (still-unwrapped!) packet and a pot with a long metal handle.

"I see one here that appears to have your father's mark on it." John remarked, hoisting the iron cauldron into the tall fireplace opening and hanging it carefully on the hook there.

Rosalyn sat back on her heels, then realized she was sitting on his floor at his feet, and got up carefully, somehow doing so without running into him again. "Um, yes. Well. I thought you might appreciate, ah, something."

He glanced at her, his expression unreadable as he un-knotted the twine. John spread aside the plain paper wrapping to reveal-

"It's a scarf." Rosalyn provided, as John ran a finger along the soft fabric. "We had this lovely fabric come in two weeks ago, and I thought, well, you might need one, seeing as you never have one and it's coming near first snowfall."

What Rosalyn was really thinking was that she'd watched John come and go for the last year at least, and never once had he worn a scarf, and it set her thinking, when the fabric had come in (a lovely soft wool that was light and warm at the same time) that it reminded her of his eyes, the way they were sometimes green, then sometimes grey, then other times - staring at her. Like right now, for example.

"Do you like it?"

"I do." He said, draping it around his neck and answering Rosalyn's question as to whether it would match those lovely eyes (it did.) "I never thought about having a scarf before, but now that I have one, I'll be sure to wear it."

Rosalyn blushed (she does that a lot, John was discovering; he sort of enjoyed it) and bobbed a curtsy to him. "You're welcome, then."

"Well, ah, there's stew leftover from last night in the pot here, and I've got some bread today, so why don't you go sit a bit and I'll bring it out."

"Ok then." Rosalyn went to the two chairs, chose one of them, and sat down. But as John ducked back into the kitchen, she heard a scratching at the door, and rose to see what it was.

"Oh! You!" It was the dog. It poked its nose into the house, sniffing madly (the stew did smell quite delicious) and trying to wiggle through the gap. "Um, Mr. Ainsworth, d'ya mind if I let that dog in?"

"As long as he behaves," John called back. "And you don't have to call me Mr. Ainsworth, Makes me feel like you're talking to my dad."

"All right then." Then, to the dog: "Come in, you little scoundrel. And don't be messing up John here's things."