The Grimm Dossier

Chapter 8 - The Widow

West Coast,
Devonshire, Dartmoor
St George, Skirrid Inn
3 November 1898, 8:27 pm

Inside the pub, the three men were greeted by stagnant air thick enough to cut. The incoming breeze of night air met the densely woven tapestry of smells as they entered. It formed a wall that made Kyle and Dr. Archer breathe shallower for a moment. It smelled of alcohol and the unmistakable note of sweat interspersed the scent of freshly baked bread and distinctive sweetness emanating from various bouquets. Where the sounds had filtered out through the open windows, they now assaulted the senses in all their force. The scraping of chairs, creaking of tables under the strain of bodies, and the clatter of dice. The mixture of laughter and conversations outdid each other in volume and created an irregular soundscape.

The taproom was quite small and was also trimmed by a counter where no more than four bar stools had found their place. Behind it, three large barrels made of dark wood were stacked on top of each other. Two narrow paths led past either side. To the left, one set of steps led up to an open door and into the stairway to the upper floor; to the right, the second ended at a passageway from which busy clattering sounded.

A round stove of black-grey cast iron stood against the right-hand wall in the center of the tap room, and coals smoldered behind the open vents. There were similar abodes in London too; some more speakeasies than deserving of the name inn or pub. Kyle expected all this when he entered. What he didn't expect, however, was the mourning decorations. This gave the pub a bizarre, depressing contrast to the prevailing mood. Even though they had known that the landlord had died, they had expected discreet mourning.

Black ribbons had been hung from the ceiling, forming sinister waves. Long runners, weighed down by vases with mourning arrangements, were emblazoned on the worn, angular wooden tables. The flowers in them looked comparatively fresh, unlike those that had been used to decorate the counter and walls. Candles stood everywhere on iron holders or in small jars. On the window ledges, behind and on the counter, and on the wall shelves. Some had already burned down and gone out, and others were struggling, in the last throes of flickering death. Next to hollies, wreaths of yew branches had been woven. Marsh meadowsweet and heather adorned the resinous branches, along with white flowers that were already drooping their heads and scattering their leaves. Everything gave off a sweet note that stung Kyle's nose unpleasantly.

The constable led them to one of the tables where his so-called Custodian Helmet rested. Then he gestured for them to simply leave their luggage at the side. As he settled down, the old wooden chair groaned and strained under the weight of the seasoned man. Kyle resisted the thought of sitting down again. Something to eat tempted him more.

"I trust your journey here was pleasant?" began Constable Baltimore with superficially polite banter.

"Not really. The carriage suffered a broken wheel," Dr. Archer told them dryly. Laughter washed loudly into the room beside them.

A few men sat around two tables pushed together, obviously keeping an eager barmaid on her toes. All of them were bearded men whose wool and linen shirts stretched over their muscular upper arms. Their healthy tans quickly revealed that they probably worked outside a lot. From their stature, they were peat cutters or craftsmen who did physical work every day. There were several empty glasses on the table, a few bowls, and some pitiful slices of bread left on the plates. The constable's gaze followed that of the two gentlemen to the source of the boisterousness in the middle of the parlor.