Free The Dark Volume by Gordon Dahlquist

a bed with Elöise). It occurred to her that the other guest, the hunter, Mr. Olsteen, must have used a local horse for his hunting. Perhaps he could answer some of the questions she would have put to the murdered groom…
    Miss Temple tucked the book under the pillow and blew out the candle. She stepped onto the landing and again straightened her dress, wondering if Mrs. Daube might be prevailed upon in the morning to curl her hair, a thought that quite unbidden brought a smile to her face. She descended the stairs breathing in the smells of food and a crackling fire, the hardening of her heart so normal a sensation as to be but scarcely noticed.

    MISS TEMPLE found Mrs. Daube in the kitchen, pouring a very dark gravy from a pan on her stove into a small pewter cruet. The innkeeper had set a modest table with two places. But Elöise was not there. Mrs. Daube looked up at Miss Temple, her eyes kind and bright.
    “There you are! The other lady said you were resting, but I am sure a hot supper will do you nicely.”
    “Where is Mrs. Dujong?”
    “Is she not by the fire?”
    “No.”
    “Then I'm sure I do not know. Perhaps she is speaking to Mr. Olsteen.”
    “Why would she be doing that?” asked Miss Temple.
    “Perhaps to apologize for his needless searching for you?” said Mrs. Daube with a smile, as she placed a bowl of steaming vegetables onto the table, next to a brown loaf dusted with flour.
    “Where would she be?” asked Miss Temple. “They are not upstairs.”
    “Will you sit?” asked Mrs. Daube. “It is much better eaten when ready.”
    Miss Temple hesitated, both annoyed and relieved at Elöise's absence, but then she considered that time with Mrs. Daube was an opportunity of its own. She slipped past with a trim smile to a chair on the table's far side, where she could speak to the innkeeper without turning.
    “Here you go.” Mrs. Daube set a meager chop on a heavy Dutch blue plate before her. “The end of last week's mutton. I make no apologies, for you'll get no better in Karthe. There have been no stores come north these last five days—as if we have not the needs of finer folk. One vexation after another. I am not sure I ever got your name.”
    “I am Miss Temple.”
    “I am poor with names,” said Mrs. Daube, tartly. “It is good I am an excellent cook.”
    Miss Temple occupied herself with the pewter cruet, the bread, and a wooden bowl of what looked like mashed turnips with some scrapings of nutmeg—a grace note that indeed bettered her opinion of her hostess.
    “I believe you have recently seen a friend of Mrs. Dujong and myself,” Miss Temple observed, pasting a smear of butter across her slice of bread. “A rather daunting person, in a red coat and dark glasses?”
    Mrs. Daube shifted two pots to different places on the stove, making room for an iron kettle. When she looked back to the table her lips were thinly pressed together.
    “The gentleman, if I may call him such, is not one to slip the mind. Yet he paid for one meal only and went on his way. We barely spoke ten words, and most of those with regard to passing the salt.”
    “Would Mr. Olsteen have spoken to him?”
    “Mr. Olsteen had not yet returned from the mountains.”
    “What about Franck?”
    “Franck does not speak to guests.”
    As if the young man had just been brought back to mind, Mrs. Daube turned to a small door to the side of the stove that Miss Temple had not before noticed, draped as it was with a hanging piece of cloth, and shouted like a sailor, “Franck! Supper!”
    No answer came from the hidden room.
    “This bread is delicious,” said Miss Temple.
    “I'm glad to hear it,” said Mrs. Daube.
    “I am quite fond of bread.”
    “It is hard to go wrong with bread.”
    “Especially bread with jam.”
    Mrs. Daube felt no need to comment, jam not presently available on the table.
    “And what of our other friend?” Miss Temple continued.
    “You have a great many friends for someone so far from