Tamsin

If human life on this planet ever depends on whether or not I can tell a lie without blushing, humanity had better start packing. I wasn’t even lying—I was just trying for casual, and I can’t even do that without my whole face spontaneously combusting. Everybody was polite about it, though, and nobody asked any of the questions I’d left myself wide open for. Evan did give me a long look, way too thoughtful—Tony gets it from him, it just occurs to me now—but all he said was, “You should talk to old Guy Guthrie.”

Sally stopped playing for a moment. “The man at the market? What would he know about the Willoughbys?”

“Guy Guthrie knows everything,” Evan said. “Everything about Dorset, anyway. The Celts, the Romans, the people who cut the Cerne Abbas Giant in the turf, the ones who lived in Maiden Castle, the ones who went with Monmouth—the Tolpuddle Martyrs, Thomas Hardy, Barnes, the lot. And their ghosts.” I must have dropped my teeth, because Evan smiled his long, slow smile at me. “He collects ghosts, old Guy does. Hobs and bogles too—get him to tell you about the Screaming Skull of Bettiscombe Manor—but mostly it’s Dorset history, the bits and loose ends that don’t fit into books. He’ll know about the Willoughbys.”

He did, too. Does, I mean: Guy Guthrie’s still alive, still doesn’t look any more than seventy-five—though he’s got to be ninety— still wears Sherlock Holmes tweeds and ulsters, and still works part-time at the Dorchester Museum, though you don’t see him ru

Mr. Guthrie served me milky Indian tea, the way they have it at Meena’s house, and little cakes, the kind that taste like sweet sand, and which you can actually feel rotting your teeth while you’re eating them. He’s a tall man, with a big broad face, Crayola-blue eyes, and a hayrick of white hair that used to be red. He poured tea for himself, leaned forward, and asked me, “Now why on earth would a child like yourself be wanting to know about Tamsin Willoughby?”

Sally hadn’t told him about Tamsin—she couldn’t have. She’d simply gotten his phone number and called to say that her daughter was very interested in the history of Stourhead Farm and the Willoughby family. And there he sat, smiling a little over the rim of his teacup, and getting straight to the heart of things first crack. I said, “Well, I didn’t mean Tamsin—I mean, not just Tamsin—”

“Of course you do,” Mr. Guthrie interrupted me. “Tell me, does she still smell of vanilla?” I sloshed tea into my saucer, and Mr. Guthrie’s smile got wider. He said, “I’m sorry, my dear—that was a silly parlor trick, and I do apologize. But you see, Tamsin Willoughby has appeared a number of times over the last three centuries. Always to young women—girls, really, none very much older than yourself—and always accompanied by the scent of vanilla.” Mr. Guthrie was born in the north of England, not the west, so his accent isn’t really Dorset, and people tease him about it, but I liked it right away. He said, “Please do tell me about her.”

I didn’t tell him everything I knew, but just to be able to talk about Tamsin at all was like early spring in Mr. Guthrie’s little parlor. When I said that I’d spoken with her, and that we’d gone walking together, he didn’t answer me for a while. Then he said, very carefully, “As a rule, Miss Gluckstein—ah, Je

“The story of Tamsin Willoughby,” Mr. Guthrie said, “is to my mind the most romantic legend between Winchester and Exeter. I call it a legend because the people involved were most real, but every other aspect of the tale is guesswork, there’s no other word for it. It begins with a chap who was apparently engaged to play to her while she was having her portrait painted—”

“Edric Davies,” I said. I didn’t mean to say it—it just came out of me, that fast. Mr. Guthrie looked at me. I said, “He was Welsh—I think.” Because it was his story to tell, after all.

“Edric Davies,” Mr. Guthrie said. “Yes. Yes, he was indeed a Welshman. Of course they fell in love, quite properly—what sort of a legend would this be if they didn’t?—and made plans to elope together, since her family would never have consented to such a marriage.” He stopped, narrowing his eyes, which made them look even brighter. “You know all this, I can see.”

I nodded. “She told me,” I said. “I’m really not making it up, Mr. Guthrie.”

Mr. Guthrie sighed again. “Eigh, dear, I rather wish you were. Because I know what to do with fabrications, Je

As far as he knew, Edric Davies had been lost in Monmouth’s Rebellion. When I told him about Edric’s student, Francis Gollop, being the one who went, and how Edric had gone after him and brought the body home by night, he gave a fu

“What? Accounts for what?”

“Why, for the way he disappears from the story,” Mr. Guthrie practically shouted. He hopped to his feet—then saw I didn’t have a clue what he was carrying on about, and he laughed and sat down again. “Je

“Well, he did,” I said. “He came back, all right, and he buried Francis Gollop in a wheatfield. But I don’t know what became of him after that. Tamsin won’t ever say.”

“She died,” Mr. Guthrie said. “Maybe that’s all that happened.” There was one little sugary cake left, and he waved it to me, but I wrapped it in a paper napkin to take home to Julian. A kid gives you his damn gorilla, you have obligations.

I said, “I don’t believe that. And you don’t either.” Mr. Guthrie didn’t answer right away. Clem wandered over and slobbered on my shoes. I scratched his ears, keeping Julian’s cake well out of range. Once Mr. Guthrie started to say something, but then he didn’t. The old stone cottage got really quiet, but not scary. You could hear a clock ticking somewhere, and smell something on the stove, and a bird scratching for shelter under the eaves. I studied a framed photograph on an end table: three little girls, each one holding a doll. They must have wanted them in the picture, too, the same way I still don’t like to be in a photo without Mister Cat. I need all the diversions and evasive maneuvers I can get.