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It was a forty-five-minute train ride from Meres Reach to Plymouth, and I spent the time trying to read the latest Josephine Tey detective novel which I’d picked up at the Post Office. It was a used copy, so Mr. Johnson had let me borrow it for free. I found it difficult to focus on the fictional adventure when I had such questions swirling in my mind.
At last the train arrived in Plymouth, and Tippy and I alighted and made our way to the ticket office. When I asked the middle-aged man behind the counter how to get to Upper Snow Falls, he gave me a once over through thick lensed glasses.
“Can’t get there by train.”
“Oh, well, that’s fine,” I said. “Is there a bus?”
“American?”
“Yes, I am.” At least I assumed he meant me and not the bus.
“Don’t get many of those. Not since the war.”
I wasn’t sure whether to apologize or what. Instead I offered a smile and repeated my query. “Is there a bus that goes to Upper Snow Falls?”
“Sure. Right out there.” He nodded toward the road that ran in front of the station. “But you better hurry. It’s about to leave.”
Tossing a thank you over my shoulder, I ran for it, dragging Tippy behind me. I caught sight of the bus, an ancient, lumbering, dark green monstrosity. It was just pulling away from the curb as I exited the station. I hollered at the top of my lungs, dashing toward it, Tippy yapping at my heels. Heads turned to watch the brash American making a spectacle.
Spectacle or not, it worked. The bus slowed and lurched to a stop and the door opened. The uniformed driver, a stout man with a flourishing red beard, stared at me. I stared back.
“You want this bus or not?” he said.
“Are you going to Upper Snow Falls?”
“Pass right through there, sure.”
I nodded and climbed aboard, handing him the necessary coins for the fare. “Will you tell me when we get there?”
“Sure thing, Miss.”
Before I took a seat I asked, “How long will it take?”
He shrugged. “Twenty minutes. Half hour. Depends.”
He did not say what it depended on, so I took an aisle seat. And since the bus was nearly empty, I let Tippy up on the window seat. He immediately pressed his nose against the window and stared out at the world, tongue lolling from his mouth.
The scenery was breathtaking with sheer drops into rolling blue waters on one side and rolling green hills on the other. Here and there were dotted small farm houses, fields of sheep, and villages so small they made Meres Reach seem like a thriving metropolis.
The bus bounced and wobbled over potholes and around corners, doing its best to induce a feeling of seasickness. I was starting to think I would need the driver to pull over when he lurched to a sudden stop and shouted, “Upper Snow Falls.”
Upper Snow Falls was one of those little villages that had sprung up around a crossroads. Well, not so much a crossroad as a “y” in the road where the main road split, one fork heading off downhill toward the sea and the other continuing along the bluff. There were a lot of adorable thatched cottages with whitewashed or cream-painted walls, and nearly every garden was awash in palm trees. Palms weren’t something I’d expected to find in Devon, but Mrs. Johnson had told me that it was due to the Victorians and their love of holidaying along the coast. Apparently they also liked palm trees.
In addition to the cottages were a number of equally cute and quaint shops, a tearoom, pub, and even a guest house. Of course they had their own Post Office, a war memorial, a small church with a cemetery, and, as every village in England seemed to have, a fancy manor house overlooking it all.
Even though we’d only just eaten, I felt a cup of tea would be in order. It was the English thing to do, and it might get me the information I was looking for. Besides, the bus had stopped practically out front. What was a girl to do?
The tearoom was in a lovely cream-washed cottage with a tile roof and trim painted green. An A-frame sign out front read “CREAM TEAS” in all capital letters and below that in smaller letters “Upper Snow Falls Tearoom.” Which wasn’t very creative if you ask me, but no one did.
Inside, the ceilings were low, and the stone walls had been whitewashed. Garlands of evergreen branches wound together with gold cording were strung from one beam to the next. The wood floors were a bit scuffed and well worn, but clean, and lace curtains framed the diamond-paned windows.
Along the back wall was a fireplace with a thick oak mantle covered in swags of evergreen and holly. Red and Green candles sat along it, and a Christmas wreath hung above. On the opposite wall sat a heavy, antique sideboard, dark with age. The top shelves were filled with colorful teacups and teapots, while the serving surface held three white-milk-glass cake plates with clear glass domes. Inside each was a fancy layer cake. I recognized one as being Victoria sponge—layers of jam and cream sandwiched between two buttery vanilla sponge cakes—and another looked like walnut. The third I wasn’t sure as it hadn’t been sliced into yet. In any case, they all looked delicious.
There were four rectangular tables covered in rose chintz tablecloths, just large enough to squeeze four people around. There was a small, clear-cut glass vase on each with a dried red rose and a bunch of baby’s breath.
Unsure what to do, I hovered near the door, Tippy at my feet. I cleared my throat a couple times, hoping there would be someone close enough to hear me. Finally, annoyed with the whole thing, Tippy let out a “Woof.” Almost immediately a woman bustled out from the kitchen.
She was at least a head shorter than I was and on the comfortably plump side. She wore a Christmas red shirtwaist dress with puffed sleeves, a round white collar, and white buttons and piping. Over it was a white apron with red piping and little holly leaves and berries embroidered on the pockets. Her fluffy white hair was done up in and old-fashioned chignon, and her baby blue eyes twinkled brightly at me from behind round wire-rimmed glasses.
“Hello, dear, I’m Mrs. Snow. How can I help?”
“Mrs. Snow? Like the town?”
She laughed. “Just a happy coincidence. Did you want something, dear?”
I suddenly realized my mouth was hanging open and snapped it shut. “Oh, um, my name is Sugar Martin. From Meres Reach. I was looking for tea. Maybe a scone to go with it?”
Tippy whined, clearly trying to impart that he was starving away into nothing.
“And something for my dog. He’d probably like a scone, too.”
She smiled broadly. “But of course. Have a seat anywhere you like. I recommend close to the fire where it’s toasty warm. I’ll be right back.” And she bustled away.
“But there isn’t a fire—” I turned to find there was indeed a fire burning away. One that I could have sworn wasn’t lit just a moment before. “Well, Tippy, if that isn’t the strangest thing.”
Tippy didn’t care one way or the other. He curled up happily next to the cheerfully dancing flames, letting out a gusty sigh.
I took a seat at the nearby table, trying to remember if the fireplace had even had wood in it when I arrived. My memory was a bit fuzzy on that, so I finally gave up and stared out the window. Every once in a while, a car would pass through the village on its way somewhere else, but other than that, it was quiet.
At last the proprietress returned carrying a large tray. Setting it on a nearby table, she unloaded its contents in front of me. There was first a cute little red, white, and gold teapot steaming away. Next came a teacup and saucer with a holly motif. After that cream, sugar, pots of clotted cream and jam, and finally a plate with a scone. A second plate with a broken-up scone was set in front of Tippy who immediately scarfed it down.
I took a nibble of the scone. “Oh, my, this is the best scone I’ve ever tasted!” It was both flaky and moist, warm and buttery.
“Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Snow beamed. “Meres Reach is a bit of a trek. What brings you to Upper Snow Falls?”
A perfect segue. “I’m looking for someone. A Mr. Croswell. Do you know him?”
“I believe he has an office in the center of the village.” She pointed. “May I ask why you’re looking for him?”
I have no idea why, but I found myself telling her the story of my aunt, her bizarre will, my inheriting Tippy, and her new posthumous request. “So you see, now I have to deliver this envelope to Mr. Croswell before Christmas.”
“Sounds like quite the adventure,” Mrs. Snow said.
“I suppose.” It was actually a pain in the backside, but she seemed so enthralled with my tale I didn’t want to disabuse her of the notion.
“Well, I am sure things will all turn out as they should.”
I frowned at her odd phrasing as I polished off my scone. “I guess. How much do I owe you?”
She waved me off. “Consider it a Christmas gift.”
I felt a little embarrassed, but also sort of warm and fuzzy. “Thank you, Mrs. Snow.”
“You’re most welcome, dear. And you, too, Tippy.” She patted his head and he went into ecstasy. He didn’t usually take to strangers so quickly, but she had given him food.
As I shrugged into my coat and opened the door, she said, “Don’t forget, outside the cottage, turn right and walk until you come to the pub, then it’s a left and you’re on Church Street. Can’t miss it!”
I turned around to thank her again, but she was gone. Completely vanished. Probably gone back into the kitchen, but very peculiar nonetheless. With a shrug, I stepped out into the chill air.