The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Read Free

himself with the
bellows; the fire had gone low in his absence and he’d not be accomplishing
anything today if he didn’t bring up the flame.
    Mrs. O’Connell glanced up the
narrow street. “That Carver fellow, I’d wager. The man’s got no friends but
you, thanks to that wife with the mouth on her. She’s angered every merchant in
the village, haggling over their wares and insultin ’
’em to their face.”
    Tyrel watched the flame in his
forge roar to life. “John Carver’s a good man, an honest worker.”
    The widow grunted. Her late
husband, a baker of fine quality breads, was the one who’d had words with
Maggie. Of course, he’d had words with half the townsfolk, and no one was so
awfully surprised when he dropped dead, clutching his chest. It was only sad
fortune that Maggie had left his shop not five minutes earlier. The widow
O’Connell would forever blame her.
    She touched the horseshoe beside
Tyrel’s door, for luck, then lifted her skirt above the smelly rivulet of mud
that ran down the street and proceeded on her way to torture the wool merchant.
    Tyrel drew the red-hot iron rod
from the fire and pounded it mercilessly until he felt better. He should have
never mentioned the misadventure in front of Maggie; the woman and her shrewish
tongue would be the death of John Carver yet. He’d simply been unthinking. He
would buy his friend a pint of stout next time he saw him.
    A fortnight passed before that
occasion and when John Carver passed the blacksmith’s barn, he seemed
preoccupied.
    “How goes the woodworking?” Tyrel
called out.
    John turned away from the street
and entered the warm, smoky shelter. “Well,” he said with a smile. “It’s going
well.”
    Tyrel thought of the pint of
stout he meant to offer, but the set of gate hinges he was working at the
moment couldn’t wait.
    “And the family? Everyone’s all
right?”
    “The little bairn’s learning to walk. I suppose she’ll be toddlin ’ toward
the fire, just about the time Maggie’s got her hands full with the new one. Her
time’s gettin ’ close now.”
    Tyrel nodded as if he knew
anything about that sort of thing. He’d been the youngest of four, and never
knew his mother. The two sisters were so much older that they’d moved off, as
far as Limerick, with husbands. He’d grown up in a house with a rowdy brother
and a father who drank all the time and muttered about the unfairness of his
wife dying like that and leaving him with a worthless baby to care for. All of
Tyrel’s hard work in learning a useful trade earned him no points with the old
man, who’d finally done the world a favor by dying two winters ago.
    John stepped closer and looked at
the hinge Tyrel had finished, the first of four.
    “It should have a lid,” he mused,
picking up the large hinge and studying it. He set it back. “First things
first. Better get back to it. Tomorrow is market day—I’ll see you then.”
    He hurried off without another
word.
    “Odd one, that Carver,” said a
man who had bumped shoulders with John as he rushed away. “They say he’s become
even stranger since the day of the lightning strike.”
    Tyrel felt a jab of guilt. Had
his careless comment in front of Maggie started a raft of rumors through the
town?
    “Last market day,” the man
continued, “my wife wanted to buy two plates. The man would barely speak to
her. Sat there under his measly awning, carving away at some square thing, like
a moody artist. I say artistic genius is one thing, but in this town a man’s
not going to make his living from that foolishness. He’d better be selling
useful things to his regular customers.”
    A square item. So, John Carver
must indeed be working on the wooden box he’d mentioned to Tyrel as they carried
the broken tree parts down the hill.
    “Don’t understand it, myself,”
the man said. “Carver always seemed personable, friendly.”
    “Maybe it was just a mood that
day.”
    “Moods—ha! Got no use for