“I told you so,” bleated Tibbie. “But nobody ever baathers to listen to a sheeeep.”
“Ah, poor fellow,” Mr. Jennings breathed, and bent down to turn the man over. There was a deep gash on his forehead and blood on his face and on the sleeve of his gray shirt. “Ben! Ben Hornby! Cans’t tha hear me, Ben?”
“I’m afraid he can’t hear you,” Beatrix said in a practical tone. “He’s dead. And he’s been dead for quite some time.”
Mr. Jennings straightened, took off his hat, and looked down at the old man with a lingering sadness. “Well, Ben,” he said at last, “tha wust ever a crusty old fellow, but always fair minded, and that’s t’ best that can be said for any man, high or low.” To Beatrix, he said, “There’s nothing more to be done here, Miss Potter. It’s a verra unfortunate accident, is what it is. We’d best drive back to t’ village, and I’ll fetch Captain Woodcock up here. He’s t’ Justice of t’ Peace and—”
“I don’t like to leave the poor man all alone,” Beatrix interrupted. “You go for the captain, Mr. Jennings. I’ll stay with Mr. Hornby.”
Mr. Jennings frowned. “But it’s none of thi affair, Miss Potter. This is village business, and—”
“And I am a resident of the village, so it is my business. Now, go and get Captain Woodcock, please.”
“And the constable,” Rascal put in. “Mr. Jennings needs to fetch the constable, too.”
Beatrix was thinking about the way villagers had responded when poor Miss Tolliver had died the previous autumn. Within a few days, some of them had had her murdered, in spite of Dr. Butters’s finding of death by heart failure. It would be no different this time, she supposed. In which case—
“It might be a good idea,” she added, “if you would also fetch Constable Braithwaite.” A quick investigation would do a great deal to put the gossip to rest, although people like Mrs. Crook and Bertha Stubbs and Elsa Grape would talk, no matter what the authorities said.
“I’ll do that,” Mr. Jennings said, and sighed. “Well, if tha’rt determined to stay, Miss Potter, then tha must. But keep t’ dog here. I’ll be as quick as I can.” And with that, he was gone.
Beatrix sat on a rock, and Rascal lay down at her feet. Clouds shadowed the afternoon sun and a cool northern breeze had sprung up, carrying a hint of rain, and she shivered. Her own brush with death—Norman’s death, just eleven months ago—was still fresh in her mind, and seeing Mr. Hornby, so unexpectedly, so irrevocably dead, brought the grief back, as sharp and biting as new vinegar. Sudden death was cruel, whether the victim was as young as Norman or as old as Mr. Hornby, and she felt the tears start.
But tears were dangerous, for they threatened to dissolve her determination to put the loss and disappointment of the past behind her, and after a moment, she brushed them away with the back of her hand. One had to get on with life. And life certainly had a way of getting on by itself, no matter who died or who lived on to mourn the passing.
She looked up at the wooly sheep peering over the rocky crag, watching her with what seemed like an intense but benign curiosity. Since she had already bought and paid for the sheep, they should be taken down to their new home at Hill Top Farm. She would ask Mr. Jennings to arrange for that as soon as he returned. It seemed a trivial sort of thought to be thinking in the face of death, but even trivial thoughts had their purpose, she had found. If one made oneself think about the things that one had to do—not with a sort of superficial attention but as if doing the thing really mattered—it did help one to get on.
On the top of the crag, Tibbie gave an inquiring bleat. Rascal answered with a consoling bark, and not far away, a woodpecker drummed a reassuring rat-tat-tat on a hollow tree. Beatrix managed a small smile. Yes, life went forward, in spite of deaths and accidents and appalling things one wished had never happened. She looked down once again at the body that lay at her feet.
And that was when she noticed that old Ben Hornby had died with something clutched tightly in the fingers of his right hand.
9
Bosworth Badger Is Interrupted
Bosworth Badger had spent the afternoon in The Brockery library, immersed in his work on the Holly How Badger Genealogy . There, the history of the many branches of the Holly How badger family was set down in great detail in the leather-bound volumes. One could find family trees with the names of parents and offspring, dates of births and deaths, and a great many fascinating stories of various badger accomplishments, travels to distant places, and new settlements. (A very important Badger Rule of Thumb makes it clear that every young male badger is expected to leave his place of birth and establish a new sett of his own, unless the senior male badger of the sett has elected him to receive the Badger Badge of Authority, which entitles him to manage the sett.)
Both the History of the Badgers and the Genealogy went back many generations, to the first settlement of badgers at The Brockery, which occurred around the time that Bonnie Prince Charlie had ridden from Scotland almost to London and then had been chased back to Scotland again. On the first page of this historical record was pictured, in full color, the famous Badger Coat of Arms, with twin badgers rampant on an azure field, bearing a shield on which was written the family emblem,
De Parvis, grandis acervus erit
(“From small things, there will grow a mighty heap”), which Bosworth had always taken to refer to his family’s habit of digging out their remarkably extensive burrows one small bit at a time, and piling the dirt outside the nearest door.
The History and the Genealogy had become a matter of great pride to succeeding badger generations, and maintaining them was one of the most important obligations of the badger who held the Badger Badge of Authority. Bosworth had done his best, for he knew it would be of enormous value in the future, when later generations of badgers would look back with wonder at the lives of their ancestors. He was, however, confronting a very substantial difficulty, for he was the last badger in a long line of well-known Holly How badgers. He had not been inclined to marry and establish his own sett when he was a youth, for he had been a reckless and wandering sort of badger, anxious to go as far afield and enjoy as many adventures as any young badger possibly could. He had returned to Holly How only when his father had written that he was dying and ready to pass on to him the Badger Badge of Authority.
By this time in his life, even if Bosworth had wanted to look for a wife and begin a family, it was entirely too late. He was getting on in years and, whilst he was still an active and energetic badger, his muzzle was turning gray and he knew that there would come a time when he would no longer be able to do all he was doing now. Bosworth did not regret his failure to sire offspring, for he was thought of as a pater familias by the animals who called The Brockery home and he considered all of them to be his true family. But he did regret it where the Genealogy and the History were concerned, for it was unthinkable that these should come to an end for lack of an authorized badger to maintain them. However, there it was. He had to face it. When he was gone from Holly How—and that might not be such a far distant event—there would be no one to continue the great work.
With a heavy sigh, Bosworth got up from the desk and went to add another stick of wood to the fire. It might be a very warm July afternoon out-of-doors, but down here, in the endless burrows and tunnels and chambers of the sett, it was always cool enough for a fire. He paused to look up at the portrait of one of his ancestors, who looked down at him with what seemed to be a frown of reproach. Bosworth knew why. He had failed in one of his most important duties: to identify a young male badger worthy of wearing the Badge of Authority and carrying on the great work of the History and the Genealogy. He sighed again, a guilty sigh. He had not done all he could, and he knew it. He—
His thoughts were interrupted by a light rapping at the library door, and the badger frowned. This was the third time in an hour that Flotsam, or perhaps it was Jetsam (there was no telling those two rabbits apart) had come in with an inconsequential question. One ha
dn’t been able to find the lemon polish, and the other had noticed that the hedgehog hadn’t slept in his bed for the last two nights and wondered if he had gone off without signing the register. Really, was it too much to hope for a few hours of uninterrupted privacy so that a badger could carry out his important work?
“Yes?” he growled. “Which of you is it this time? And what the devil do you want?”
But the animal who had knocked on the door was neither Flotsam nor Jetsam, but Parsley, the talented young badger who did all of The Brockery’s cooking. She was still wearing her bonnet and shawl, suggesting that she had just come back from above ground. Her paws were shaking and she was visibly upset.
“Excuse me, Mr. Badger, sir,” she cried, pulling off her bonnet, “but a terrible thing has happened, and I think you should know about it.”
“A terrible thing?” Bosworth asked in alarm, thinking at once of the old tunnel that led to the far side of Holly How, which was in need of shoring up and which had been threatening to collapse. Or perhaps one of his lodgers had suffered an accident, or run afoul of a dog, or—
“Oh, yes, sir,” Parsley said, her large bright eyes brimming with tears. “I went out, you see, to get some mushrooms for our dinner tonight.” She took a deep breath and seemed to steady herself. “I was thinking of a veal and ham pie, you know, made with puff pastry, which I thought would be very good. There’s a recipe in Mrs. Beeton’s Cookery Book, a fine recipe, except that it doesn’t include mushrooms, and the idea came to me that Mrs. Beeton’s pie would be much improved if I added a few mushrooms.” She paused, took a lace hanky out of her apron pocket, and blew her nose. “Oysters might be another possibility, or sweetbreads, but I’d be hard put to find any fresh oysters hereabouts, unless I should go down to the Sawrey Hotel and meet the fish man who comes over from Kendal. But one has to order ahead for oysters, which in any event should only be eaten in months which contain the letter R, and July doesn’t, of course. And as to sweetbreads, I hardly think—”
“Stop, Parsley!” roared the badger, but in a kindly way, for he knew that it was Parsley’s habit to talk all the way around a story two or three times before she could manage to open the front door and step into it properly. He softened his tone. “My dear girl, I have not one iota of interest in the presence or absence of sweetbreads, or what one must do to have oysters, or whether there is an R in July. What is this terrible thing you’ve come to tell me about? I do hope nothing has happened to any of our friends.”
“Well, not to say a friend, sir, but rather a neighbor.” Recalled to her narrative, Parsley began to weep again. “Oh, sir, it was dreadful, really it was—just too dreadful for words!” She gulped down one or two sobs, which appeared to stick like dry biscuit in her throat and render her speechless.
Bosworth sighed. With a grizzled forepaw, he patted her gently on the shoulder and said, in a coaxing tone, “I’m sorry, Parsley, but there’s no getting around it. It may be too dreadful for words, but you shall simply have to reach down inside yourself and pull them out. Now, be a reasonable animal and give it a go, please.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll try, sir.” Parsley took a deep breath and hung her bonnet over her arm. “Well, then, I decided on mushrooms, instead of oysters or sweetbreads. I thought a pint of them might do very well, and there are usually some rather fine Chanterelles growing near the stream at the foot of that little rocky bluff not far from the sheep fold on Holly How. So I put on my bonnet and shawl and took a basket and went out to look for them, and instead I found—” She screwed her eyes shut as recollection overtook her. “Oh, indeed, sir, it was such an awful sight that I hardly know how to—” She began to cry again, big, gulping, noisy sobs.
“There, there, dear,” Bosworth said, scarcely knowing himself what to say, for a female’s tears always made him feel helpless. “Pull yourself together and finish your story. It’s only words, you know, just one after the other, skipping and plodding, as it were, all the way to the end.”
Thus encouraged, Parsley began to tell her tale, with a great many parenthetical asides and explanatory footnotes, but finally it was all out. She had gone to the gully to find the mushrooms, and had been distracted by a pair of dippers, bickering over a choice water bug that one of them had fished out from under a stone, and then by a chatty red squirrel who wanted her to know that his cousin’s nest at the back of Oatmeal Crag had been raided by a pine marten, who (happily) had been frightened off before any of the babies could be hurt—the usual sort of woodland gossip that animals share when they are out and about.
At last, Parsley had got close to the spot where she had seen the Chanterelles growing. But not a stone’s throw away, she saw a person sitting on a rock with a dog at her feet. The person was the lady from London who had bought Hill Top Farm the previous autumn—Miss Potter, her name was—and the dog was one of the village dogs, a Jack Russell terrier called Rascal, with whom Parsley had a nodding acquaintance. And beside the lady, on the ground, as still as a stick, lay old Ben Hornby.
Bosworth gaped, taken aback. “On the ground? He was having a nap?”
“Oh, no, sir,” Parsley said sadly. “Mr. Hornby was . . . he was dead, sir.”
“Dead!” Bosworth exclaimed, horrified. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes, sir. He didn’t move and didn’t move, and Miss Potter was trying not to cry. And then finally she reached down and took something out of his hand. So, sir, I should have to say that he was dead.”
For a moment, Bosworth stood still, stunned. And then, unbidden, a recollection of the last time he had seen Ben Hornby sprang into the badger’s mind. From his vantage point at the top of Holly How, he had looked down and across the shoulder of the hill and glimpsed Ben at work, penning Tibbie and the other sheep in the fold.
Bosworth frowned. When was that? Evening before last, was it? And then, early yesterday morning, when he’d gone to the sheep fold to indulge himself in a breakfast of earthworms, he had found the gate open, and the sheep gone.
The badger’s frown deepened to a scowl. The sheep were gone, and their owner was dead—and not in his bed, either. Something was terribly amiss here.
The first thing that leapt into Bosworth’s mind, of course, was the suspicion that the old farmer had been the victim of thieves. Sheep stealing was a rare thing in the Land between the Lakes, but not, sadly, unknown. Why, only the year before, a dozen very fine Blue-faced Leicesters had disappeared without a trace from a meadow on the other side of Esthwaite Water, and nothing had been seen of them since. And about that same time, a farmer’s boy, on his way to market in Hawkshead with six of his father’s best Herdwick ewes, had been attacked and the sheep stolen. Yes, it had happened before, and it would undoubtedly happen again, humans being the greedy animals they were, always wanting what belonged to other humans.
“Did you notice, Parsley,” he asked somberly, “whether any of Mr. Hornby’s Herdwicks were in the neighborhood? Tibbie or Queenie or their lambs?”
Parsley shook her head, snuffling. “I didn’t stop to look. I was that frightened, you see, sir, that I ran away just as fast as my paws could carry me, and came straight home, without stopping for anything. I know that Mr. Hornby always looked out for us here at The Brockery, and I thought you would surely want to be informed. It seemed the sort of thing you’d want to make a note of. In the History, I mean.”
“Yes, of course,” Bosworth said heavily. It was true. Ben Hornby had always guarded The Brockery from any threat of disturbance, just as old Lord Longford had done when he was alive. Now that Ben was gone, who would look out for them? With a deep sense of foreboding, he added, “I’m greatly obliged for the report, Parsley. I shall make a note of it straight away.”
The badger went to the shelf, pulled down the last of the leather-bound volumes, and placed it, open, on the desk in front of him. Then, taking his quill pen in his paw, he dipped it into his silver ink pot, and set down the date. Beneath that, in his best and most careful penmanship, h
e wrote:
Old Ben Hornby found dead today on Holly How.
He paused and looked at Parsley. “I don’t suppose,” he said, “that there was any way for you to guess how Mr. Hornby died.”
“Oh, no, sir,” Parsley said sadly. “I just supposed that he tumbled down the cliff and hit his head on a rock. Wouldn’t you say, sir? As to how he might have come to tumble, or when, I couldn’t say, sir. It might have just happened, or he might have died some time ago.”
Bosworth sighed, and added the phrase manner of death unknown to what he had already written. After a moment’s thought, he added time of death undetermined. Then, having thought again, he dipped his quill in the ink pot once more, and wrote:
Whereabouts of 2 Herdwick ewes and 3 lambs unknown. Sheep thieves suspected.
“Thank you, Parsley,” he said, putting down his quill pen and blotting his words with a bit of green blotting paper. “I know that this has been quite a trial for you. You may go back to your work now, my dear, and we shall all look forward to a nice veal and ham pie with mushrooms for supper.” He closed the History.
Parsley took two steps toward the door, and then threw up both paws. “Oh, Lor’, sir!” she cried. “There aren’t any mushrooms! I ran away and left the basket behind, sir! Oh, how careless of me!”
“I daresay you had other things on your mind,” said the badger comfortingly. “The basket is a small loss, my dear. And I am sure that we shall enjoy your excellent pie with just as much pleasure as if it were full of mushrooms.”
“It’s kind of you to say so, sir.” Parsley blew her nose. “But I still think—”
The Tale of Holly How Page 8
