The Tale of Holly How

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  “Goodness, it’s teatime already,” Bosworth said, with a glance at the clock on the mantle shelf. “Perhaps you would be so good as to send one of the rabbits with a cup of hot tea with lemon and a small plate of something.”

  “Oh, yes, sir. I shall, sir.” This time, the young badger got as far as the library door. She stopped with her paw on the knob, turned, and said, in a brighter, more cheerful voice, “But I do have a bit of good news to pass along, sir. I’m sure you heard about my aunt Primrose and her two young badger cubs, who were kidnapped from the sett down by the rock quarry at Hill Top Farm.”

  “Yes, I did hear about that, Parsley,” Bosworth said sorrowfully. “It’s very regrettable. But I didn’t know that the victims were relatives of yours. Does anyone know what’s happened to them?”

  Parsley sighed. “Well, Aunt Primrose is still missing, and the little girl badger—Hyacinth, her name is. The general understanding—according to the magpie who told me all this—is that Jack Ogden took them. He’s been seen around the village again, I’m sorry to say.”

  At the sound of Jack Ogden’s name, the badger shuddered. There were several well-known badger diggers in the Land between the Lakes, but Jack Ogden—also an itinerant waller (a man who built the dry-stone walls that took the places of fences in the district)—was the most notorious, and a serious threat to every badger.

  Parsley was going on, with some relief. “But the boy badger, Thorn, he’s been found, I’m very glad to say. Jeremy Crosfield came across him wandering through the meadow down by Cunsey Beck. His leg’s chewed and of course he’s terribly distressed, but he’s not otherwise injured—at least, that’s what the magpie said.”

  “Jeremy, is it?” said Bosworth in a comforting tone. “Well, that’s all right, then. The other village boys aren’t terribly trustworthy, but that one’s a sensible youngster, more sensible than some of the grownups. Your little cousin will be well taken care of.”

  “We can only hope so, I’m sure, sir,” said Parsley. “Well, then, I’ll see to your tea.” And with that, she bustled off.

  When she was gone, the badger opened the History once again, to the earlier entry he had made regarding the missing badger family. Thorn found by Jeremy Crosfield, he wrote. Primrose and Hyacinth still missing. And then, frowning darkly, he added, Jack Ogden suspected.

  10

  Captain Woodcock Is Summoned

  Captain Miles Woodcock had been Justice of the Peace for Sawrey for several years. The position required him to hear complaints, witness documents, certify deaths, deal with disturbances of the peace, and the like, so he found himself involved in almost every aspect of village life—something he had not intended when he came to the Lake District. Miles had served honorably in Her Majesty’s Army in Egypt and the Sudan, where he had earned a bad leg and malaria and begun to think that he might like to live a quieter life in a place that was very green and cool, where the sun did not blister one’s skin and the natives harbored no more than a mild resentment toward outsiders. The tiny Lake District village of Sawrey—located well off the beaten track and distant from the alarms and excursions of Empire—seemed as tailored to his exact specifications as his favorite shooting jacket.

  And so it had proved, for the most part, especially after his sister Dimity came to live with him and assume the running of their small Tower Bank household: the cook, Elsa Grape; the housemaid, Molly; and old Fred Phinn, who came twice a week to assault the weeds and butcher the grass. Sawrey suited Dim just as well as it did him, and she seemed to get on comfortably with the villagers in ways that he did not. She always knew the latest gossip and could tell him what people were thinking and saying, most of it rather petty and inconsequential, Miles thought.

  Just now, however, upon his Tuesday-afternoon return from a two-day trip to Manchester, she had told him something rather more urgent.

  “A missionary from the South Pacific?” he exclaimed incredulously, dropping into a sitting-room chair. “With an Oxford degree? Why under the sun would a man like that want to teach in Sawrey? He’d be about as happy here as an elephant in a back garden.”

  Dimity picked up her knitting. “I fancy he must have the same motive as you, Miles. He wants some peace and quiet. Life in the South Pacific must be almost as difficult as the war in the Sudan.”

  “I doubt it,” Miles replied sulkily. The trustees had already decided that their best course of action was to name Margaret Nash as the new head teacher, a decision in which Miles heartily concurred. In fact, they would have made the announcement the previous week, if they had received the letter they had requested from Miss Crabbe, which had only just arrived. And now there was this to deal with.

  He picked up the Kendal newspaper and unfolded it to a front-page story about the aftermath of the San Francisco earthquake, which had devastated the city some three months before. He stared at the page, unseeing, for a moment, then rattled the newspaper and demanded, rhetorically, “And just what gives Lady Longford the right to barge in here like a juggernaut, flattening everyone with her schemes and intentions, and tell us who to hire?”

  “I’m sure she’s only doing what she thinks is best for the school.” Dimity’s voice was unhappy. “The trouble is, you see, that Dr. Gainwell actually sounds a much better candidate than Margaret. In terms of experience and education, I mean. He would be a real feather in Sawrey’s cap, wouldn’t he?”

  “I suppose.” Miles sighed. “Although I don’t think there’s a better teacher anywhere than Miss Nash. She’s taught in the school for nearly a decade and understands the children in a way that an outsider cannot. This fellow might be a feather, but she’s . . . well, she’s the school’s bread and butter.”

  “Well, if she’s so crucial to the school’s well-being, you and the trustees should have named her already,” Dim said, frowning down at her knitting. “Do you know what the villagers are saying, Miles? That Margaret is so unsettled by the fact that this man is to be appointed head teacher that she has accepted a position in the south of England, which would be better anyway for poor Annie’s lungs. And that they’ve given leave to the Braithwaites to take their cottage, unless, of course, it goes to the new fellow, who will surely want a house, unless Lady Longford has invited him to live at Tidmarsh Manor. Oh, bother!” she exclaimed crossly. “Now I’ve dropped a stitch. No, two, and several rows back.”

  Miles dropped the newspaper and stared at his sister. “Taken a position in the south of England! Given their cottage to the Braithwaites! That’s utter nonsense, Dim, and you know it! That sort of village tittle-tattle isn’t worth listening to, let alone repeating.”

  “Of course it’s tittle-tattle,” Dimity said, attacking her knitting with a crochet hook. “But that’s the villagers for you. They will talk, and most of it’s rubbish, but sometimes there’s more than a kernel of truth in their gossip. I daresay Margaret won’t want to stay if she’s passed over for the headship—not for very long, anyway, although I doubt that she’d leave us in the lurch this fall.” She held up her knitting. “There, all fixed. It wasn’t as bad as I thought.”

  Miles was scowling. “Of course Miss Nash won’t leave us in the lurch,” he growled. “She’s to be our new head teacher, and that’s the beginning and end of it.”

  “I hardly think it’s as simple as that, Miles.” Dimity put down her knitting and regarded him with a narrow-eyed frown. “You know Lady Longford. She will be appalled if she thinks that you’ve given the post to a less-qualified woman than the man she’s proposed. She may even decide that you’ve done it just to spite her—and you know what trouble she’s capable of causing. In any event, you shall have to interview Dr. Gainwell, and as quickly as possible, too. Miss Martine says he’s arriving tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow!” Miles sighed again. “Well, I suppose I should be glad about that. At least we can get this over with and get on with the school’s business.” He rubbed his chin. “You don’t suppose Miss Nash has heard any of this, do you?”
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br />   “Of course she has. Bertha Stubbs made it a point to tell her.” Dimity shook her head. “I think you should talk to her, Miles. Reassure her. She must be awfully anxious about all this.”

  Miles shook his head. “I can’t do that, you know, Dim. I’m one of the trustees.” He paused. “But you could, you know. If you wouldn’t mind.” He added plaintively, “You wouldn’t, would you? If she’s down in the dumps, it might cheer her up to know that none of this has anything to do with the trustees—or with her. It’s all Lady Longford’s put-up.”

  Dimity frowned. “Are you sure you want me to do that—before the interview, I mean. What if the other trustees . . .” She let the sentence trail off.

  “Oh, blast.” Miles sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Well, we’ll just have to get it over with as soon as possible, then.” He raised the newspaper again, feeling that the business about the headship had been settled, at least for now. But his sister hadn’t quite said all she had to say.

  “Did you know that her ladyship’s granddaughter is staying with her?” she asked. “Caroline, her name is.”

  “Heelis told me,” he said. “She’s Bruce’s daughter, you know. Lady Longford put up a fuss about having her, but Heelis and the vicar finally forced her to agree.” He and Bruce—the young Lord Longford—had become friends shortly after his arrival in Sawrey, and they’d stayed in touch after Bruce had gone off to New Zealand, fleeing, Miles knew, from the marriage his mother had arranged for him. “A pity the old lady couldn’t bring herself to accept his refusal to marry Kittredge’s daughter,” he added. “It wasn’t a good match—they would have been miserable together. But perhaps, now that the girl is actually here, she’ll win her grandmother over. Children have a way of doing that.”

  “Not in this case, I daresay,” Dimity replied. “I offered to take the child for a seaside trip, and was told that she was not companionable. Secretive, sullen, and disobedient, was the way Miss Martine put it.” She paused, frowning. “It sounds a perfectly awful situation, Miles. I just wish there was something we could do to help the child.”

  “Stay out of it, Dim,” Miles said firmly. “I know that your intentions are good, but meddling will only make things worse for everyone, including the child. I—”

  He was interrupted by a loud rapping at the front door. Miles went to answer it himself, since the rapping had an urgent sound to it. He opened the door to see two men, Constable Braithwaite and John Jennings, the farmer at Hill Top, standing on the doorstep.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Captain, but you’re needed,” Constable Braithwaite said. He was a short, stocky man with a florid complexion, his hair and eyebrows so blond they were nearly white. “A death,” he added, an oblique way of explaining that Miles was being summoned in his official capacity as Justice of the Peace.

  “A death?” Surprised, Miles glanced at John Jennings, who was standing uncomfortably by, his hands in his pockets, his cap pushed to the back of his head. “No one in your family, I hope, Jennings.”

  “Nay,” Jennings said gruffly. “T’is auld Ben Hornby, of Holly How Farm. Verra bad accident, Cap’n. Fell off a rock cliff and broke his head. Miss Potter and me, we found him when we went up Holly How to see t’ sheep we’re buying.”

  Ben Hornby, Miles thought regretfully. The old man had certainly had his share of troubles this year. First his barn had burnt, then his milk cows had died, and now—

  “Miss Potter’s up there,” the constable put in. “Insisted on stayin’ with him.”

  “No matter what I said to her,” added Jennings, with mixed disapprobation and reluctant admiration. “Reet stubborn lady, that one. Knows her mind.”

  Knows her mind indeed, Miles thought. He already knew that much about Miss Potter, from his dealings with her the previous October, when she had helped to close down a ring of art thieves. He reached for the hat that hung on the peg beside the door.

  “Well, we’d best be going, then,” he said. “Let’s take the motorcar. It’s faster.”

  “Oh, aye, Captain,” the constable replied, his round face wreathed in smiles. Braithwaite was always up for a ride in Miles’s new teal blue Rolls-Royce, which had caused quite a sensation in the village when Miles brought it home from Kendal the week after Easter. Not an entirely positive sensation, either. Many of the villagers had grumbled that the Captain’s motor was only the first, and that their narrow lanes would soon be jammed with those fast, noisy, dangerous vehicles. There wouldn’t be any peace or safety left in the world.

  Jennings, who had been one of the grumblers, gave a shrugging assent. “Allus a first time, I s’pose.”

  Miles raised his voice. “Dimity, I’ve been called away.”

  “Nothing terribly serious, I hope,” his sister said, coming into the hallway. “Hello, Constable, Mr. Jennings.” She looked at Miles inquiringly.

  “Old Ben Hornby has had an accident,” Miles said. “He’s dead.”

  And with his sister’s pitying exclamation ringing in his ears, he led the way out to the motorcar, parked in the stable beside his little filly, which he had given to Dimity. It was a shame about Ben, he thought again, sadly. How much bad luck could one man have?

  11

  Rascal Has a Tale to Tell

  “Rascal—riding in a motorcar?” cried Tabitha Twitchit, her amber eyes widening with incredulous surprise. “You’re lying, Crumpet. I don’t believe a word of it!”

  The gray tabby licked her right forepaw and smoothed down her ear. “Believe it or not, however you like, Tabitha,” she replied with careless disdain. “What you think doesn’t change what I saw.”

  It was nearly supper time and the two cats were enjoying the balmy evening on the back steps of Belle Green. The afternoon rain had failed to arrive, the evening sun was just dropping through a wispy veil of peach and lavender clouds above the western fells, and the twilight was filled with the drowsy calls of birds on their way to roost. Belle Green was the large white farmhouse at the top of Market Street where Rascal lived and Miss Potter boarded when she came to the village. Tabitha, a calico with an orange and white bib, now lived there too, Mrs. Crook having offered her a home upon the death of her mistress the previous October. And Crumpet spent a great deal of time at Belle Green, where the mousing was first-rate. Tabitha was far less energetic than she had been in her younger days, and was content to let the mice do as they liked.

  “I’m telling you that I saw him myself, just a few minutes ago,” Crumpet went on. “He was sitting in the rear of Captain Woodcock’s new Rolls-Royce, behind the Captain and Miss Potter. I don’t see how you missed it, Tabitha. The motorcar was making an appalling clatter. It sent every chicken in the village into cackling fits.”

  “Hello, ladies.” The two cats turned to see the subject of their conversation come trotting around the side of the house. Rascal’s tail was up, his eyes were bright, and he was looking very pleased with himself.

  “Tabitha missed seeing the Captain’s motorcar,” he said, “because she was having a nap on the top shelf in the pantry. That’s where she always goes after tea.”

  “I was not asleep in the pantry!” Tabitha exclaimed defensively. “I was keeping a close eye on a pair of impertinent mice who have been making free with the cheese.”

  “Is that so?” Rascal barked sarcastically. “Well, then, Tabitha old girl, if you’ve been watching those mice so closely, perhaps you can tell us just how it is that they managed to—”

  “Oh, hush,” Crumpet said, feeling that she was losing control of the conversation. “We’ve more important things to do than bicker amongst ourselves. I want to hear about your ride in the motorcar, Rascal.” She stood and stretched, fore and aft, her jealousy overcome by her eagerness to hear the details. “Did it go awfully fast? Did the tires kick up dust? Was it exhilarating? Was it spine-tingling?”

  “It wasn’t nearly as exhilarating and spine-tingling,” Rascal said, lifting one paw and studying his toenails with a maddening calm, “as finding ol
d Ben Hornby dead.”

  “Dead!” the astonished cats chorused. “Ben Hornby?”

  “Dead as a doornail,” Rascal said. “Found him myself, on Holly How, beyond the sheepfold.”

  “You found him?” Tabitha cried.

  Crumpet frowned, feeling annoyed. Dogs always had more exciting adventures than cats did. They were invited to go to agricultural shows and fairs and foxhunts, not to mention being asked to ride in motorcars. There was something fundamentally unfair about—

  “That’s right, I found him,” Rascal said proudly. “One of the Herdwicks—Tibbie, it was—showed me where he’d fallen off a cliff, but I was the one who reached the body first. And that took some doing, let me tell you, because he was lying at the foot of an appallingly steep slope. Miss Potter only came later, and after her, Mr. Jennings. Then Captain Woodcock and Constable Braithwaite finally arrived, to begin the official investigation.” He shook his ears and gave a heavy sigh. “And now, if you two will excuse me, I think I’ll go and see if there’s any food in my bowl. It’s been quite a day, and I’m tired and hungry. Finding bodies is hard work, believe me.”

  But Crumpet had planted herself in front of the kitchen door. “Not so fast, Rascal,” she said firmly. “You’re not getting a bite to eat until you’ve told us everything, in great detail.” She scowled. “And without exaggeration.” Rascal was known to embroider his tales from time to time, to the point where it was sometimes hard to distinguish the facts from the fiction.

  Rascal insisted that he was giving them the facts, but his story actually seemed like an invention. He started with the pony cart trip up to old Ben’s farm, then told them about the climb to the sheepfold on Holly How and the conversation with Tibbie, and concluded with the finding of old Ben’s twisted body at the foot of the cliff and Miss Potter’s discovery of a clay pipe in the dead man’s fingers.