The professor—for this was none other than Professor Galileo Newton Owl, D.Phil., a very old, very large tawny owl—was known by every animal in the Land between the Lakes, and by a great many of the Big Folk, as well. He lived in a great hollow beech tree at the top of Cuckoo Brow Wood, where it spreads out over Claife Heights before tumbling down the steep slope to the very edge of Lake Windermere. The professor enjoyed an international reputation for his scholarship in celestial mechanics, with a particular emphasis on navigating by the stars. And this with very good reason, for he spent the hours from midnight to dawn searching the sky with the telescope he had installed at the very top of his beech-tree observatory, and making notes in his celestial logbook.
The professor was also widely respected for his studies in applied natural history, with a special interest in the nocturnal habits of scaled, winged, and furred creatures, and their particular tastes. He carried out this research from dusk to midnight, high above the fields and woods. There was not much in the Land between the Lakes that escaped his observation—or so he thought, at any rate.
“I am perfectly aware of whooo youoo are,” the professor said in a tone of great aggravation. “What I mean tooo know is why youoo village animals are bumbling about on Holly How at this time of night.” He turned the flat disc of his face from one side to the other, and the light seemed to gleam behind his eyes. “What is the exact nature of your business?”
Rascal stood up and wagged his tail, only a little braver now that he knew to whom they were speaking. The professor was a commanding bird with a very low tolerance for impudence and a very great willingness to employ his powerful claws and razor-sharp beak. But he might also be a helpful bird, and it was entirely possible that he could further their search.
“We are looking for five Herdwicks, sir,” he said. “Tibbie and Queenie and three lambs—the sheep that old Ben Hornby sold to Miss Potter. We are hoping that they can clear up the mystery of what happened to him.”
The owl raised his great wings and flapped them twice, ferociously. “What happened tooo Ben Hornby?” he screeched. He always became very angry when one question was answered by reference to a previous question. It was an impertinent fallacy that he simply could not tolerate.
Rascal cleared his throat and told the professor the same story he had told to Crumpet and Tabitha earlier, although with a great deal more hesitation and much less confidence, for the owl’s fierce, unblinking gaze unsettled him. But at last he came to the end of his tale, took a deep breath, and sat back on his haunches, waiting.
There was a long silence, whilst in the distance another, lesser owl hooted and nearer by, a pair of frogs began to trade insults. Finally, the professor spoke. “Yooou are telling me that old Ben Hornby is dead?” he demanded wrathfully, his round, luminous eyes growing even rounder and more luminous. If there was anything more infuriating than impudence, as far as the professor was concerned, it was the discovery that an important event had occurred without his knowledge or consent. “How did he die? Was it an accident?”
“That’s exactly what we want to know, sir,” said Rascal nervously. “We were hoping the sheep could tell us, since they were grazing nearby, and may have seen what happened. But we looked all over Holly How and couldn’t find them, and—”
“Gooo hooome, all of yooou,” commanded the professor in a tone of weary exasperation. “Gooo straight home and straight tooo bed, where yooou belong. I will look for the sheep. And when I find them, yooou can be sure that they will tell me what they know about Ben Hornby’s death.”
And with that, he raised his professorial wings, flapped them heavily, and lifted himself into the night sky above Holly How, where he sailed for several hours, surveying the fellsides and valleys for the five missing Herdwicks. But to his annoyance and puzzlement, he was no more successful in his search than had been the village animals, for no matter how far he flew or how hard he looked, the sheep were nowhere to be found.
At last, the professor solaced himself by pouncing with an unnecessary violence upon a young and unwary vole who had ventured too far from his den under the rocks. He bore the vole home to his beech tree, which could be distinguished from the other beech trees at the top of Cuckoo Brow Wood both by its size and by the fact that it bore a painted notice board beside a low wooden door at the base of the tree, announcing:
G.N. OWL, D. PHIL.
OBSREVER AT LARJE
MIND YR HED!
The door, and the interior stair onto which it opened, were designed for the convenience of those of the professor’s guests who could not fly, and he rarely made use of them. Now, he flew straight up to his sitting room, high above the mossy forest floor, where he got out the best white tablecloth and spread it on the table, which he laid with the best china, silver, and crystal. Then he lit a fat beeswax candle, poured a glass of elderberry wine, and sat down to enjoy a hearty midnight supper of fresh vole, along with a tin of sardines and some pickled eggs and cream crackers.
After this entirely satisfactory repast the professor retired to his library and looked up a scientific paper he remembered having read a year or so earlier, “The Deleterious Effect of Voles (Microtus agrestis) upon the Vegetation of the Lake District.” The paper argued that voles were bad for meadows because they dug up the turf, exposing the grass roots to the air, and that too many voles could completely ruin a meadow in only a few days.
Yes, indeed, the owl thought with satisfaction, replacing the volume on the shelf and preparing to fly up to his observatory for a night’s examination of the stars, he had done a very good thing by reducing the vole population, if only by one. Tomorrow night, he would make it two voles, and leave off the sardines.
Upstairs in his observatory, the professor pointed his telescope at Venus, very large and bright, which seemed to hang just out of reach above the lake. And then, by accident, he happened to hit the telescope with his wing and knocked it askew, so that it pointed elsewhere. He looked through it as he bent to straighten it, and blinked in great surprise.
The professor had found the missing sheep.
15
Miss Potter Makes a Delivery
Beatrix had planned to go up to Holly How with Mr. Jennings early the next morning, but when she walked to Hill Top Farm to meet him, she learnt that he wouldn’t be going anywhere very soon. The evening before, he had stepped out the door and sprained his ankle badly. He was sitting in a chair with his leg propped on a stool in front of him.
“Looks like we’ll have to put off gettin’ those sheep,” he said ruefully.
“I can at least go and get them and put them into the fold,” Beatrix replied. “I’m sure I can gather up the two ewes without any difficulty, and their lambs will follow.” She spoke with a great deal more confidence than she felt, but they were her sheep, and sooner or later, she was going to have to learn to work with them. Anyway, she had a delivery to make at Tidmarsh Manor, on the road to Holly How.
“Well, I don’t s’pose it’ll hurt to try,” Mr. Jennings said doubtfully. “But who’s to hitch up Winston? And who’s to drive him?”
“Why, I can do both,” Beatrix said, this time with real confidence. She had driven her first pony fifteen years before, and counted herself an excellent driver.
So a little while later, Beatrix was driving past Anvil Cottage, where she saw Sarah Barwick, standing in the street, surveying her front window with satisfaction. Beatrix pulled Winston to a stop. “It looks splendid, Sarah!” she exclaimed.
Truly, the window did look very nice. Sarah had pulled the curtains aside in a kind of drape and set a low table behind the glass. On it were displayed a Dundee cake, a plate of scones, a tray of various tea-cakes, and a vase of flowers.
Sarah grinned triumphantly. “I’ve already sold three scones to a fell-walker going past, and it’s not even nine o’clock yet.” She smoothed Winston’s mane. “Where are you and your pony off to so early this morning?”
“To Holly How, to look for some
sheep I’ve bought.”
“Oh, are you, then?” Sarah asked with interest. “I’m supposed to deliver two loaves of bread and one of my ginger cakes to Mrs. Beever, the cook at Tidmarsh Manor. But there’s a big hole in my bicycle tire, and I’ve no way to patch it quickly.”
“I was planning to go to Tidmarsh Manor myself,” Beatrix said. “Would you like me to deliver your order?”
“I’d rather you deliver me, if you don’t mind,” Sarah replied. “I’ve been wanting to talk to Mrs. Beever about that person Lady Longford has in mind for Margaret Nash’s job. If you’ll take me, I’ll be glad to give you a hand with rounding up your sheep.”
“Perfect,” Beatrix said promptly. “I’d love the company—and the help.”
“Hold on a shake, then,” Sarah said. “I’ll get my basket and my hat and pop across the way and ask Lydia to keep an eye on my door, in case of customers. Who knows? Those scones might all be gone by the time we get back!”
Five minutes later, Beatrix and Sarah were at Belle Green, where Beatrix went upstairs to get her guinea pig. She brought him out in a lidded wicker basket, and was putting him into the cart when Rascal ran around the house.
“I want to go too!” he barked excitedly. Without waiting for an invitation, he jumped into the cart. “Ready or not, here I am!”
“What a fine, frisky fellow,” Miss Barwick said with a smile.
“He doesn’t look like a sheep dog,” Miss Potter said, “but perhaps he can help us put them into the fold. What do you think, Rascal?”
“Delighted, if I can,” Rascal said promptly. “The cats and I had a go at finding them last night, though, without any success. We searched high and low and couldn’t find them, and finally had to leave it to the professor.” He felt this ought to be said, although he knew that Miss Potter couldn’t understand him. He peered at the orange guinea pig through the little window in the basket. “Where are you off to this morning, pig?”
“Not the foggiest,” the guinea pig replied cheerfully. “It’s a quest, that’s all I know. In aid of a damsel in distress, with possibly a dragon or two thrown in for good measure.” He sat up, crossed his forepaws, and sniffed the air, his shoe-button eyes sparkling. “A lovely day for a ride in a pony cart, isn’t it? On such a splendid day, splendid things are bound to happen, wouldn’t you say?”
The logic of this conclusion escaped Rascal, especially with distressed damsels and possibly dragons in the offing. But if the guinea pig wanted to take a cheery approach to life, that was his business.
It was a bright, sunshiny morning, with puffy white clouds sailing overhead, the hedges filled with birdsong and blooming roses, the fields glowing with the bright yellow of cinquefoil and stonecrop. Winston was frisky, tossing his head and picking up his neat hooves, and they rattled along the narrow lane in fine style. On the way, Miss Potter told Miss Barwick about finding old Ben Hornby, dead, at the foot of the slope. Miss Barwick was much surprised, although she hadn’t known Mr. Hornby, and wanted to hear all the details. Listening to the two ladies discuss what had happened, and looking around him at the lovely green hillsides, Rascal thought that there was no lovelier place in all England than this Land between the Lakes, and that it was very sad that old Ben Hornby would not waken to another such fine morning.
In a little while, they approached a large, forbidding house that was shadowed by somber, spreading pines and yews. The guinea pig began to shiver as Miss Potter turned the cart into a lane that was so overhung with trees and vines that it was rather like a dark tunnel.
“I’m afraid there’s been some . . . some mistake,” he chittered nervously, peering through the little window in the side of his wicker basket. “Why are we going here? I’m on my way to an adventure.” His shiver became a shudder, and he shook from nose to tail. “I’m sure that no self-respecting damsel would be found in a place like this.”
“It’s Tidmarsh Manor,” Rascal explained. “Where Lady Longford lives. I can’t think why Miss Potter would want to take you there, unless she means to give you to Lady Longford.” He paused. “I must say that her ladyship doesn’t strike me as a damsel in distress, although—”
“Give me away!” the guinea pig squealed, horrified. “Abandon me in that awful place? Oh, no!”
“Whoa, Winston,” Miss Potter said, stopping the cart on the gravel drive in front of the house. She looped the pony’s reins around the cart wheel, climbed down, and took Tuppenny’s wicker basket off the seat. Miss Barwick got down as well.
“I’ll go round to the kitchen,” she said, picking up a basket of baked goods. “That’s where I make my deliveries.”
“I’ll meet you back here, then,” Miss Potter said. To Rascal, she added, “You stay with Winston and watch the cart.”
“I will,” said Rascal, feeling that he had been given an important assignment.
“Wait!” Tuppenny shrieked, flinging himself against the side of his basket. “Hold on a bit, Miss Potter, do! Surely you can’t mean to leave me here! I may have made some very foolish boasts last night about fighting stoats and dragons, but I am not at all a Brave Guinea Pig. What’s more, I’m supposed to be going on a quest, and rescuing damsels in distress, and all that sort of thing. Oh dear oh dear oh dear!”
To tell the truth, Beatrix felt every bit as nervous as the poor guinea pig. But when she knew that she was right, she became very stubborn and refused to let herself be deterred, no matter how apprehensive she might feel. This was one of those occasions. Tuppenny’s cage in her hand, she marched up to the massive front door, where she knocked.
The door was opened by a white-capped, white-aproned maid. “Deliveries at the back, miss,” she said severely. Then her eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Miss Potter! So sorry. I didn’t realize it was you.”
“Hello, Emily,” Beatrix said pleasantly. “How nice to see you. And how is your sister? Such a well-behaved child.” The maid was Mrs. Crook’s niece, and Beatrix had met her and her little sister at tea at Belle Green.
“Oh, she’s just lovely, thank you, miss,” said Emily, her chubby face wreathed in smiles. “And she adores the Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle book you gave her. Fair readin’ it to shreds, she is!” She stepped back, holding the door wide. “Come in, do, and I’ll let her ladyship know that you’re here.”
In a few moments, Emily was back to show Beatrix into what seemed to be the morning room, a large, high-ceilinged room wallpapered in red and green cabbage roses, with a red wool carpet on the floor and red velvet draperies at the windows. The numerous tables were laden with bric-a-brac, potted palms filled the room’s four corners, and the arms and backs of the stuffed sofa and chairs were covered with crocheted antimacassars.
“Miss Beatrix Potter,” Emily announced, very primly, and left, closing the door behind her.
Beatrix placed Tuppenny’s basket on the floor and went toward an old lady in a black silk dress, white lace cap, and black lace fingerless mitts, who was sitting in a large armchair with a fat, slobbery King Charles spaniel at her feet. In the corner behind her sat another lady, also in black, a demure, meek look on her face. Miss Martine, no doubt, Beatrix thought. Her ladyship’s companion.
Beatrix was usually quite shy, but she had an unflagging interest in human nature. She was especially fascinated by the many and various expressions on people’s faces, for they always seemed to reveal a great deal of what lay hidden beneath. If one were observant, one might almost look through the expression as through a window, and see whatever there was to see within. At this moment, Beatrix fancied that she could look through the decorous look on Miss Martine’s composed face to something sharp and disquieting, and she shivered involuntarily.
At that moment, she became aware of a man standing at the window. He turned and came forward with alacrity, and she saw that it was Vicar Sackett.
“Why, good morning, Miss Potter,” he exclaimed with pleasure. “This is a very agreeable surprise, I must say!”
Beatrix was n
ot surprised by the relief she heard in the vicar’s voice. He was gentle and scholarly and often rather vague, no match for such difficult parishioners as Lady Longford. To tell the truth, Beatrix was relieved to see him, too, for she fancied that Lady Longford might be more amenable to her request in the presence of the clergy.
Lady Longford’s pince nez hung on a gold chain around her neck. She put it on and peered critically at Beatrix’s tweed skirt and jacket. Beatrix knew that she did not cut a stylish figure, but her comfort and the durability of her clothing meant a great deal more to her than her ladyship’s opinion.
“And who is Miss Potter?” Lady Longford inquired abruptly. The spaniel, hearing the tone of her voice, gave a low, disagreeable growl.
Vicar Sackett hurried to make introductions. When he was finished, Lady Longford said, in an arch, autocratic tone, “So you are the female owner of Hill Top Farm. It seems an unlikely purchase for a person from London. I wonder whatever possessed you to buy it.” Without waiting for Beatrix’s reply, she went on. “But no matter. I’ve always been amused by the foolish things that people do with their money. Your books—would they amuse me? I have not been entirely well lately, and I am always glad of amusement.”
“I rather doubt that your ladyship would be amused by my children’s books,” Beatrix said with as much equanimity as she could muster. A sharper reply had come to the tip of her tongue, but the habitual reticence and self-control she practiced with her mother—who also had a habit of making critical remarks—stood her in good stead, and she suppressed it. “I understand that your granddaughter Caroline is staying with you.”
The Tale of Holly How Page 11
