The Tale of Holly How

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  “And what’s more,” put in Lydia, not to be outdone by her niece, “t’ pipe had some letters scratched on t’ stem. An H an’ an S.” She looked at the raspberries. “I doan’t have anything to cover these with, Agnes. Can you just set them in t’ peramb’lator with t’ baby? You can bring t’ basket back t’ next time you’re down this way.”

  “That’ll do,” Agnes said. “An H an’ an S?”

  “That’s what Hannah Braithwaite says,” Lydia replied. “T’ constable saw it himself.”

  “Has to be t’ person t’ pipe belongs to, wouldn’t y’ say?” Gladys put in eagerly. “Which means that it must have been somebody named H-something S-something who pushed Mr. Hornby down Holly How and killed him.”

  “Pushed him!” Agnes exclaimed with great interest.

  “Well, yes,” Gladys said. “How else would t’ poor auld man have ended up at t’ bottom, with a clay pipe in his hand?” She looked solemn. “Seems t’ me we’ve got a suspect, and his name is H. S.”

  “H. S.” Agnes mused. “Well, it’s not Toby Teathor, that’s for sure. His initials are T. T.”

  “Toby Teathor?” Gladys asked.

  “He stole some cider out of Mr. Hornby’s barn last winter, and was had before the magistrate over it,” Agnes replied importantly. “Toby’s not o’er-fond of the old man, I fancy.” She frowned. “But since it’s an H and an S we’re lookin’ for, Henry Stubbs is the first that comes to mind. I can’t think why Henry would’ve done it, though.”

  “Or what he’d be doin’ up Holly How,” Lydia said. “Our Henry’s not the sort for goin’ out of his way, if you know what I mean.”

  Agnes knew what she meant. Henry, a bow-legged, weak-eyed little man with sandy whiskers, was Bertha Stubbs’s husband and a well-known frequenter of the Tower Bank Arms, the local pub. He helped operate the Windermere ferry, except on days following an especially convivial evening at the Arms, when he was, as Bertha delicately put it, “under the weather.”

  At that moment, Baby Lily put up a cry, and Agnes gathered her purchases and said goodbye to Lydia and Gladys. She put the packages into the pram with the baby, and the basket of fresh raspberries, and, still thinking about the mysterious person with the initials H. S., pushed the pram up Market Street and around the corner and down the side street to the post office. There, she parked Baby Lily’s pram in the narrow garden in front and joined the queue, which also included Mrs. Lythecoe, the widow of the former vicar, and Rose Sutton, the wife of the veterinary surgeon. Two of Rose’s younger children, a boy and a girl, were playing under the hedge outside.

  Rose was buying a stamp and telling Mrs. Lythecoe over her shoulder that some badger diggers had pillaged a sett at the rock quarry on Hill Top farm and only one little cub had survived, and that one badly chewed, and Jeremy Crosfield, who was quite a nice boy, had brought it to Dr. Sutton to be mended.

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Lythecoe said sympathetically, “those wretched badger diggers. The wild things have a hard enough time of it. They ought to be left alone.”

  “You’re cert’nly right,” Agnes agreed, joining the conversation. “There’d be less of it, if ’tweren’t for the badger-baiting. It’s against the law, and Captain Woodcock stops it whenever he can. But too many men come home with their pockets inside-out, and there’s nae a penny for milk the next seven days.”

  “Who’s next,” called Lucy Skead, the postmistress—quite unnecessarily, Agnes thought, since she could clearly see that Mrs. Lythecoe was waiting in line, and Agnes right behind her. But then, Lucy always liked to exaggerate her importance. Rose moved aside to lick the stamp and put it on her envelope, and Mrs. Lythecoe stepped forward and put a small package on the counter. Lucy peered at the address as she put it on the scale and adjusted the balances.

  “Sending something to your sister?” she remarked. “Those gray gloves you was knitting last week?” Lucy was an inveterate snoop and knew every villager’s business as well as they knew their own—and sometimes sooner, since every letter passed through her hands before it reached its intended recipient.

  Mrs. Lythecoe only smiled, however, and Agnes took advantage of the momentary silence to say, quite casually, “I s’pose you’ve heard about Ben Hornby being pushed down Holly How?”

  “One and six,” Lucy said to Mrs. Lythecoe. “You must have put a tin of something in with t’ gloves, to make it so heavy. Or a jar of your plum jam, p’rhaps?” Bright eyed, she took a sideways step so that she could see Agnes, whilst Mrs. Lythecoe counted out coins. “Aye, we’ve heard about it, Mrs. Llewellyn. Scand’lous, it is. Simply appalling.”

  “Pushed?” Mrs. Lythecoe turned around and gave Agnes a frowning look. Her gray-streaked hair was twisted up under a wide-brimmed straw hat. “Really, Agnes, it’s not a good idea to spread rumors before all the facts are known. The inquest won’t be held for at least a week, and—”

  “Oh, but he was pushed, Mrs. Lythecoe!” Lucy broke in eagerly. “That’s t’ facts. I heard it from Mrs. Jennings herself, and everybody knows that Mr. Jennings was right there when they found that clay pipe in Mr. Hornby’s dead fingers, with t’ letters H and S on it.” She shuddered delicately, as if possessed by the shivery image of swift and violent death. “It’s disgraceful, what t’ world is coming to these days, wouldn’t you say?” Without waiting for a response, she rushed on. “It’s them strangers bargin’ through t’ village, if you ask me. Fell-walkers and cyclists and t’ likes, dozens and dozens of them trampin’ and ridin’ their bicycles along t’ lanes, and climbin’ t’ fences, and never botherin’ to close a gate, so that t’ livestock get out and go wandering all over t’ place. Why, I’ve heard old Ben Hornby complain more’n once, standin’ right on that spot on t’ floor where your two feet are planted. And t’ latest was just two days ago.”

  “Complain about what, Lucy?” Rose Sutton asked, presenting her stamped letter to be put into the canvas mail bag. She turned around to look through the door at her children. “Jamie Sutton,” she said sternly, “don’t you go bothering around that perambulator. Mrs. Llewellyn’s little grandbaby is having a nap. You’ll get a smack if you wake her.”

  “Lily’s all right, Rose,” Agnes said impatiently, wanting to hear what Lucy had to say. “What was it that Ben Hornby was complainin’ about, Lucy?”

  Obviously enjoying their attention, Lucy dropped the letter into the bag and followed it with Mrs. Lythecoe’s package. She straightened a stack of forms and moved the pen and inkwell a fraction of an inch to the right before she answered.

  “About them fell-walkers from Manchester leavin’ his gates open when they climb to t’ top of Holly How,” she replied. “It was more than he could bear in silence, he said. In fact, them’re his very words. ‘More than I can bear in silence, Mrs. Skead,’ he said. Put out, he was, and you couldn’t blame him. ‘They’re going to find themselves in verra serious trouble, mind my words,’ was ’xactly what he said.” She paused and added darkly, “If you ask me, old Ben saw one of them fell-walkers openin’ his gate and took him to task and got himself killed for his pains.”

  “If you know of a suspect who should be questioned, Lucy,” Mrs. Lythecoe said severely, “you’d better tell Constable Braithwaite. Far better that than gossiping to us.”

  “But we’re not gossipin’,” Agnes protested. “We’re simply discussin’ matters.”

  “And I have told t’ constable, Mrs. Lythecoe,” Lucy chirped. “I told him this mornin’, as soon as I heard t’ poor old gentleman had been found dead. I thought of it straightaway, y’ see.”

  “Gentleman, was he?” Rose Sutton inquired archly. “Not to speak ill of the dead, of course, but gentlemen pay their debts, whilst Mr. Hornby—” She was interrupted by a shriek from outside, a splintering sound, and a loud wail.

  “Mum, oh, Mum!” a child’s voice cried. “Jamie’s kilt the baby!”

  And at that, all four women rushed out of the post office, to find the wicker perambulator lying wheels-up in the gr
ass, whilst a small boy in short pants stood by, howling lustily. His hands were red, there were red smears on his face, and his bare legs were red-spattered.

  “Blood!” Lucy cried, her hands going to her mouth. “Oh, Lor’, the child’s covered in blood!”

  “The baby!” shrieked Agnes, falling to her knees to paw through the wreckage of perambulator and packages and bedding that littered the ground. “Where’s Baby Lily?”

  “Jamie, I told you!” shouted Rose, aiming a swat at the boy’s behind. “What have you done with Mrs. Llewelyn’s baby, you naughty, naughty boy?”

  “I really don’t think,” Mrs. Lythecoe began firmly, “that it’s as serious as—”

  “He’s kilt her, Mum,” the girl said in a tittle-tattle voice. “I told him not to, but he wouldn’t stop.” She pointed an accusing finger. “She’s there, just under the hedge, kilt dead. All over blood, top to toe.”

  But Baby Lily had not been killed, as they quickly discovered. The instant she was retrieved from under the hedge she began to shriek at the top of her lungs. And it wasn’t blood that smeared her face and clothing. She was covered with the juice of the red raspberries into which she had fallen when Jamie tipped the perambulator as he climbed into it to get the berries.

  “I’m sorry, Agnes,” Rose Sutton said in a repentant tone, as they gathered up the baby, the packages, and the wicker pram, the bonnet of which was obviously smashed beyond any repair. “I don’t know how I can make it up to you.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” Agnes replied stiffly. “I don’t know what my daughter-in-law will say when she comes back and sees what’s become of her new pram that she was so proud of.” She sighed. “And now it seems we won’t be havin’ tart tonight, after all. I’ve got barely a cup of raspberries at home, and the ones I got from Lydia Dowling are all smashed.”

  “I’ll be glad to give you a jar of bottled rhubarb,” Mrs. Lythecoe offered helpfully. “I always think that raspberries and rhubarb make a very nice tart. And I can write out the recipe, if you’re not sure how to put them together.”

  Agnes had to be satisfied with that.

  19

  Miss Potter Finds a Piece of Evidence

  Beatrix met Sarah at the pony cart in front of Tidmarsh Manor.

  “I see that you’ve left your basket,” Sarah said as she climbed in, “so you must have managed to leave the guinea pig as well. Mrs. Beever didn’t hold out much hope. She was of the opinion that Miss Martine wouldn’t allow the child to have a pet of any description.”

  “She certainly tried,” Beatrix said grimly, tucking in her skirt and picking up Winston’s reins. “If it hadn’t been for the vicar, she might have succeeded. So you’ve delivered your baked goods?”

  “Yes,” Sarah said. “And in the process, I learnt quite a bit from Mrs. Beever. I’ll tell you as we drive.”

  “Let’s go,” Rascal barked authoritatively. “Winston and I were getting tired of waiting!”

  “We’ll be off, then,” Beatrix said, looking up at the sky, which was beginning to cloud over. A light breeze was blowing from the west, carrying with it the smell of damp earth and the promise of rain. “It would be good to put the sheep in the fold and get back to the village before there’s a shower.”

  Winston was just pulling the cart onto Stony Lane when they met Lady Longford’s phaeton, driven by Mr. Beever and conveying an aristocratic-looking man with gold-rimmed spectacles who held himself very straight. He was elegantly dressed in a ruffled white shirt, black frock coat, gray gloves, and tall hat, which he tipped to Beatrix and Sarah with a slight, supercilious nod, barely acknowledging them.

  “Well, la-di-da!” Rascal growled. “Fine toffee-nose, that.” And he aimed a volley of sharp barks at the gentleman’s departing back.

  “Dr. Gainwell, I presume,” Sarah said dryly, as Beatrix chuckled. “Quite the fine gentleman, isn’t he? Doesn’t quite fit my picture of a missionary, though. Or a teacher.”

  “But that’s who he must be,” Beatrix said, urging Winston forward along the road to Holly How Farm. “Lady Longford said he was expected.” She made a rueful face. “He doesn’t look like the sort of person who will be very comfortable in Sawrey School. I wonder where Lady Longford met him, and why in the world she thinks a man like that would be a better person for the position than Miss Nash.”

  “That’s just it, Bea,” Sarah said. “Her ladyship doesn’t know that man at all.” And as they drove, she told Beatrix what Mrs. Beever had told her about the unhappy circumstances at the Manor, and about Lady Longford suffering serious stomach problems, and about Miss Martine taking over the servants and being a parsimonious manager who seemed intent on saving money by cutting back on staff.

  “It sounds a dismal state of affairs,” Beatrix said, shaking her head at Sarah’s story. “The servants will manage, of course. It’s Caroline we should feel sorry for, her grandmother ill and that companion taking over.”

  “What’s she like?” Sarah asked curiously.

  “Sturdy, self-reliant. I think she’ll do well in spite of everything, although it’ll be a pity if she’s sent away to school.”

  Sarah looked surprised. “You wouldn’t suggest a governess, would you?”

  “Oh, no,” Beatrix replied, remembering her own frustrating experiences with governesses. “There’s no reason why she couldn’t go to school in the village, in my opinion, especially if Miss Nash is the teacher.” She sighed. “Although it looks like that might not happen.”

  A few moments later, they were driving down the lane to Holly How Farm. Beatrix had not expected to meet anyone there, so she was surprised when she drove up in front of Ben Hornby’s cottage and saw an old black horse with a white blaze, hitched to a green-painted cart, standing at the gate. A stern-faced, dark-haired man, dressed in canvas breeches, a gray woolen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a wool cap, was loading a hay rake and a scythe into the cart, which already contained a potato fork, several wooden buckets, and a stack of baskets. He seemed as surprised to see the two women as they were to see him.

  “Good morning,” Beatrix said, and got down from the cart. “I’m Miss Potter, from Hill Top Farm, and this is my friend Miss Barwick. And you are—”

  “Isaac Chance,” Rascal said darkly, springing down onto the ground beside her. “He’s not to be trusted, Miss Potter. He brought a horse to Mr. Crook’s smithy for shoeing two months ago, and hasn’t paid tuppence toward his bill.”

  “Mornin’, ladies.” The man tipped his cap. “Isaac Chance. I farm Oldfield, up t’ way a bit.” He gestured at the cart full of tools. “I heard ’bout Ben Hornby’s accident, poor auld soul, and reckoned I’d better get my tools back a-fore his daughter came to clear out his things. Loaned ’em to him after his barn burnt last winter,” he added, as if he felt the need for justification.

  “Rubbish,” Rascal barked sharply.

  “Rubbish, is it?” snarled a large yellow dog, crawling out from under the wagon and baring his fangs with a growl that made Rascal’s hair stand on end. “Who’s that sayin’ rubbish, I wants t’ know.”

  “Well, if it isn’t old Mustard,” Rascal said, with an amiable wag of his tail. “Last time I saw you was when the hounds ran at the Drunken Duck. Thought they’d hauled you off to the bone-heap years back, you old hobthrush.” Mustard wasn’t too bright, in Rascal’s opinion, but he was known to be a fierce fighter with a kind of bull-headed courage. He didn’t lead a happy life, though. Chance was not a kind master, and Mustard spent a great deal of his time chained to an iron ring in the barn.

  Mustard came closer, sniffing. “Oh, it’s you, is it, Rascal? Sorry, I doan’t see too well these days. A bit out of your way, aren’t ye? What brings you up from t’ village?”

  “Looking for sheep,” Rascal said, assuming a careless air. “Two Herdwick ewes and three lambs. You wouldn’t happen to know where they are, would you?”

  Mustard gave him an innocent, eyebrows-raised look. “Me? Why would I know anything about�
��”

  “Hod on!” Chance aimed a hard kick at Mustard’s head. “Stop that yarpin’, Mustard, y’ fool dog, and get back under that wagon.” As Mustard cringed and crept behind the wheel, Chance took off his cap and rubbed his sweaty forehead with his thumb. “Man’s got to have tools, or he can’t work, y’ know—although auld Ben wa’n’t one to waste much time workin’.” He grinned, showing a broken front tooth. “Not lazy, was Ben. He just had other things he liked to do.”

  “Indeed,” Beatrix said evenly, thinking that, with Ben Hornby dead, there was no one to dispute the man’s claim that the tools were his. She frowned. Mr. Jennings had said that Chance had tried to buy Holly How Farm, but had been told that it was Ben Hornby’s as long as he wanted it. Perhaps Chance was here now because he was in a hurry to get his hands on some of Ben’s other property. On the other hand, perhaps what he said was true. Maybe those were his tools.

  Ignoring Sarah, Chance leaned nonchalantly against the cart and replaced his cap, his eyes on Beatrix. “I was down to t’ village t’ other day and stopped by Hill Top for a look ’round. You and Jennings’re doin’ a fair bit of buildin’ there—barn, pigsty, house. Heard in t’ pub that you bought t’ field on t’ other side of t’ Kendal road, too.” His eyes glinted. “Reet fair lot of money it’s all costin’, I’ll wager.”

  Without replying to Chance’s remark, Beatrix wound Winston’s reins around the gatepost, fastening them with extra care. He was steady and reliable, but ponies were ponies, and if there was thunder, she did not want him to pull free and go home without them. She looked at Chance, thinking that there was something about the fellow that she didn’t like—perhaps it was the look of discontent around his mouth and the narrowness of his eyes, or the recent whiplash welts on his horse’s rump. She felt no inclination to share her personal business with him and was more than a little glad that Sarah Barwick was with her. Not that she was afraid, of course. But still—