The Tale of Holly How

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  Then, having disposed of Caroline for the afternoon, she smiled at Dr. Gainwell and said, in a much sweeter tone, “Might I suggest the library, sir? We can have our coffee and dessert there. Lord Longford, now deceased, collected a great many books on the natural history of the Lake District, and you might be interested in seeing them.”

  “Indeed I should, Miss Martine, if you would be kind enough to show them to me.” Dr. Gainwell took out his gold watch and looked at it. “However, her ladyship mentioned an interview with the school trustees. I must say, I was not expecting it. It is to be today?”

  “The interview is at three, in Far Sawrey, at the hotel. Beever will drive you.” Miss Martine folded her napkin. “I understand that Captain Woodcock will be present, along with Vicar Sackett, Dr. Butters, and Mr. Heelis. Captain Woodcock, the doctor, and the vicar have already been made aware of Lady Longford’s interest in your candidacy. Those three can certainly be counted upon to support it. And Mr. Heelis is Lady Longford’s solicitor.”

  “Ah, well, then,” Dr. Gainwell said. He glanced at Caroline and added, in a guarded tone, “One feels . . . well, a trifle uncomfortable, as you may appreciate. The position was not advertised. There is no other candidate?”

  “A village teacher,” Miss Martine said dismissively, “but she has not your credentials, of that you may be sure.” She rose with a rustle of silk. “Might I suggest the library, sir?” She raised her voice commandingly, as if she were the mistress of the house. “Emily! Coffee and dessert for Dr. Gainwell and myself in the library!” She looked at Caroline. “To your room, miss,” she added.

  And with that, the two of them took themselves off down the hallway. Caroline made a face at their departing backs and went upstairs, where she took Tuppenny out of his box. She played with the guinea pig on the floor for a little bit, feeling resentful, then thought of something. Miss Martine had told her to go to her room, and she had obeyed. However, she had not been ordered to stay there.

  “You’d like some fresh grass, I imagine,” she said to Tuppenny. “Let’s go out into the garden and you can get some.” With her finger, she smoothed the soft orange fur on the top of his head. “If I let you go free in the garden, you’ll promise not to run away, won’t you?”

  Tuppenny gave his nose a twitch. He was still deeply offended that Miss Potter had gone away and left him at Tidmarsh Manor, when he had been led to believe that he would have an adventure, with damsels, and that he would be able to distinguish himself against the stoats and dragons. He felt totally justified in having a fit of the sulks and refusing to be comforted, or in running away, or in doing anything a guinea pig might jolly well choose.

  But Tuppenny rather liked the girl, who had a soft voice and kind manner, and who seemed to be treating him with an affectionate respect. He didn’t suppose it would hurt to be agreeable, at least for the time being. So he said, with pretended reluctance, “I suppose I can promise not to run away. For the afternoon, at any rate. Which is not to say anything about tomorrow,” he added pointedly. “Tomorrow is another matter. Tomorrow there may be stoats, and damsels, and perhaps even a dragon, and then I shall have to—”

  “Good,” said the girl, and put him into her apron pocket.

  A little while later, Tuppenny found himself up to his ears in the middle of a delicious patch of fresh green grass where he nibbled happily, forgetting all about his quest and feeling that the afternoon was altogether marvelous, in a way that only a guinea pig at large in a garden could truly appreciate. The sky had clouded over and the breeze carried the hint of rain, but occasional fingers of bright sun caressed his silky fur, and the grass was cool and sweet. The girl sat with a book in her lap and her back against a low stone wall, watching him to make sure, no doubt, that he would not run away.

  But running away was now the furthest thing from Tuppenny’s mind, which was instead concentrated on gobbling down as much of the delicious fresh grass in as short a time as possible. So for the next quarter hour, the guinea pig grazed and the girl read in the fitful sunshine, with birds spiraling into summer song in the sky above them, and breezes stirring the flowers that bloomed brightly in the garden all around them, and bees humming seductively amongst the blossoms, and the sound of subdued voices mingling with the general blissful hubbub.

  The voices, Tuppenny realized after a little while, were drifting out of an open window not far away. A woman’s light, high-pitched voice, a man’s deeper voice. They were speaking quietly, just above a murmur, which made it necessary to strain one’s ears to hear them.

  “—should imagine it will be easy enough,” said the woman, in a careless tone.

  “I certainly hope so,” the man said. A tautness had come into his voice. “Although it’s not exactly my line, you know. And I hadn’t expected an interview. You told me it was a dead cert.”

  Tuppenny saw the girl glance up alertly from her book and a frown appear between her eyes. She had heard the voices too.

  “Well, I must say I expected you to take a somewhat different—” The woman stopped. “No matter. I daresay you will manage it. However, that is not the real problem, you know. The more serious difficulty is—”

  The woman went on to explain what this was, but a pair of male meadow pipits alighted on the grass and began to disagree about a particularly attractive nesting site that each of them had promised to his mate. The woman’s voice was lost in their clatter.

  When the pipits finally settled their argument and flew away, the man was heard to be saying, in a much darker tone, “—expected that you could handle things alone, without any need for—”

  “That was before,” the woman interrupted sharply.

  “Before what?”

  “Before she came. I tell you, it’s all different now.”

  Tuppenny saw that the girl’s eyes had narrowed. She cocked her head, closed her book, and leaned forward, listening intently.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man said, almost carelessly. “She’ll be off to school in a few weeks and then you’ll have a free rein to do as you like with the old lady.”

  “You don’t see, do you?” demanded the woman, sounding thoroughly out of patience. “You never could, even when you were a boy, unless it was an inch in front of your nose.”

  The man was offended. “Well, I certainly don’t how the child can threaten the plan. She has no power, no—”

  “She threatens it by her very existence,” the woman said.

  There was a pause. The man sounded startled. “Surely you’re not suggesting that we—”

  “Sssh!” hissed the woman. “You never know who may be listening.” There was a pause, and the sound of rustling silk, and then the window was shut, quite forcibly.

  An instant later, the girl had scooped up the astonished Tuppenny and stuffed him into her apron pocket. And then she fled, as if a thousand stoats and weasels and ferrets—and perhaps a dragon or two—were nipping at her heels.

  21

  The Interview

  It was raining lightly when William Heelis led his horse around to the rear of the Sawrey Hotel and turned it over to the stable boy, who put it into a loose box with Dr. Butters’s gray mare, next to Captain Woodcock’s teal blue Rolls-Royce. Two of the village boys were standing beside the motorcar, staring at it with a half-frightened admiration, whilst their collie dog circled it, growling. Wherever it went, Woodcock’s automobile created a stir.

  The motorcar was a sign of changing times, Heelis thought to himself with a sigh as he went into the hotel to meet the other school trustees. He would much rather drive a horse, but as a solicitor in Hawkshead, he already knew of several men who were planning to purchase automobiles. This might be a distant corner of England, but like it or not, the future was about to come roaring at top speed down the road and into the most remote village of the Lake District.

  The trustees had chosen the Sawrey Hotel as a place to interview Dr. Gainwell because it was directly across th
e road from the school building. Afterward, they could take him for a tour, which would certainly be brief, since there was precious little to be seen. The thirty pupils were housed in two wooden-floored, high-ceilinged rooms that had once served as a chapel, with a lobby for coats and boots and a separate anteroom where the two teachers had their tea. As Heelis went up the main stairs of the hotel, he wondered again why a man of Gainwell’s experience and educational standing would be interested in such an out of the way place. But perhaps it was only his connection with Lady Longford that had brought him here, and he was not truly interested in becoming head teacher at Sawrey School.

  At least, this was what Will Heelis hoped, for it was his opinion—his settled opinion—that Margaret Nash ought to have the position. And after the gossip he had heard at the Tower Bank Arms a little while ago, he thought that the sooner the place was offered, the better, for all concerned. He rapped on the door of the large sitting room at the top of the stairs—often used for meetings of various clubs and groups—and went in.

  Dr. Butters and Miles Woodcock were already there. The doctor was standing with his back to the window that looked out onto the main road, a cup of tea in one hand, the other hand in the pocket of his tweed suit. Captain Miles Woodcock, Justice of the Peace for Sawrey district, was sitting in a cretonne-covered armchair, both feet stretched out in front of him, his fingers tented under his chin. He got to his feet and came forward as Will entered the room.

  “Hullo, Heelis,” he said. “Glad you could be here this afternoon.”

  “I’m not sure I’m glad,” Will said frankly, shaking Woodcock’s hand. He smiled in greeting at the doctor, who was one of the most respected men in the district, the one people turned to in time of trouble. “Good to see you, Butters.” He hesitated, then came out with his opinion straightforwardly, as was his usual manner. “To tell God’s honest truth, gentlemen, I’m ready to name Margaret Nash and let her get on with the job. And the devil take this Gainwell fellow.”

  “The devil might not have him.” Woodcock nodded at a tea tray on the table next to the window. “Help yourself to tea, Will. I had it sent up, feeling that we might need it.” As Will poured a cup and stirred in sugar, the captain added, “As we all know, Gainwell is Lady Longford’s candidate. If we turn him down and appoint our Miss Nash, we’ll never hear the last of it—nor will Miss Nash, unfortunately. Her ladyship is capable of stirring up all sorts of trouble.”

  “It won’t be the first time Lady Longford has posed a problem,” the doctor remarked, turning from the window.

  “Right,” Will agreed. “That business about refusing to accept responsibility for her granddaughter, as a recent instance. Tyrannical is the word that comes to mind.”

  “Ah, yes. You were involved in that,” said the captain, resuming his chair.

  “As her solicitor, it was my job to remind her of her familial duty,” Will said. “What good old Lord Longford would have wanted, etcetera etcetera. The vicar, as her spiritual adviser, put in a strong word from the moral angle, and between the two of us, we brought her around to our point of view.” Will sat down across from the captain, putting his cup on the small table beside him. “I’m not sure we did the girl a good turn, though. She must be lonely, and no doubt she’s bullied by her grandmother’s companion. I’ve seen that type before. Meek as you please to the mistress, and a tyrant to the rest of the household.”

  “And to make matters worse,” the doctor said, “the old lady’s ill. I’ve been asked to stop in several times in the last three weeks.” He pushed out his lips, frowning. “It’s puzzling, I must say. She’s better, then she’s worse. Some sort of enteric infection, it seems. Responds to treatment for a few days, then flares up again. Her present physical condition is not likely to sweeten her disposition, I fear.”

  “All the worse for us,” the captain said wryly. He paused for a moment and then said, almost reluctantly, “Changing the subject, Will, I suppose you’ve heard about Ben Hornby.”

  Will took out his pipe. “Another prickly character. What’s old Hornby done now?”

  “Then you haven’t heard.” The captain was somber. “He’s come to grief, I’m afraid. His body was found at the foot of a rock outcrop on Holly How yesterday afternoon, by our intrepid Miss Potter.”

  “Good God!” Will exclaimed in stunned surprise. “Old Hornby, dead? I’m sorry to hear that, I really am. How’d it happen? And what the devil was Miss Potter doing up at Holly How?” Although why he should be surprised, he didn’t know. The lady seemed to enjoy tramping about the countryside and turning up in unexpected places. Only a few days before, he’d encountered her when he went up to the little lake behind Oatmeal Crag to do a spot of fishing. She was there, sketching mushrooms or something of the sort, and they’d had a pleasant conversation.

  “She’d gone with Jennings to fetch some sheep she’d bought,” the captain replied. “She’s restocking that farm of hers, you know. As to how Hornby came to fall, that’s not entirely clear.” He glanced at the doctor. “The coroner has agreed to an inquest. Butters thinks there might have been foul play.”

  “Foul play!” Will exclaimed.

  “He was whacked across the shoulders with a stick or something of the sort,” the doctor said. “The corpse is sporting a substantial bruise.”

  “That’s a sad business,” Will said. He tamped tobacco into his pipe and lit it. “Mind you, Hornby was a difficult chap. I’ve certainly had my share of disagreements with him over the years. But he was a steady fellow,” he added, pulling on his pipe, “and always went by the rules—much to the irritation of some.”

  Having been a solicitor for nearly a decade, Will had had the opportunity to disagree with a great many people. The trick, of course, was to remain on friendly terms with as many as possible, even with those who were arrayed on the opposite side of a particularly thorny legal issue. Will made it a practice to be amiable and even-handed with all, no matter which side they were on, and over the years, the habit had usually paid off in goodwill.

  “ ‘The irritation of some,’ ” the captain mused thoughtfully. “I say, Heelis, I find that remark intriguing. Who do you think might have had it in for the old fellow?”

  “That’s hard to say,” Will replied. “There was that business with Toby Teathor last winter. Remember? Ben had him up before the magistrate for stealing cider.”

  “That’s true,” said the doctor. “Ben had a fierce row or two with fell-walkers, as well. They left his gates open. And then, of course, there’s Isaac Chance. Now that Ben’s gone, there’s nothing standing between him and Holly How Farm. Lady Longford will be glad to let him have it.”

  “I’ve always believed that Chance had something to do with that barn burning,” the captain said, “but there was no evidence on which he could be charged. And the cows—no proof there, either.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket. “However, in this case, we have this.”

  He held out a clay pipe, of the sort that country people in England had smoked for centuries. In the last half-century, as briar pipes became more readily available and people took to smoking cheaper cigarettes, clay pipes had begun to be seen as old-fashioned and countrified. Now, they were chiefly smoked by older people, both men and women.

  Will took the pipe and turned it in his fingers. “So Hornby was smoking whilst he tramped around on Holly How. I don’t see what that proves.”

  “He didn’t smoke,” the doctor said. He put down his teacup and ran his hand through his graying hair. “That’s the thing, you see, Will. He gave up smoking some years ago, on my advice. And when Ben Hornby made up his mind to do a thing, you know, he did it. Stubborn as the day is long.”

  “Ah,” Will said again. He frowned. “I don’t suppose there was anything overtly odd about his death. Any sign of a struggle, I mean, at the point where he fell.”

  Miles shook his head. “I had a look around and didn’t see anything. I certainly would like to talk with the owner of that pipe. Yo
u’ve noticed the initials on it, I suppose. H. S.”

  “Yes. Highly revealing, one might think, if one happened to be a Scotland Yard detective.” Will grinned. “H. S., you know, stands for Hiram Swift.”

  “I didn’t know,” the captain said, adding eagerly, “Hiram Swift, eh? You’re sure of that? Never heard of the man. Is he from this area?”

  Will chuckled. “Not a person, worse luck for you, Miles. Hiram Swift is the name of a pottery not far from Ambleside.”

  “There you are, Woodcock,” the doctor broke in with a dry laugh. “That’s your answer.”

  “Hiram Swift has been making brick and tile—and tobacco pipes—for a half century or better,” Will went on. “The clay pipes are mostly smoked by country people, I should think. Some claim they’re superior, although I can’t say, being a briar man myself.” He put the pipe to his nose and sniffed. “You might come closer to tracking the owner of this one if you focused on the tobacco, though.”

  The captain whistled. “A regular Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you? What’s so distinctive about that tobacco?”

  “You don’t recognize it?” Will asked, in mock surprise. “Why, I’m astonished. It’s Brown Twist, you know, manufactured by Samuel Gawith, right across the lake, in Kendal. Brown Number Four, if my nose doesn’t fool me, cherry flavored.” He sniffed again, deeply. “Yes, cherry, without a doubt. I’m partial to rum,” he added, handing the pipe back.

  “Well, I’d say that narrows down the field a goodish bit,” the captain replied with an ironic chuckle. “I’m looking for a country man who favors Hiram Swift clay pipes and Brown Number Four, with a cherry—”

  He was interrupted by a light rap on the door. It opened, and Samuel Sackett came in. “Ah, Vicar,” all three men said together, and stood.

  “Oh, don’t get up, don’t get up,” said the vicar hurriedly, taking off his hat and hanging it on the rack beside the door. He was a tall, stoop-shouldered man with thinning gray hair and a gentle, scholarly demeanor. “Ah, tea,” he said, brightening. “Jolly thoughtful of you, Captain. No, no, I’ll help myself—please don’t bother.”