by Susan Albert
“Perhaps you could tell me something about the history of that path.” The captain stirred two lumps of sugar into his tea. “If you know it, that is.”
The vicar settled back in his chair, cup in hand. “As it happens, I do. Several years ago, Major Ragsdale asked me to do a bit of research for his Ramblers on our local footpaths—in anticipation, I believe, of possible closings.” He sighed. “It seems to be the thing to do these days, to close off public access to the wilderness. The commons were enclosed here over a century ago, in 1794, and there have been battles ever since.”
“Applebeck Orchard is hardly the wilderness,” Miles reminded him gently. “In fact, there’s not much wilderness left hereabouts.”
“You’re right, of course,” the vicar said. He added with an unaccustomed sarcasm, “Applebeck Path is merely an age-old pathway between our two settled hamlets. Which, some might say, makes it even more important than a footpath through a wilderness.”
“Because it is the way to church?”
“As I read the parish records,” the vicar replied, “the use of the path dates back long before the building of St. Peter’s. It is mentioned in early records going back to the time of Elizabeth the First.”
“And when was St. Peter’s built?” Miles asked.
“Forty years ago. At the time—1869—many large houses were being constructed in the area, and it was thought that servants and their families would attend services.” The vicar shifted uncomfortably. The vision of the builders, sadly, had been far too optimistic. His present congregation was much smaller than the four hundred for whom St. Peter’s had originally been built. Some of the pews had already been taken out.
“At any rate,” he went on, “when I began to look into the matter, I learned that the first trees were planted in Applebeck Orchard in 1802. The footpath was already in existence at the time, for users of the path were cautioned to be mindful of the young trees. The road between Near and Far Sawrey—a cart-track at the time, I suppose—made the same large dogleg that it does now. The path cut off a considerable distance.”
“It’s been in continuous use for all that time, then,” Miles said thoughtfully, watching a red admiral butterfly open and close its wings on a branch beside the table. “And it was in use at the time when Mr. Harmsworth bought Applebeck Farm.”
“Oh, yes,” the vicar agreed. “That makes a difference, doesn’t it?”
“It does indeed,” Miles said. “Theoretically, a path becomes a legal right of way because the owner has dedicated it to public use. Practically speaking, only a few paths are ever formally dedicated. But the law assumes that if people are permitted to use a path without interference for some period of time, the owner intends to dedicate it.”
“What period, exactly?”
“That varies. If there’s been heavy use, and the landowner is aware of it, the court accepts a relatively short period. For example, there was a rather well-known case in 1790 where the court ruled that six years’ use was sufficient time to establish the public’s right of way.”
“Then there’s no question about the Applebeck path,” the vicar replied.
“There’s always a question,” the captain said testily. “The matter will have to be heard in my court. And I shall have to rule on it.”
“If testimony to the years of use is required, Dolly Dorking might be helpful.” Dolly—Auld Dolly to the villagers—was the mother of the Near Sawrey postmistress. She was well past ninety, but her memory was still remarkably good. He frowned. “Of course, Mr. Harmsworth has owned the place for only ten years or so, and he’s not from this area. He may not know how long the path has been in use. In fact, he may know nothing of the orchard’s sad history.”
“The orchard has a history?” Miles asked, cocking an imperious eyebrow.
“Of course it does,” the vicar replied, mildly rebuking. “All places have a history, you know. This one is tragic. A drowned child, a mother gone mad, a husband who refused to allow her to be sent to an asylum. The poor woman was locked in the attic at Applebeck House for ten or fifteen years before she died—or so the story goes. I am told that her window looked out on the place where her daughter drowned, in Apple Beck.”
“That is tragic,” Miles agreed. “But in those days, the mother was probably better off at home than in a mad-house. One sympathizes with the husband, who lost both his daughter and his wife.”
“Indeed. The villagers have embellished the sad tale with a ghost story, of course,” the vicar added. “Every death, it seems, has to be followed by an apparition. And of course, the apparition’s every appearance must foretell one sort of disaster or another. Such is the nature of ghosts. And villagers.”
“You’re not suggesting that this tale has any relevance to the closing of the path, are you?” Miles’ voice was dry. “Has a ghost been seen?”
“Yes, according to Mrs. Thompson,” the vicar replied with a small smile. “The night the haystack burnt.” He sipped his tea. “Constable Braithwaite investigated the fire, I suppose.”
“Quite thoroughly,” Miles replied. “It was arson, definitely—a candle stub was found near the scene. Unfortunately, there was no clue to the identity of the arsonist, although Braithwaite questioned Tom Beecham first. Since Harmsworth sacked him last winter, Beecham has made no secret of his resentment.”
“Yes, I’ve heard him, more than once,” the vicar said ruefully. “He’s quite bitter about his dismissal. I should hate to think he might be angry enough to commit such a reprehensible act, though.”
The vicar always hated to think that anyone would step off the straight and narrow, Miles thought. Aloud, he said, “It’s difficult to obtain a conviction to an arson charge, of course, unless there’s a credible witness.”
“Indeed,” the vicar said. “Well, I certainly hope that the culprit can be found and brought to justice.”
The captain changed the subject. “Will Heelis suggested that a committee be formed to look into footpath closures. It won’t be named in time to help with this case, but it seemed a good idea to me.” He paused. “Would you be willing to put such a committee together, Vicar? Heelis suggested that Miss Potter might be asked to serve. We both agree that she has a steady head. As to the other members, that would be up to you.”
The vicar considered doubtfully. “I’m not sure I should like to actually lead . . . That is—”
Miles gave an internal sigh. If only the vicar weren’t such a ditherer! “You could appoint yourself the committee’s historian,” he said, “and let someone else chair it.”
“Historian! Of course.” The vicar brightened. “And Miss Potter would make an excellent chair. If you like, I shall speak to her about it.”
“Splendid!” Miles said emphatically. “But the present situation cannot wait on the formation of a committee. I’m going to see Harmsworth this morning. Not looking forward to it, I must say.”
“I shouldn’t think,” the vicar agreed. Adam Harmsworth had a reputation as rather a difficult fellow. “I do believe,” he added tentatively, “that it would be good if he could be persuaded to remove the obstruction before Major Ragsdale stages his protest. The major is rather vigorous when it comes to organizing things.”
Miles put down his cup, frowning. “Ragsdale is staging a protest?”
The vicar cleared his throat. “He seems to have it in mind to encourage the Claife Ramblers to storm the ramparts, as it were. I encountered him yesterday evening at the post office, and that’s what he told me. I’m not sure it will come to that,” he added hastily. “Major Ragsdale may think better of his threat.”
Miles shook his head. “Exactly what we need,” he muttered. “A protest. Marches. People carrying signs and singing.” He broke into a mocking verse. “ ‘The Ramblers of Sawrey will break every chain and open the footpaths again and again.’ ”
“I always hate to hear a perfectly good hymn pressed into service as a protest,” the vicar said with a sigh. Years ago, the Keswick
Footpath protesters had adopted “The Lion of Judah will break every chain” as their marching song, and the thing had caught on. It was sacrilegious.
“I’m with you there,” Miles said, but for a different reason. He did not like fusses. If there was a difference of opinion, it should be approached with logic and a cool head. Civil disorder broke the bonds of community and set people against one another. Marches and protests and singing and chanting led to brawls and fisticuffs.
“I think there was some mention of the newspaper, as well,” the vicar said diffidently. “The major has also been in touch with a journalist from the Westmorland Gazette. He seemed to feel that a story might attract additional attention to the problem. I’m afraid he sees this as a good thing.”
“Well, I’ll soon put a stop to that,” Miles said, with great firmness. “The village does not need this kind of disagreement—nor this sort of notoriety. I’ll speak to Ragsdale as well as Harmsworth, and see if this matter can’t be brought to a speedy conclusion.” He paused, adding thoughtfully, “If not, I suppose a supervised trespass could be arranged.”
“Trespass?” The vicar’s eyes widened. “That sounds alarming.”
“Not at all. Ragsdale or someone else—it doesn’t matter who—would trespass, Constable Braithwaite would arrest him, and the matter would come before me. It is the way these things are usually handled. Thank you for letting me know what’s afoot, Vicar.”
“Not at all,” the vicar replied, adding, “I’m glad you’re taking action.” He could hear the wistfulness in his tone. He admired men who could take a decision and act on it with speed and effectiveness. He wished that he were one.
Miles chuckled wryly. “I hope you’re still glad when this is over.” Of course, he had no doubt as to the eventual outcome. He would hear the case, and if matters were as the vicar had outlined them, he would rule that the path had to be reopened and dismiss the trespass charges. A very simple bit of business.
Or at least, so he thought. Of course, things aren’t always as simple as they seem, are they? Solutions turn out not to solve everything, and life has a way of landing us in the middle of some very difficult dilemmas. But perhaps our justice of the peace—a man of law and order—may be forgiven for thinking that the law is capable of righting any wrong and solving any disagreement between people.
There was a silence, as another butterfly—a blue one—briefly visited the tea table, then flew off in the direction of the rosebush. The men drank their tea in silence, each one occupied with his own thoughts.
“Does it seem to you,” the vicar said at last, “that the world is all at sixes and sevens just now? King Edward has died, and nobody knows whether King George is up to the task. And there’s all that business about women wanting the vote and laborers wanting to work shorter hours, and the Germans wanting God only knows what.” He gave a distressed sigh. “One wishes for the old days, when Queen Victoria kept the Kaiser under her thumb.”
“And when women and workers were happier with their lot in life?” the captain asked, with a wry lift of one eyebrow.
The vicar sighed again. “One doesn’t like to hold others back from opportunity, does one? I suppose change is always unsettling, even when it’s change for the good. And change for ill—” He put down his cup. “There was an article in the Times recently, predicting hard times ahead for us all. Wars and rumors of wars, you know. All those dreadnoughts our navy is building, fourteen since 1905, according to the Times. Imagine that! Fourteen of those monsters. And the Kaiser’s navy, too. Both trying to get the upper hand.” The vicar took a breath. “And the comet didn’t help, either. It’s superstition, of course, but people took it as a bad sign, coming so near the King’s death. And now this business with the footpath.”
“Speaking of which.” Miles drained his cup and put it down. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to go with me to visit Mr. Harmsworth, could I?”
On this, the vicar did not dither. “I would if I thought I might be of service, Miles,” he said firmly. “But I doubt that I could make any contribution. I do wish you good luck,” he added.
“Thank you,” Miles said, and took his leave.
9
The Captain Lays Down the Law
The captain’s interview with Mr. Harmsworth did not, I am sorry to say, conclude very satisfactorily, at least from the captain’s point of view. Mr. Harmsworth, I believe, thought differently of it. By the time it was ended, in fact, he probably felt he had come out the winner.
Applebeck House was a traditional seventeenth-century farmhouse with thick, gray roughcast walls and a blue slate roof. It sat against a low hill overlooking the large apple orchard, while not far from the back garden, a small stream—Apple Beck—rippled between green banks overhung with willows, its waters sparkling gaily in the midday sunshine. It didn’t seem deep enough, Miles thought, for a drowning. But perhaps the child had fallen into the water and hit her head on a rock. Accidents like that happened too often. He glanced up at the window at the gable end of the house. Was that where the mother had sat, year after year, leaning on the windowsill, staring out at the place where her daughter had died? No wonder the poor woman went mad.
Miles knocked several times, and then resorted to shouting, “Is anybody at home?” The door was opened at last by a slender, pale young girl of thirteen or fourteen. Her yellow hair was parted in the middle and plaited in two thick braids. She wore a plain dress of dark gray stuff, a dirty white apron, and clogs that seemed a size too large for her. Miles thought that she looked frightened, as if she were not accustomed to strangers coming to the house.
Saying as little as possible, the girl directed him out to the barn, where he found Adam Harmsworth bent over the broken wooden shaft on a farm cart. He was a thickset, swarthy man with a heavy black beard, broad shoulders, and muscled forearms. He dropped his wooden maul and scowled as the captain greeted him. The two had met only once, when the captain had ruled against him in a dispute over a horse. Neither had forgotten.
“Why’ve thi come?” Harmsworth growled, his face and neck reddening.
“I’m sure you know,” the captain said mildly.
“ ’Tis about t’ footpath, ain’t it?”
“Exactly. I have had a preliminary look into the history of the Applebeck Footpath, Mr. Harmsworth. Parish records show that it has been in continuous public use since before the first trees were planted in the orchard over a hundred years ago. You yourself have permitted its use every day during the ten years you have owned this property. I should therefore like to request that you take down the barricades and—”
“I ain’t takin’ down those barr’cades,” Harmsworth said flatly. He bent over and picked up a long, narrow piece of wood meant to serve as a shaft, and brandished it. “Just last week, t’ haystack was burnt down to t’ ground by trespassers in t’ orchard. If they’d stay on t’ path and behave like decent folk, that ’ud be one thing, an’ I’d leave ’em to it. But they left t’ path an’ put a match to me haystack. T’ constable sez he doan’t have a clue as to who dunnit.” He flailed the air with the shaft as if he were fending off dragons. “Well, I know who dunnit, I do. ’Twas Major Ragsdale an’ his rabble o’ Ramblers.”
“If you have evidence—” the captain began, but was cut off.
“I doan’t need no evvy-dence!” Mr. Harmsworth cried, dancing an irate jig. “What I need is for Ragsdale an’ his gang to be locked up in gaol for burnin’ me haystack. Why ain’t they, I wants to know! Why?”
Now, if you suspect that Mr. Harmsworth is a man of limited aptitudes (and perhaps even a little comic in his enthusiasms), I must caution you. His schooling ended early, he reads little beyond an occasional newspaper, and his imagination is confined to what is in front of him. But he is clever with his hands, he understands the needs of his farm and orchard, and he has a very strong sense of the rightness of his cause. He must not be underestimated.
Not liking the wild way Mr. Harmsworth was swinging t
he shaft, the captain stepped back. “I appreciate your concern,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “The burning of a haystack is a serious crime, and it is regrettable that the constable has not yet been able to identify the culprit.” He thought briefly of old Thomas Beecham and wondered if it would be a good idea to interview him again—himself. Beecham was really the most likely suspect, in spite of what Harmsworth said.
“I’ve stopped up t’ path an’ it stays stopped until Ragsdale an’ his mob are in gaol,” Mr. Harmsworth snarled. “An’ even then I may not feel like unstoppin’ it. Folks can just go round by t’ road. Won’t hurt ’em to walk a few steps farther. Ol’ Bertha Stubbs can walk off some of her fat.” He straightened. “Now, I’ll thank thi to get out of my barn, Cap’n Woodcock. There is nae more to be said. Be off.”
Mr. Harmsworth might be full of bluster, but behind his rant the captain heard a dangerous menace. It was time to lay down the law.
“There is certainly more to be said,” he replied firmly. “And more to be done. You cannot take the law into your own hands, Mr. Harmsworth. It would be in your own interest and in the best interest of the community if you would remove the barrier.”
Mr. Harmsworth thrust out his chin defiantly. “And if I doan’t?”
“Then you can expect trespassers,” the captain said regretfully. “Sooner, rather than later, I should expect. The constable will be here to maintain order, but—”
“Trespassers,” snorted Mr. Harmsworth contemptuously. “That ’ud be Ragsdale’s hooligans, I’d reckon.” He narrowed his eyes. “They ’ud love to try an’ take down me blockade, they would.”
“The constable will be here to maintain order and make any necessary arrests,” the captain said stiffly. “When the case comes before me, as justice of the peace, I will review the matter and make a ruling.” He paused. “I am giving you fair warning, Mr. Harmsworth. As things stand now, and unless you can show cause to the contrary, I am inclined to reopen the path.”
