The Tale of Briar Bank

by Susan Wittig Albert

  She didn’t blame them, though, for she shared their feelings about the land. She resented it when she saw people buying up Lake District farms, selling off the sheep and cows, and tearing down a lovely, centuries-old house in order to build a new and huge and ugly house in its place. If she had the money, she would buy every bit of property that came up for sale, just to keep the farms and houses from being destroyed. To her, even one farm lost was a tragedy.

  In fact, she had hoped the villagers might even be glad that she had bought Castle Farm. She had likely saved it from falling into the hands of some greedy real-estate speculator from Liverpool or Manchester who would build a row of ugly cottages in the place of the lovely old house and its gardens and sell them off to people from the cities who would insist on “modernizing” the village and making things “convenient” and changing everything to suit their “up-to-date tastes.” Which wouldn’t do at all, for Beatrix loved the little village (in spite of itself) and wanted it to stay just as it was forever and ever.

  “It’s quite rotten of them to think such a thing, of course,” Sarah said apologetically, wishing she hadn’t been so blunt. Sometimes her tongue had no tact at all. “They have nothing whatsoever to base it on. But that’s how they are. And they do worry about the village, about who’s selling this or that and what’s to become of it once it’s sold. They weren’t very happy, if you remember, that Miss Tolliver died and left Anvil Cottage to an off-coming female who turned it into a bakery and rides her bicycle down the street. In trousers,” she added wryly.

  “I know,” Beatrix said, and chuckled. Perhaps that was why she and Sarah had become such fast friends. They were both off-comers, and even though Beatrix did not smoke or wear trousers or ride a bicycle, the villagers viewed them both with the same suspicion.

  Sarah put out her cigarette and changed the subject. “Not to be a nosey parker, Bea, but what’s your plan? For Castle Farm, I mean. If you don’t mind my asking, that is.” She shook her head, frowning. “Blast. Now I’ve gone and done the same thing I fault Agnes Llewellyn and Lucy Skead for. Poking my long nose into somebody else’s business.”

  Beatrix’s chuckle became a laugh. One of the things she liked best about Sarah was her straightforwardness. She could be brusque and blunt, but she always spoke her mind. And Beatrix was glad to have someone to talk to about her plans. She certainly couldn’t discuss them back in London, where her mother detested the idea of her owning one farm, much less two.

  “I mean to do just what I’ve done with Hill Top,” she replied. “I’ll repair the barns and the outbuildings and fences. And continue to let the farmhouse to Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, as long as they want it. They’ve lived there since the Crabbe sisters moved away, and they’re reliable tenants.” (If you haven’t heard the story of the three Crabbe sisters and why they left Castle Cottage, you can read it in The Tale of Hill Top Farm. If you’ve already read it, you might be interested to know that although Miss Myrtle Crabbe has died, Miss Pansy and Miss Viola continue to live happily in Bournemouth, where their musical and dramatic contributions to Bournemouth Cultural Association are much appreciated, and where they keep a very fine garden.)

  “What about the farmland?” Sarah asked. “Will you keep it?”

  “Why, of course,” Beatrix said, surprised at the question. “Mr. Jennings is going to manage the Castle fields, as well as Hill Top. In the spring, we’ll put sheep in the pastures and lay on some new drains. And as far as Hill Top itself is concerned,” she added, looking around proudly, “both the house and the land are to stay just as they are—forever, if I can manage it. I want it never to change, not in the slightest.” Her blue eyes twinkled. “So there. If people ask, that’s what you may tell them. Everything here is to stay just as it is, forever. Do you suppose that will be enough to satisfy everyone’s curiosity?”

  “I very much doubt it,” Sarah said, with an answering smile. “But on the whole I imagine it will have to do.” A few of the villagers had never given up hope that Miss Potter would marry Captain Woodcock and turn over the running of her farms to him, so they could be properly managed, which of course was impossible for a woman. She sobered, thinking of something. “I don’t suppose Castle Farm includes the land around Moss Eccles, does it?”

  Beatrix shook her head regretfully. Moss Eccles was the small tarn lake above the village, home to some quite remarkable brown trout and some equally remarkable frogs. She loved the lake. There was something mysterious about it, as if secrets lurked in the depths of the dark water or whispered with the breeze that blew through the surrounding trees. She went there as often as she could and stayed as long as she dared, often well past sundown.

  “I wish it were a part of the farm,” she replied. “It’s lovely up there, and I’m always afraid that someone is going to come along and do something to spoil the lake.” She sipped her coffee. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because that’s where Mr. Wickstead died. Injured somewhere near Moss Eccles, one evening last week.”

  “Mr. Wickstead is dead?” Beatrix set down her coffee cup with a clatter. “Good heavens! I was hoping to see him during this visit. Oh, dear, oh, dear, I’m so sorry to hear that he’s died!” She frowned. “Near the lake, you say? It was an accident?”

  “So I’ve heard. The inquest is scheduled for this morning. Of course, it may be postponed because of the snow. And Mr. Skead is already complaining about having to dig the grave. Can’t say I blame him, but it has to be done, of course.” Sarah raised both eyebrows. “You knew Mr. Wickstead, then?”

  Beatrix nodded. “My father and he became acquainted some years ago, when we were on holiday at Lakeside. Father heard that Mr. Wickstead had a fine collection of Roman antiquities, and we were invited to Briar Bank House to see them. Father photographed the collection and I sketched a few of the pieces—rather nice ones, I must say.” She chuckled. “Oh, and just last year, I used his fox terrier, Pickles, as a model for the drawings in Ginger and Pickles.”

  “Mr. Wickstead was an eccentric old fellow, I’ve heard,” Sarah said reflectively.

  “I didn’t find him eccentric at all,” Beatrix replied, “although he certainly held some decided views. And he isn’t—wasn’t—all that old, certainly not so old as my father. I thought him rather nice, and very expert in his field.” She frowned. “How did he die, Sarah? When?”

  “Seems a tree fell on him. Just a few nights ago, actually—although what he was doing out in the woods at night, I’m sure I don’t know. Roger Dowling was at work on his coffin as I came past the joiner’s shop this morning.” Sarah shook her head. “Always seems so final, doesn’t it? The coffin, I mean.”

  “A tree fell on him!” Beatrix exclaimed, her eyes widening. “How horrible!”

  “Well, the top part of the tree. That’s what I heard, anyway. He’s to be buried tomorrow. A private ceremony, which is just as well, with all this snow.” Sarah leaned forward. “Well, then, since you knew Mr. Wickstead, perhaps you can tell me whether it’s true about his treasure. The village is all agog, of course. They say it’s worth a king’s ransom. Some are speculating that he was killed for it. The rest are saying it must have been the curse.”

  “Treasure?” Beatrix asked blankly. “What treasure? What curse?”

  “So you don’t know, then,” Sarah replied with a disappointed sigh. She settled back in her chair. “Well, it seems that Mr. Wickstead discovered a treasure trove last spring. Nobody knows much about it because he kept it a deep, dark secret, but of course everybody has an opinion. They all think that anybody who digs up a treasure is—” She lowered her voice with ominous exaggeration. “Cursed.”

  “A real treasure?” Beatrix said doubtfully. “Gold and silver, you mean?”

  “That’s what people are saying,” Sarah replied. “Billie Stoker—he works for Mr. Wickstead—said it was a Viking treasure. And according to his sister, it—”

  “His sister?” Beatrix blinked. “Why, for heaven’s sake! I didn’t know Mr
. Wickstead had a sister.” She frowned. “In fact, I distinctly remember his telling me that he was an only child. He was bundled off to an orphanage when his parents died. Near Manchester, it was. I remember, because my mother’s family is from the area.”

  “I’m from Manchester, too,” Sarah reminded her. “And Mr. Wickstead didn’t know he had a sister, either. I’m not quite sure how she managed to locate him—it happened in the middle of last summer, July or August, or thereabouts. At any rate, when he found out who she was, he invited her for a visit and they got along so famously that he invited her to stay. I know about this,” she added, “because Mr. Wickstead had got quite fond of my sticky buns—couldn’t do without them, he said. He asked his sister—Louisa Wickstead, quite a nice lady, she seems—to order them from me. But that was before he died,” she added. “I don’t know if Miss Wickstead will continue the order. I somehow don’t picture her as the sticky-bun sort.”

  “I had better send Miss Wickstead a note of condolence,” Beatrix said thoughtfully. “Is there to be an arval dinner?” The arval was the traditional funeral feast celebrated throughout the Land Between the Lakes. It was customary to invite all who had known the deceased.

  “Miss Wickstead has invited everyone to Briar Bank House after the private burial, which is tomorrow morning. So there’s to be a luncheon. Rather like an arval, only at midday, instead of evening, since it’s winter. I’m sure you’d be welcome.”

  “Do you mean to go?” Beatrix asked. She was shy in large groups, but she felt it would be important to pay her sympathies to Miss Wickstead. It was sad to think that her brother had died, and under such circumstances, too—alone and lonely, in the woods beside the lake.

  Sarah nodded. “I’m baking some tea cakes and the arval bread.” These were sweet loaves spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg and filled with raisins that were given to people to take home. She paused. “If you’re going, Bea, maybe you’d give me a lift. I’ll have boxes and baskets and things, and I’ve been wondering how I’m going to get it all there.”

  “Of course,” Beatrix said promptly. She nodded at the guinea pigs. “Since Tidmarsh Manor is on the way, we could stop there and leave those little fellows with Caroline.”

  “How wonderful!” cried Nutmeg excitedly. “Did you hear that, Thackeray? Tomorrow we get to meet Thruppence and Tuppenny!”

  “Maybe it will snow again,” Thackeray said grumpily. “Maybe it will snow and snow and keep on snowing. In fact, I think I should like that very much.” He turned around so that his back was to her and raised his scrap of newspaper. “I can sit right here and read.”

  “Well!” Nutmeg sniffed. “I’m glad you’re not in charge of the weather, then. Really, Thackeray, you simply must learn to accept what you cannot change. If not, you are going to be unhappy your whole life long.”

  “What I cannot accept is this constant chatter,” Thackeray said darkly. “Pray be quiet, and let me read.”

  “On second thought, we’ll take the sleigh,” Beatrix said. “It’s larger than the pony cart, and Briar Bank Lane is rather steep. Of course, if there’s more snow, the luncheon will probably be postponed.”

  “We’ll know by tomorrow morning.” Sarah pushed her chair back. “I’d better be on my way. Today’s baking is extra large. If I don’t get started, I’ll be up until midnight.”

  “Thank you for coming,” Beatrix said, getting up. “And for bringing breakfast. You’ve got my day off to a good start.”

  After Sarah had gone, Beatrix gathered up the breakfast things. She still felt saddened at the thought of Mr. Wickstead’s dying in the woods all alone, but she put it aside and, as she did the washing up, made a mental list of all she wanted to do that day. She would check to see how the animals were faring, and walk up to Castle Farm to have a look at the barn repairs. Oh, and she had better ask Mr. Jennings to hitch Winston to the sleigh early tomorrow afternoon, so she and Sarah could go out. With a wry smile, she thought of her mother, who was no doubt still in bed, with another dull London day ahead of her. Here at the farm, there were no dull days.

  Now, since we have listened in on the conversation between Miss Potter and Sarah Barwick and learnt about Sarah’s feelings for Mr. Heelis and the plan for tomorrow’s visit to Briar Bank House, perhaps you are thinking that it is time we went over to Courier Cottage to find out about the letter that the Kendal Bank has sent to Mr. Sutton, the village’s beloved veterinarian.

  But we shall have to put off that visit for just a little while longer. Our attention is required elsewhere at the moment, in the snowy fells beyond the village, across the narrow valley of Wilfin Beck and beyond Tidmarsh Manor, at the very edge of Cuckoo Brow Wood. (It is a good thing that we don’t require the services of Winston the pony, for I fear he would find the journey rather hard, with snow to his withers and the lane frozen and cold.) Our destination is the rocky rise called Holly How (how is the Lakelanders’ word for hill), the home of a certain worthy badger of our acquaintance. A substantial fellow with gleaming white stripes on his handsome black head, he has come out onto his front porch to have a look at the drifted snow and make a note of exactly how deep it is, for the record.

  5

  Bosworth Badger Is Surprised

  “How extraordinary!” exclaimed Bosworth Badger, looking out westward across the snow-covered meadow to the white fells beyond, then turning to look to the east, where the snow-covered trees of Cuckoo Brow Wood rose to the top of Claife Heights. “Why, bless my stripes, what a snowstorm we’ve had!”

  He took three steps to the right to peer at a measuring stick, only an inch or two of which could be glimpsed above the snow. “And not one of those namby-pamby sparkly sprinklings, gone in five minutes when the sun shines on it.” He brushed the snow away from the top mark on the stick. “Thirty-three inches. A record-breaker, I don’t doubt. I must make a note of it.”

  Now, a badger who was younger and more adventurous than Bosworth—young Thorn, for example, who loved nothing better than a ramble over the wild fells—might have packed up some sandwiches and gingerbread, strapped on snowshoes, and taken himself off to explore the silver-threaded valley of Wilfin Beck and the snow-drifted hills beyond. In fact, young Thorn had done just that early this morning, leaving behind him a trail of snowshoe tracks that descended from the porch, zigzagged down the steep side of Holly How, and disappeared into the snowy distance, in the direction of Moss Eccles Lake.

  But Bosworth Badger XVII was by nature an armchair adventurer who preferred to read about the wide world in books, settled in safety and security well underground, in front of a cozy fire. As well, he had in recent years attained a rather sizable girth, which made him even more reluctant to indulge in strenuous exercise—and of course, the less exercise he took, the more sizable became his girth.

  As a consequence, unless he had some specific business that required him to be out and about, Bosworth was fully content to remain indoors and underground, where the weather was always perfectly perfect day in, day out, the full year round. He fully agreed with a cousin, Badger of the Wild Wood, who asserted that underground life was the very best life imaginable: “No builders, no tradesmen, no remarks passed on you by fellows looking over your wall, and, above all, no weather.”

  So this morning, having completed his scientific measurement of the depth of the snowfall, Bosworth turned away from the vast white chilliness of the out-of-doors to go inside. (It is unfortunate that he didn’t linger a little longer, or look to the south, over the edge of the hill. If he had, he might have seen Lady Longford’s barn blazing merrily away, having been struck by an unidentified flaming object that plunged out of the sky an hour or so earlier.) But he didn’t, and hence will not be informed about the barn until later. He merely turned and stepped back into the grateful warmth and comfort of The Brockery Inn, of which he was the proud proprietor.

  I am sure that you must have heard of this inn, for it is among the best known of all the animal hostelries in England, its reput
ation extending from the northern reaches of Scotland to the Great Wild Wood in the South. The Brockery (its name is derived from the Celtic word broc, or badger) is located in what is reputed to be the oldest continually occupied badger sett—or badger burrow, or badger earth, or even badger den—in all of northwestern England. (As we shall see as our story unfolds, however, this may not be an accurate description.)

  Through decades and even centuries, this sett was excavated by generations of badgers, who dug out their burrows and chambers inch by tedious inch, piling the dirt teacup by tiresome teacup on large mounds outside the door. (Outside, that is, of the nearest door. A badger sett has a great many doors, for in the event of an invasion, an exit is a great convenience.) The Brockery is made up of at least a mile, perhaps more, of tunnels and chambers and corridors and passageways, all offering seclusion and security underground, safe from the terrors of wide fields, empty horizons, open skies, and men with guns and dogs.

  At the time of our story, five badgers made The Brockery their home: Primrose, her daughter Hyacinth, and her son Thorn; Parsley, the cook-housekeeper; and Bosworth himself. In permanent residence with them were Flotsam and Jetsam, the twin rabbits who helped with the cooking and cleaning, and old Felix, a blind ferret who served as odd-jobs animal. Frequent visitors were a pair of young hedgehogs who lived nearby and were especially partial to Parsley’s mushroom pie, and Tuppence, a guinea pig who lived with Miss Caroline Longford at Tidmarsh Manor, not far away and visible from The Brockery’s front porch. (Tuppence had devised a clever means of escaping from his cage and climbed the hill every once in a while, just to say hello.)

  In addition, The Brockery offered a refuge to travelers passing through on their way to somewhere else, or those seeking refuge from a storm, as in the case of the trio of circus rats who had arrived the previous afternoon, wet through and in danger of losing their tails to frostbite. Most guests paid for their lodging in kind, with services or food or even entertainment, like the juggling act that the rats had put on after dinner. But Bosworth understood the obligations of a host, and offered refuge and comfort even to animals whose pockets were empty. In this, he was observing the Third Badger Rule of Thumb (generally thought of as the Aiding and Abetting Rule): One must be as helpful to others as one can, for one never knows when one might require help oneself.