“It’s what comes of giving credit,” Tabitha Twitchit said darkly. “If you allow it, people will only take advantage.” Tabitha had long been of this opinion, and was gratified when Miss Potter pictured her in Ginger and Pickles as a shopkeeper who refused to give credit. Very right, she thought.
Mrs. Sutton opened her eyes wide and pounded her small fist on the papers in front of her. “Just look at all these unpaid accounts!” she cried. “Dozens of them. People just won’t pay!” But Deirdre couldn’t have looked, even if she had wanted to, for Mrs. Sutton had swept her arm wildly across the desk, sending all the papers flying.
Deirdre bit her lip. She wished she could say something to comfort Mrs. Sutton, who was a loving person at heart, even if she was a bit harum-scarum when it came to accounts. At last she managed, “If there’s anything I can do—”
“Do? Do?” Mrs. Sutton cried, tearing at her hair so that all the pins popped out and fell onto the floor. “Why, bless you, dear, dear Deirdre, what in the world can you do? What can anyone do, if people won’t pay what they owe? Dear Mr. Sutton works so hard taking care of everyone’s animals—he’s almost never home for meals, you know, and gets up in the middle of the night or at the weekend and goes wherever he is summoned, no matter the weather or the state of his health. I worry about him out there in the rain and snow and fog, I really do.”
And with that, she stopped tearing at her hair, which was by now quite loose and disheveled, and began to weep as though her heart would break.
“I should have thought,” Tabitha remarked sadly, “that Mr. Sutton would be making quite a lot of money. There are always so many patients lined up outside the surgery door.” This was true, too. He never failed to treat every sick and injured animal carefully and compassionately, and people left giving grateful thanks for the doctor’s expert attention.
The trouble was, though, that they almost always left without paying their bills. Instead, Mrs. Sutton wrote down the amount that they owed in the large black leather account book that she kept on the desk. At the end of every month, she sent them a very nice letter with the bill enclosed, politely requesting payment. Sometimes people sent a little money in reply, sometimes they sent a little more, but almost never did they send all they owed.
“It’s not a matter of their not having money, you know,” Mrs. Sutton said bitterly, gulping back the tears. “The men have money to go to the pub, and the women have money for new hats or teakettles or whatever else they want to buy. And there are people—Lady Longford and Major Kittredge, for instance—who have plenty of money. They could pay, if only they would.” She took out a pocket handkerchief and blew her nose. “If only they would,” she added hopelessly.
Not knowing what to say, Deirdre got down on her hands and knees and began picking up the scattered papers. She stood, put them on the desk, and said, “These have got all muddled, I’m afraid. Why don’t you let Mrs. Pettigrew fix you a nice cup of tea whilst I sort them out? I could make a list of the accounts that are owing, if you like. That way, we can see where we are.”
“I don’t understand how seeing where we are will pay the bank its mortgage-money,” Mrs. Sutton said gloomily. “But a cup of tea would be nice.” She wiped her eyes and began pinning up her hair. “I’m sorry about scattering the papers. You’re sure you won’t mind sorting them, dear?”
“Not at all,” Deirdre said with a smile. “I’ll have it all done by the time you’ve finished your tea.” She could say this with confidence because she knew that Mrs. Sutton always dawdled over her tea, taking time to help Libby turn the heel in the stocking she was knitting or read a story to one of the smaller Suttons.
Of course, as I’m sure you’ve already guessed, Deirdre had a reason for making the offer, for it had occurred to her that perhaps there might be a way to collect the money. But first she had to see how much was owed and by whom.
Tabitha Twitchit jumped up on the desk. “I’ll be glad to help,” she offered. “Miss Tolliver always let me lend a paw with her accounts.”
Deirdre chuckled. Cats had a way of getting right under your nose when you were working—especially this one, who always seemed to have an opinion about how things should be done. But Tabitha was such an old dear—and a great mouser—that Deirdre didn’t mind.
“I’ll tell you what, Tabitha,” she said, taking the cushion off the chair and putting it on the far corner of the desk. “Why don’t you just curl up on this cushion? That way, you can supervise what I’m doing, and if you get tired, you can take a little catnap.”
“That’s a very good idea,” said Tabitha, and jumped onto the cushion, where she curled herself into a ball. “I must say again, however, that giving credit is simply bad business. When I was mousing at Belle Green, I often heard Mr. and Mrs. Crook discussing the matter. Mr. Crook refuses to give credit at his smithy. And so does Mr. Dowling, at the joinery, and Mrs. Dowling, at the village shop. I simply do not see why Mr. Sutton should—”
“Hush, Tabitha,” Deirdre said sternly. “I can’t work with you meowing.”
Tabitha yawned, showing pointed white teeth and a pink tongue. “It’s time for my nap, anyway,” she said. She tucked her nose under her tail, closed her eyes, and fell fast asleep.
For the next half hour, Deirdre worked at sorting the bills into various piles, depending on how long the account had been overdue: some just a month or two, others for several months, some for a year or longer. Then she put everything into one large pile, the oldest accounts on top, and made a list of who owed how much, for how long. And then she went from the top to the bottom, adding the amounts.
When she was finished, she stared at the total with stunned disbelief. Twenty-one people owed Mr. Sutton the grand total of twenty-five pounds, three shillings, tuppence.
Twenty-five pounds! Deirdre swallowed, hard. It was an enormous amount of money, a vast amount of money, more money than she could possibly imagine. Why, twenty-five pounds would pay the salary of a day-laborer for six whole months. Twenty-five pounds would buy a whole lorry-load of books, or boots, or enough food to feed a family for a year.
It might even be enough to pay the Suttons’ mortgage payment and satisfy the Kendal Bank.
Then Deirdre did something she knew was wrong—but she felt she had a very good reason, so she did it anyway. (As you may have already guessed, Deirdre is the sort of person who lives by her own personal rules, although I have to say that her rules, by and large, are as fair and reasonable as we might wish, and she tries not to take advantage.) She picked up the envelope that Mrs. Sutton had already opened, took out the typewritten letter from the bank, unfolded it, and began to read.
Dear Mr. Sutton,
We regret to inform you that no further delay can be permitted in the matter of the repayment of the mortgage on Courier Cottage, in the village of Near Sawrey, which is held by this bank. Pursuant to the terms of the contract, the full amount owing must be paid, which is, to wit, twenty-six pounds, seven shillings, and fourpence. If this debt is not fully discharged within fifteen days, we shall be required to foreclose on this property.
Yours with great regret, etc. etc.
MR. Franklin Ferrit
President, The Kendal Bank
Deirdre sucked in a long, shaky breath and leaned back in the chair, feeling utterly defeated. Twenty-six pounds! No wonder Mrs. Sutton hadn’t wanted to open the envelope, since she already knew the amount. And even if all the people who owed Mr. Sutton money paid what they owed—which was not at all likely—it still would not be enough. The bank would foreclose.
Deirdre clenched her fists and closed her eyes, a wave of bleak despair sweeping over her. Foreclosure. The word roared like a dragon. It threatened to swallow up Courier Cottage and spit it out into someone else’s hands. It warned that she would be out of a place and so would Mrs. Pettigrew, and that Mr. Sutton would have nowhere to carry on his veterinary practice. But worst of all, it promised that Mrs. Sutton and the eight little Suttons would have no
beds to sleep in, no kitchen to cook in, and no fire to keep them warm. They would have to throw themselves on the mercy of the parish. They would be sent to the workhouse at Ulverston. The entire family would face ruin, disaster, calamity!
Now, it may seem to you that our Deirdre is making a mountain out of a molehill. Surely (you may be thinking) there is someone with money to whom Mr. and Mrs. Sutton could appeal for help—a well-off family member, say, who (out of pity for the eight homeless little Suttons, if nothing else) would be willing to proffer twenty-six pounds, seven shillings, and fourpence. Or perhaps Mr. Sutton could prevail upon Mr. Ferrit of Kendal Bank (who was surely not so heartless as to turn them out just at Christmas) to relent and extend the mortgage.
But please bear in mind that Deirdre is only fifteen, and though she is remarkably mature and dependable for her age, she certainly does not have as much experience of the wide world as you do. And if you remember that she is an orphan, and that she was once homeless herself and recalls living in the orphanage as vividly as if it were yesterday, I think you will understand why she fears that when the fiendish Mr. Ferrit forecloses on Courier Cottage, Mrs. Sutton and all of the little Suttons will be driven to the workhouse. And if you further consider that Deirdre loves these children as if they were her very own brothers and sisters and that she feels every bit as tenderly responsible for them as a mother would feel, I am sure you will understand why, if the little Suttons must go the workhouse, she will have to go there, too.
Deirdre will do anything in the world to keep that from happening.
Anything.
7
Breakfast at Tower Bank House
If you consult the map of Near Sawrey at the front of this book, you will see that Tower Bank House is on the opposite side of the Kendal Road from the Tower Bank Arms and from Courier Cottage. Built against the side of the hill, it is a largish house and somewhat grand, for it was once the home of the village squire. This gentleman also owned the pub, which was, at the time, called The Blue Pig. Feeling that “The Blue Pig” lacked a certain je ne sais quoi, he renamed it the Tower Bank Arms. The villagers snickered and snorted at this personal conceit (they were perfectly content with The Blue Pig), and everyone else was terribly confused. People who wanted to stay at the Tower Bank Arms found themselves pulling the squire’s bellrope, whilst people who had business at Tower Bank House found themselves having a pint at the pub, which is a good deal easier to find.
But at the time of our story (and for quite some time before that), Tower Bank House has been the home of Captain Miles Woodcock, who—in addition to being retired from His Majesty’s Army—serves as the Justice of the Peace for the Land Between the Lakes. Captain Woodcock is a fine-looking gentleman of just above forty years, a lover of fine food, fine wine, and fox hunting, and (ordinarily) a man of a mild and even disposition.
On this snowy morning, however, Captain Woodcock was not in the best of tempers. In the previous year, his sister Dimity had married Christopher Kittredge and gone to live at Raven Hall. For a while, the captain had fancied—indeed, he had even hoped (which is to say planned)—that Miss Potter might become his wife. The villagers agreed that this was a Very Good Idea, for various reasons. The women thought that the captain wanted looking after, and that it was quite right for Miss Potter to take on that task. The men thought that Hill Top Farm wanted looking after, and that it was quite right for Miss Potter to hand over its management to a man. In fact, if the villagers had had their way, the captain and Miss Potter would likely be married by now. But the lady was utterly devoted to the memory of her deceased fiancé, and whilst the captain certainly had his regrets (the longer he knew Miss Potter, the more he admired her), he was a practical man. There was nothing he could do to move her, so there was no point in trying.
Of course, Captain Woodcock had to admit that there were certain advantages to being a bachelor. He did not have to adjust his habits to another. He could read until dawn, if he chose, without anyone bidding him to bed. He could hunt and fish and play cards and go on holiday whenever he liked. And his ordinary comforts of meals and laundry were competently seen to by Elsa Grape, who had managed his household since Dimity’s marriage. Elsa was dedicated and reliable, but she had fallen on the ice the previous week and suffered such a serious injury to her knee that Dr. Butters had ordered her to bed. Florence, the girl who usually helped Elsa in the kitchen, now had temporary charge of it. As a consequence of this unfortunate change in household management, the captain’s breakfast had been (to put it bluntly) nothing less than disagreeable.
To begin with, it was late. And when it arrived, the coffee was bitter, the bacon was burnt, the eggs were leathery, the toast was charred. The blame for all of these misadventures the captain laid squarely upon Florence. All this, on a morning when the captain (in his capacity as the Justice of the Peace) was to convene an inquest into the death of his friend, Mr. Hugh Wickstead. Perhaps, he thought morosely, turning from the window, he ought to call it off. Dr. Butters had to drive over from Hawkshead, and with the depth of the drifted snow and the difficulty in travel, the captain doubted that he would be able to make it.
Given these annoyances, perhaps Captain Woodcock may be excused for frowning mightily when Florence set the second plate of burnt toast on the table, just as the front doorbell rang. “I’ll get it myself,” the captain said to Florence. He handed the plate back to her. “Try again. More coffee, too, please. A fresh pot. And do not boil it.”
The caller, to Captain Woodcock’s happy surprise, turned out to be the intrepid Dr. Butters, bundled up against the cold.
“Good morning, Woodcock,” said the doctor, pulling off his gloves. “I hope I’m not too early.”
“Not at all,” the captain said, as the doctor took off his overshoes, hat, and coat, and began to unwrap the various mufflers wound round his neck. “I didn’t expect you to make it. Snow looks devilish deep out there.”
“It is. The roads are completely shut down north and south of Hawkshead,” the doctor replied.
“And the ferry and the steam yacht aren’t operating, I’m told,” the captain said, leading the way to the breakfast room. Mr. Llewellyn had delivered that word just a short while ago, along with the morning’s milk and the news about the mysterious burning of Lady Longford’s barn. “We are effectively isolated from the rest of the civilized world.”
“Not an altogether unhappy proposition,” said the doctor. He was a tall, thin man with a narrow, intelligent face, ginger-gray moustache and hair, and a rather cynical disposition. “There are times when I should much prefer isolation. The rest of the world isn’t always as civilized as one might like.” He went to stand close to the fire, rubbing his hands together.
The captain acknowledged his friend’s characteristically gloomy remark with a smile. “Breakfast?” He indicated the table. “Barely palatable, I’m afraid, but it’s all that’s on offer this morning. As you know, Elsa is flat on her back, which leaves Florence to manage the kitchen.”
At that moment, the unfortunate Florence appeared with a new pot of coffee and a plate of fresh toast, happily unburnt.
The doctor took a chair at the table. “I’ve eaten, but I’ll have something to warm me. Anything will do, as long as it’s hot.” He pulled down his mouth. “If it weren’t for wanting to get this wretched business out of the way, I would’ve stayed at home, close to the fire—until I was called out on an emergency, that is. People have a way of waiting until the weather turns foul before they get sick.”
“I’m not looking forward to the inquest much, myself,” the captain said, pouring coffee. “Wickstead didn’t allow himself many friends. I’m glad to say I was one—which only makes my task that much harder.”
“Indeed,” Dr. Butters said, and began to spread marmalade on toast. “I didn’t know him as well as you, but I, too, counted him a friend.” He sighed. “I just wish I had answers to all the questions. It’s a mystery. A girt mezzlement, as the villagers say.”
The captain looked up sharply. “A mystery? Where’s the mystery? I thought Hugh’s death was fairly straightforward.”
“It was,” said the doctor. “I gather that you haven’t seen the photographs yet.”
“What photographs?” The captain picked up his coffee, took a sip, and made a face. The toast might be improved, but there was no change in the coffee. “I hope you’re not suggesting foul play,” he added grimly, setting down the cup.
The doctor shook his head. “No, not at all. Wickstead died when the top portion of a tree—a yew, I understand—snapped off and struck him on the head, out there in the woods above Moss Eccles Lake. Might’ve lain out there for a week, if the dog hadn’t gone for help. A case of being at the wrong place at the wrong time, I’m afraid—although what he was doing out there at night, I haven’t a clue. Still, it was an accident. I’m comfortable with that.”
Now, if there was anything the captain hated, it was not knowing all that he needed in order to draw a logical conclusion. He was one of those people—you’ve met them, I’m sure—who firmly believes that a logical conclusion can always be drawn from a set of facts, no matter how mezzling the facts might be. And having drawn a conclusion, he firmly believed that it was correct. Given the facts, how could it be otherwise?
“Well, then, what’s this about photographs?” he demanded.
The doctor spoke slowly. “It seems that your constable—good man, John Braithwaite—saw something at the accident scene that piqued his curiosity. So he brought his camera and took pictures of the tree that broke at the top and fell on Wickstead. He had them with him yesterday when I chanced to encounter him in Hawkshead. I expect he hasn’t had time yet to show them to you—given the storm, that is.”
“And?” the captain inquired cautiously, not sure where this was going.
The Tale of Briar Bank Page 8
