The Tale of Briar Bank

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Beatrix gave her a long look. “I must ask you, Deirdre. Do Mr. and Mrs. Sutton know you’re doing this?”

  Mutely, Deirdre shook her head. “I didn’t—I couldn’t—” Her eyes suddenly filled with tears, and Beatrix thought she looked close to despair. “Mr. Sutton is out in the countryside somewhere, and may not be back for several days. Mrs. Sutton was too upset even to read the letter from the bank. She’s lying down right now with a sick headache. I told her I was coming to see you. But I didn’t tell her why.”

  “I see,” Beatrix said.

  Deirdre swallowed, trying to smile. “It’s not their faults, really. Mr. Sutton is a considerate man and a good doctor who thinks of nothing else but his work. And Mrs. Sutton does the very best she can. She has sent out several very kind letters. But I have the idea that she thinks asking for money is common, and perhaps her letters aren’t strong enough. People just don’t pay!”

  Beatrix understood. Mr. Sutton was a very fine veterinary surgeon. She would give over any of her animals to his care without question. But when his work was done, he did not always leave a bill—and when he did, one could not be sure that he had included all the things that should be paid for. And Mrs. Sutton, who managed the accounts, had always struck her as being . . . well, disorganized, to put it kindly. Neither of them was a very good businessperson.

  Allowing people to go on credit was obliging but unwise, in Beatrix’s view. In fact, one of the housemaids at Bolton Gardens had gotten into a very awkward fix over boots and bonnets on credit, which was where the idea for the plot of Ginger and Pickles had come from. In the book, the dog and cat who ran the village shop extended so much credit to their customers that they were ruined. And now the Suttons! It seemed like an ironic coincidence, but perhaps this sort of thing happened more often than she guessed.

  “You have a brave idea, Deirdre,” Beatrix said at last. “And you are a splendid, stout-hearted girl to think of it.” Deirdre was like St. George, always ready to confront the dragon. “But money is such a . . . a delicate matter. When Mr. Sutton learns that you have gone round the village, asking people to—”

  “Asking people for what?” Deirdre exclaimed heatedly. She put her hand into her pinafore pocket and took out a piece of folded paper. “Here’s the list I made of people who are owing. Is it so awf’lly wrong to ask them to pay what they owe?”

  Beatrix frowned. “No, of course not. They ought to pay. They must pay. But Mr. Sutton may be very annoyed when he finds out that you—”

  “Yes, I’m sure he will,” Deirdre said stoutly. “He will say I shouldn’t have done this, and he may even turn me out of my place.” Her voice rose. “But don’t you see, Miss Potter? If I don’t do this, the cottage will be foreclosed. Mrs. Sutton and the children will be sent to the workhouse at Ulverston, and then I’ll be out of a place anyway.”

  “I really don’t think it will come to that,” Beatrix began, and then stopped. How could she be sure? Banks were enormously powerful, and they didn’t worry about whether collecting money was “common” or not. If money was owed, it was owed, and that was that. What’s more, they had solicitors and judges on their side, and the police. They could do almost anything they pleased, and there was almost no way to stop them.

  Beatrix took a deep breath. She hated asking for money. It seemed such a mean, vulgar thing. But even as she thought the word, she remembered her mother using it to describe what Norman did for a living, which was really only good, honest work. And she remembered how hard it was for her when she didn’t receive her royalty checks on time, and how very difficult it was to ask for the money that was owed her. She could understand the Suttons’ dilemma. Mr. Sutton had done honest work and should be paid and that was that.

  “Perhaps I can help, Deirdre,” she said. “But only on condition that you postpone talking to others until we see what I am able to do.” Beatrix knew the villagers well enough to know that they would never listen to the pleas of a young person, especially one they knew as well as they knew Deirdre and whom they considered nothing more than a servant in the Sutton household.

  “Postpone it?” Deirdre looked uncertain. “Well, if you think—” She stopped. And then, frank and straightforward as always, she said, scowling, “It’s because I’m not a grownup, isn’t it? And because it looks like begging.”

  Matching honesty with honesty, Beatrix said, “Yes to both, Deirdre. But please don’t take it to heart, my dear. You’ve already done the hardest part—making the list. If you wouldn’t mind my giving you a hand, I’d be glad to see what I can do. I’m not sure what that will be,” she added hastily, not wanting Deirdre to get her hopes up. “But I’m willing to try.”

  “Of course I’d be glad if you’d help,” Deirdre said promptly.

  “Then let me see the list.”

  Deirdre put it on the table. “We can mark off your name,” she said. She drew a line through it.

  Beatrix’s eyes widened as she scanned the list. She recognized every name on it—most of the villagers, actually—and knew that all but one or two could pay what they owed. It might be a squeeze, with Christmas coming up and every shilling spoken for. But once they understood the importance, they would do it.

  “I can help by starting here,” she said, and put a mark beside one of the names. “If this person pays up, I think the rest will follow suit.”

  Deirdre frowned. “You’re starting at the hardest place,” she said. “ ‘A perfect dragon of parsimony’ is what Mrs. Sutton calls her.”

  “ ‘A perfect dragon of parsimony.’ ” Beatrix smiled, a very small smile. “I think that’s exactly the right description, Deirdre.”

  The name Beatrix had marked was that of Lady Longford.

  10

  The Inquest: Act One

  Captain Woodcock’s fear that the jurors would not be able to make it through the snow was unfounded. It was exactly as the doctor had said: this was simply too interesting an event to miss, no matter how deep the snow or how biting the wind. And it wasn’t just the jurors who came, either. The pub was packed so full that not another spectator could have found a place, and the room reeked with the powerful scents of tobacco, onions, garlic, wet wool, and unwashed bodies. In fact, if you and I had been there, I am sure we would have opened a window to bring in a breath of fresher air.

  Most of the men were villagers whose names and faces are familiar to us: George Crook, Roger Dowling, Mr. Llewellyn, Mr. Wilson from Castle Cottage, and Joseph Skead, the St. Peter’s sexton, among many others. Several strangers had joined the crowd, as well, probably wondering what this was all about. Sven Knutson, the stout blond gentleman who had arrived at the Arms that morning, stood with his shoulder against the wall, smoking a fat cigar and watching the group attentively. Another inn guest, an elegant man in green tweeds with a long pointed nose and reddish moustache—Nicholas Smythe-Jones was his name—was pressed into a far corner, holding a white linen handkerchief to his mouth as if the odor was overwhelming (it probably was). Mr. Joseph Adams, the photographer who had taken a room with the Crooks at Belle Green, could be identified by the camera he carried. A very tall, very thin man with gray side-whiskers, he seemed to think the interior of the pub and the gathering itself was picturesque, a nice bit of local color. He walked around the room, taking the occasional photo, until everyone grew so accustomed to his camera that they scarcely noticed it.

  There was a noticeable buzz when the deceased’s sister, veiled in black, entered the room through the kitchen door on the arm of Dr. Butters, who had waited outside until she arrived. She took a seat behind the bar, where she was hidden from the gaze of the curious—except for the photographer, for whom she reluctantly removed her veil, managing a small smile. There was an even louder buzz when the captain came in and took a seat in front of the fireplace.

  Constable Braithwaite, serving as bailiff, raised his voice over the general hubbub. “Oyez, oyez, oyez! Ye good men of this district are summoned to appear here this day to inqui
re for His Sovereign Majesty the King when, how, and by what means Hugh Wickstead, of Briar Bank Farm, came to his death.”

  By the time he finished, the room had fallen so still that the boards of the floor could be heard creaking as the audience shifted from one foot to the other. The jurors were solemnly sworn and took their seats in front of the dart board. Everyone watched expectantly as Captain Woodcock, in his capacity as Justice of the Peace, called the inquest to order and summoned the first witness.

  This proved to be Mr. Wickstead’s gardener, Billie Stoker, a short, wiry man with a full black beard, who gave the camera a gap-toothed smile as the constable swore him in. He testified that he and his brother Gerald had found their employer lying under the fallen tree, a large yew that had snapped completely off. Asked how they had managed to find him, he replied simply, “T’ dog fetched us. ’Twas black night. Wi’out t’ dog, we’d nivver ’uv found ’im. Smart ’un, he is. Verra smart.”

  “The dog,” the captain said. “That would be—”

  “That’ud be Pickles,” Billie Stoker replied. He looked around. “Where’s Pickles? Anybody seen Pickles?”

  “Here!” cried Pickles, lost amid a forest of legs.

  “Here’s Pickles,” said Lester Barrow. He bent over, picked up the brown-and-white fox terrier, and put him up on the bar.

  “Aye, that’s Pickles,” Billie Stoker said authoritatively. “Mr. Wickstead allus took ’im when he went out. This time, t’ dog come back alone, wi’ Mr. Wickstead’s wool cap in his mouth, and we had t’ idea that somethin’ was wrong.”

  “Wrong!” Pickles barked affirmatively. “Of course it was wrong!”

  The captain raised his voice. “So the dog took you to the place where Mr. Wickstead was injured?”

  “Aye, he did, pitch black though it were.” Billie Stoker grinned. “Real smart dog, that ’un. You can ask him if you doan’t believe me.”

  Pickles bounced up and down on the bar, stiff-legged. “I’d be glad to testify. I have something very important to say.”

  “I believe I shall forgo questioning the dog,” the captain said in a dry tone. “Now, Mr. Stoker, you say that you and your brother—”

  “Wait!” Pickles cried desperately. “If you don’t ask me to testify, you’ll never find out what really happened! You see, I was there! I was the ONLY one there. I saw it with my very own eyes!”

  “Hey, Cap’n!” called Henry Stubbs, who should have been minding the ferry, except that it was out of commission. “T’ pup’s got sommat to say, he does. Better hear ’im out!”

  “That’s right!” cried Pickles, now standing up on his hind legs and lifting one front leg high in the air, like an eager scholar who wants to be called on. “I’m the only one who—!”

  “Put that dog out, Lester,” the captain commanded. “There’s enough commotion in here already.” He glared at Henry Stubbs. “This is a court of law. Be quiet, Henry, or I’ll hold you in contempt.”

  “No, no!” Pickles shouted. “You have to listen!” He tried to avoid Lester Barrow by jumping off the bar. Unfortunately, he landed with a CRASH! on a stack of china crockery, knocking it to the floor.

  “Come ’ere, dog,” growled the innkeeper. Capturing Pickles, he put him out the back door, while the crowd laughed, the captain shouted for order, and Henry Stubbs hung his head.

  When quiet had been restored, the captain resumed his questioning. “Now, Mr. Stoker. You say that you and your brother carried Mr. Wickstead home. He was alive at the time?”

  “Aye, that he was, but barely. He had no chance, I’m sorry to say. He died in his bed, like a proper gentl’man.”

  “Did he say anything before he died? Give any indication how the accident happened?”

  “No, sir. None, sir.” Billie Stoker was emphatic. “Didn’t say a single, solitary word, sir.” He frowned. “’Tis a girt puzzle, sir, if thi doan’t mind me sayin’. There was no wind that night, see, sir? ’Twas calm as calm could be. T’ tree had no call to break off and come down on poor Mr. Wickstead’s head.”

  “I see,” the captain said, frowning. “And where, exactly, did this event take place, Mr. Stoker?”

  “On t’ end o’ Briar Bank, sir. Just west o’ t’ lake. Moss Eccles, that be.”

  “And what was Mr. Wickstead doing at the spot, if you know?”

  Billie Stoker scratched his head. “Diggin’ out a badger, was what I guessed,” he replied, but doubtfully. “He had a shovel.”

  “You’re not sure that he was digging out a badger?” the captain pressed.

  Billie pursed his lips. “Well, he weren’t eggsactly t’ badger-diggin’ sort, now, was he? And it was dark night, pure dark, wi’out a moon. Folk ’oo dig badgers gen’rally dig ’em in t’ day, so they can see what they’re doin’.” He shook his head. “Diggin’ badgers at night. Doan’t seem right, not at all.”

  As the captain dismissed Billie Stoker, he also had to admit, but privately, to being deeply puzzled as to what Hugh Wickstead had been doing at Briar Bank on a dark, cold night. Many men in the village dug badgers for fun and profit, but Wickstead had never been among them. And Billie was right: badgers were dug in the daytime. It was odd.

  Next to testify was Billie Stoker’s brother, Gerald, who confirmed everything that Billie had said, adding only that they conveyed Mr. Wickstead home in a wagon, poor chap, pulled by Gerald’s pony Rupert. Then Miss Wickstead had sent Gerald to fetch the constable from the village and the doctor from Hawkshead, so it had been nearly dawn by the time Gerald returned to his own fireside and had a bowl of porridge. After that—

  “Thank you, Mr. Stoker,” the captain said, and called Constable Braithwaite.

  The constable testified that he had been summoned to investigate the scene. He had done so, and now gave his opinion that Mr. Wickstead had been killed when the top thirty feet of a fifty-foot yew had snapped off and fallen on him. As to how the tree came to fall on a calm night, he could not hazard a guess.

  Constable Braithwaite was uncomfortably aware of the three photographs in his pocket and was relieved when the captain excused him without asking to see them. The claw marks on the tree could have nothing to do with Mr. Wickstead’s accident, and were better left out of the legal business. Which did not mean that he himself wasn’t interested. He was. He had gone back up to the scene of the accident twice, trying to figure out just what it was that had left those marks—and the odd scorch, which looked rather like the mark of a lightning bolt. As soon as the snow permitted, he hoped to get Captain Woodcock to go up there with him and have a look. Odd thing, too: the second time he went back, he found another man at the scene, also taking photographs. In fact, the man himself was in the pub—that is, the courtroom—at this very moment, taking pictures. Joseph Adams, he was, some kind of famous photographer, lodging with the Crooks at Belle Green. Said he was out taking photos of Moss Eccles Lake, which was quite beautiful, frozen right the way across now, and deep with snow. Made for good photographs, the constable had no doubt.

  The final witness was Dr. Butters, who testified to the nature of the injury to the victim’s head (“a fracture of the skull,” he said), which was so severe that it was unlikely that any man, no matter how young or how old, might have survived. The doctor also expressed the opinion that this injury was the sole cause of death, inflicted by no other weapon than the tree (if the tree could be called a weapon). The doctor did not mention the photographs, either, since the captain was in charge of the inquest, and if Woodcock didn’t want to see them introduced, why, that was the end of it—although the doctor, like the constable, confessed to being abominably curious about those marks.

  At the captain’s instruction, the jurors retired to the pub’s kitchen to discuss the testimony and the evidence and drink a cup of tea. They returned in fifteen minutes to render their verdict. It was their unanimous opinion that the unlucky Mr. Hugh Wickstead had died by accident, having been struck down and crushed by a falling tree.

  The captai
n thanked the jurors for their service.

  Mr. Wickstead’s sister tearfully thanked the captain for his conduct of the inquest and departed by the kitchen door.

  Lester Barrow opened the bar, and the whole thirsty audience thankfully crowded round for their half-pints—a gratifying conclusion to an entirely satisfactory event.

  Scarcely anyone noticed Mr. Joseph Adams taking a photograph or two as the men reached for their mugs, and then venturing outside to take one or two more of the departing Miss Wickstead.

  11

  The Inquest: Act Two

  Rascal, George Crook’s fawn-colored terrier, crept out from under the kitchen table where he had been listening to the jurors discuss their verdict. He followed Miss Wickstead through the kitchen door and watched while Mr. Knutson—the stoutish blond gentleman who had arrived that morning in Jerry’s charabanc—strode up and said something to her. (Personally, I am rather sorry that Rascal was not curious enough about this conversational exchange to eavesdrop. Had he gone just a little closer and listened a little harder, you and I might have learned something rather important to our story. But he wasn’t and he didn’t, so we shall have to wait a while longer to find out whether the gentleman was offering his condolences, or flirting with a pretty woman, or something else altogether.)

  When the bereaved sister had climbed into a sleigh and was driven off by Billie Stoker, Rascal trotted out to the small stone-built storage shed, where the other animals were waiting to hear the news.

  “Is the inquest over?” Tabitha Twitchit cried eagerly, jumping down from the large overturned flower pot where she’d been sitting. “What was the verdict?”

  “Accidental death,” Rascal reported. “Struck down by a falling tree. No surprise there, I suppose.”

  “If the jury had heard my story, their ruling might have been different,” Pickles muttered darkly. “Captain Woodcock should have called me as a witness.”