The Tale of Briar Bank

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Go home?” Pickles asked mournfully. “I have the feeling that Briar Bank House won’t be my home much longer. Billie Stoker wants me to stay on, but Miss Wickstead’s opposed.” He made a low growling noise in his throat. “She isn’t what she seems to be, Rascal, and that’s a fact. Mr. Wickstead was just getting on to her when he died.”

  “Not what she seems to be?” Rascal asked. “Why, what do you mean?”

  “Well, take that gentleman who saw her out, for instance. The stout fellow with the whiskers.”

  “Mr. Knutson, his name is,” Rascal said. “Arrived here just this morning.”

  Pickles snorted. “He may have come back just this morning. But he was here earlier, for he visited Miss Wickstead just a day or two before her brother died. When Mr. Wickstead had gone to Kendal.”

  “So they’re friends. So what do you make of that?”

  “Miss Wickstead gave all the servants a half-holiday that afternoon—even Billie Stoker, who had already had his half-holiday the week before. She was alone when Mr. Knutson arrived.”

  Rascal raised his eyebrows. “Ah-ha!” he said, in a knowing tone. “It sounds as if they are a little more than friends. Perhaps they just wanted some time alone.” And he gave a broad wink.

  “I don’t believe it’s what you’re thinking,” Pickles replied, shaking his head. “I didn’t see any kissing or hand-holding or any of that—at least, not while I was in the house. Unfortunately, Miss Wickstead put me out not long after her gentleman caller arrived. They—”

  “Scat, you dogs, get out of here!” cried Mrs. Barrow, who had come out to the shed to get some lamp oil, which was stored there. “This ain’t yer place! Go home where you belong!”

  And since Mrs. Barrow obviously meant business, the two dogs ran, Rascal in one direction and Pickles in the other. I am afraid that we shall have to wait until later to find out what Miss Wickstead and Mr. Knutson were up to when they spent the afternoon alone.

  12

  Bailey’s Story: Episode Two

  Did not learned men, too, hold, till within the last twenty-five years, that a flying dragon was an impossible monster? And do we not now know that there are hundreds of them found fossil up and down the world? People call them Pterodactyls: but that is only because they are ashamed to call them flying dragons, after denying so long that flying dragons could not exist.

  Charles Kingsley, The Water Babies

  Mr. Heelis had more than one reason for coming to Sawrey that day. After the inquest, he planned to drop in at Hill Top Farm to discuss a few business matters with Miss Potter, matters having to do with her recent purchase of Castle Farm and some repairs she had commissioned there. In fact, he had been quite pleased when she wrote to tell him that she would be at the farm and would like the opportunity of a conversation.

  I am sorry to tell you, however, that Mr. Heelis was not entirely aware of just how pleased he was at the prospect of seeing Miss Potter again. Indeed, it is fair to say that he, like so many other British men of his time, is not at all conscious of his feelings, especially those that lurk deep at the very bottom of his heart. If we were to peer inside that marvelous organ, we would be likely to find that something is going on of which our Will has only a vague understanding. Yes, he is becoming more aware of the distinct warmth and pleasure he feels when he thinks about Miss Potter—an awareness that has seemed to be growing of late, rather than dwindling. Yes, he finds himself looking forward to her letters and their meetings with an increasing eagerness that surely has little to do with the property business they are transacting. Still, perhaps you will agree with me that it is a pity that he is not more mindful of all that is in his heart.

  Actually, Mr. Heelis has recently had occasion to think rather more often of Miss Potter, for he had helped her purchase Castle Farm—a jolly good thing, in his opinion, since this kept a nice old farm from going to some off-comer who could never appreciate its uniqueness. In Will’s estimation, Miss Potter is a thoughtful, forthright, and very sensible young lady—and quite attractive, too, with those brilliant blue eyes and unruly brown hair. She seems totally indifferent to fashion and prefers country tweeds to city silks. But there is a certain soft charm and old-fashioned shyness about her that he finds unusually appealing, especially in comparison to some of the brasher ladies of his acquaintance. Miss Barwick, for example, with whom the villagers have apparently linked him. Will himself is a very shy man, and when a lady pursues him, he wants to turn and flee in the opposite direction as fast as two feet or a good horse will carry him.

  Miss Potter, of course, is anything but brash, although, beneath her seeming softness, Will has already encountered a shrewd business sense and a determination about as unyielding as a stone wall. Watching her bargain for property and livestock, he has come to suspect that when Miss Potter knows what Miss Potter wants, she does not hesitate to pursue it.

  He smiles when he thinks this, but his smile fades as he remembers (still without any conscious awareness) that Miss Potter gave her heart to the fiancé she lost a few years before, and there is not much chance that she will ever take it back. In addition to her many other fine qualities, she is an extraordinarily loyal person, a quality which he admires but in this case (also quite unconsciously) has every reason to regret.

  Still, as I said, Will Heelis has business with the lady, whatever the state of her heart or his. So the minute the captain dismisses the jurors, Will makes for the door, aiming to take the path to Hill Top Farm, which (as you know if you have visited the village of Near Sawrey) is only a short way up the hill from the Tower Bank Arms. He has just wound his muffler around his neck and is putting his hat on his head when he is accosted by a very serious Constable Braithwaite.

  “I wonder if I might have a word,” the constable says in a low voice. “’Tis about some photographs I took at t’ place where auld man Wickstead met his unfortunate fate. I’d like thi opinion on ’em, Mr. Heelis, sir. I would indeed.”

  “Of course,” Will replies, glad to be reminded of something he had meant to do, anyway. At that moment, the clock strikes, and he is reminded of something else. “Ah, lunchtime, Constable Braithwaite. Will you join me?” And setting aside for the moment his errand at Hill Top Farm (but not forgetting it), Will unwinds his muffler, takes off his hat, and finds a seat at the nearest vacant table.

  This discussion of photographs is likely to occupy Mr. Heelis and Constable Braithwaite for the better part of an hour, for I see that they are ordering a substantial lunch—a hot mutton pie, a half of bitters, and a dish of bread pudding—from Mrs. Lester Barrow. So you and I shall not stand idly by and wait whilst Will examines the photographs and eats his lunch. Instead, we shall take ourselves up to The Brockery, where we may hear something to help us make sense of the puzzling and (dare I say?) incredible dragon tale that Pickles has just offered in sworn testimony at the inquest held by Rascal and the two cats. (I certainly shan’t blame you if you question the veracity of a testimony that is sworn on The Origin of Species. However, you might want to suspend your disbelief until you have heard what Bailey has to say.)

  At the end of Chapter Eight, we left Bailey Badger telling his tale in front of the kitchen fire at The Brockery, with Thorn sprawled on the hearth, Bosworth dozing in his chair, and Parsley pottering about the kitchen. In our absence, however, Bailey’s audience has grown, for Professor Galileo Newton Owl, D.Phil., has dropped in to see how his friends at The Brockery have weathered the winter storm, and whether they might need anything he can fetch for them.

  The professor, a large tawny owl of great age and even greater reputation, lives in a great hollow beech tree at the top of Cuckoo Brow Wood, where it spreads out across Claife Heights before tumbling down the steep eastern slope to Lake Windermere. The owl’s beech may be distinguished from all the other beeches in the woods by a painted notice board posted beside a low wooden door that opens onto a circular stairs within the tree:

  G. N. OWL, D. PHIL.

  OBSR
EVER AT LARJE

  MIND YR HED!

  The door and the stairs, of course, are designed for the convenience of the professor’s earthbound guests, for the owl flies both to his apartments and to his treetop observatory, where he has installed a powerful telescope. Over the years, he has earned international recognition for his extensive scholarship in celestial mechanics, with particular emphasis on navigating by the stars (although as you can see, he’s not much for spelling).

  Now, equipped with a fresh cup of tea, the owl was seated beside Bosworth at the fire. “Whooom,” he said, peering intently at Bailey, “have we here?” He blinked, turning the flat disc of his face from one side to the other for a better look. “Oooh, I see. It is Bailey Badger, of Briar Bank.” He frowned. “What has happened tooo your paw, Bailey?”

  Please do not take this remark as revealing a kindly solicitude. The professor, who spends a great deal of time on the wing above the Land Between the Lakes, prides himself on knowing everything that happens in the village or on farms and fell. He is vexed when he discovers that an event (such as Bailey’s injury) has dared to occur without his knowledge or consent.

  Knowing this, Bosworth hastened to tell how he had come into his kitchen to see Bailey, damp and miserable, sitting beside the fire with his newly bandaged paw. Thorn immediately went on to relate tell how he had found the poor badger struggling to stay afloat in the icy waters of Moss Eccles Lake. And Bailey himself repeated, for the Professor’s edification, a summary of Mr. Wickstead’s discovery of the treasure trove.

  “A quite extraooordinary stooory,” said the owl, much offended at the thought that all this has gone on without his permission. “I dooon’t think I’ve ever heard a stooory quite like it.”

  “I really wish, Bailey,” Bosworth put in, “that you had told me about this remarkable find of Mr. Wickstead’s when it occurred. I should have liked to enter it into the History.”

  “We did hear a rumor,” Thorn reminded him, “from that vole who was passing through.” He glanced at the owl. “He was on his way to his cousin’s house at the top of Cuckoo Brow Wood.”

  “Ah, that one,” the professor said thoughtfully. “Quite a tasty fellooow, albeit a trifle small.”

  While Bosworth and Thorn might not have liked the idea that a recent guest had become a friend’s dinner, they said nothing, remembering the Ninth Rule of Thumb: Animals have different tastes. A respectful badger does not inquire into his friends’ dietary preferences.

  “Voles and rabbits exaggerate to the point where it’s impossible to know whether one is telling the truth,” Bosworth explained to Bailey. “And of course the History is not to be used as a repository of rumor. Had I understood that you were an eyewitness to the discovery of the treasure and could tell me, for the record, exactly where it was found—”

  “But I didn’t want it recorded,” Bailey protested. “I knew that if word got around, people would come with their shovels, and before long, they’d have dug up the whole of Briar Bank.” He buried his face in his paws. “I’d have to find someplace else to live,” he said in a very low voice. “And I am likely to have to do that soon, now that people know where Mr. Wickstead died. They will put two and two together, and come looking for the treasure.” He shuddered.

  If you know anything about badgers, you know how they hate the idea of moving house. Once they are settled, they are settled. And of course this particular badger faces an especially daunting challenge, for what can he do with all those books—chamber after chamber of them, shelved from floor to ceiling? The very thought of moving them made him feel quite faint. (Humans share Bailey’s predicament, for it must be confessed that some of us have too many books altogether and wonder how we are going to find good homes for them when we are no longer able to keep a roof over their heads.)

  “We will dooo all we can,” the professor said gently, “tooo ensure that the Big Folk dooo not find out.”

  Thorn leaned forward. “But now that we know about the treasure, we must know all the rest,” he said urgently. “Please tell us! We promise not to tell a soul.”

  And Bosworth added, “Yes, tell us, Bailey, old chap. What happened next, after the discovery of the treasure?”

  Bailey dropped his paws and settled back in his chair, seemingly reassured. “Nothing happened next,” he replied in a retrospective tone. “At least, not for quite a few months. I was very busy, of course, with a project having to do with the library, and then with—well, I’ll tell you. And of course Mr. Wickstead was killed—”

  “Yes,” the owl said gloomily. “Hit by a falling tree, I was tooold.”

  “A sad event,” Bosworth added. “Very sad.”

  “So you know about that,” Bailey remarked with a sidewise glance. “I thought perhaps you hadn’t heard.”

  “My mother learnt about it when she went to visit my aunt, who lives in the sheep meadow at Hill Top Farm,” said Thorn. He glanced up at the clock. “The inquest was to be held this morning. I wonder if the jury has rendered its verdict yet.” He chuckled wryly. “Everyone in the village seems to blame it on what they call the ‘curse.’ ”

  “How irrational,” grumped the owl. “One never ceases tooo be amazed at the foooolishness of the Big Fooolk.”

  Bailey looked away for a moment, as if he might be trying to decide how much to tell them. At last he said, half under his breath, “I don’t need a jury to tell me how Mr. Wickstead died. I know.”

  “You know?” his audience chorused, in surprised unison.

  “Yes, I know,” Bailey replied matter-of-factly. “But you won’t believe me.”

  Bosworth gave an affectionate laugh. “Of course we’ll believe you, my dear fellow,” he said, in the sort of humoring tone animals use when they are talking to someone who has been recently ill and needs an extra bit of coddling. “Whyever wouldn’t we?”

  Bailey looked into his teacup, as if he were trying to read the scattering of tea leaves at the bottom. There was a long silence. “Because it was a dragon,” he muttered at last.

  “A dragon!” Bosworth and Thorn exclaimed in unison.

  “Dooo tell!” the owl hooted derisively.

  And Parsley (taking a fresh batch of scones out of the oven) stifled a nervous sound that was half-gasp, half-giggle.

  Bailey glared at the four of them. “There. I said you wouldn’t believe me, and you don’t.”

  Uncomfortably, Bosworth cleared his throat. His guest was clearly delusional—quite understandable, really, given all he had been through. “It’s not that we don’t believe you, old chap. Certainly, we believe you, yes, yes, indeed we do. It’s just that—” He coughed. “It’s just that—”

  “It’s just that we are not accustomed tooo dragons,” the owl put in helpfully.

  “The thing is, you see,” Thorn added, “that none of us have ever actually met one.”

  “And since you haven’t met one, my young hero, ergo they do not exist.” Bailey got up from his chair and began to pace back and forth, his paws clasped behind his back. “Now, I call that logic, I do. How about thunder, eh? Has anyone ever seen a thunder? Or a North Pole, or an equator, or—”

  “There’s no record of a dragon in this area,” Bosworth said, recovering himself. “If there were, it would be in the History. But it isn’t,” he added, just to make things perfectly clear.

  Bailey chuckled bitterly. “Oh, it’s there. You just haven’t happened across it. Which is understandable, I suppose, since there are—” He stopped in front of Bosworth. “How many volumes? How far back do they go?”

  “Of the History, two dozen,” Bosworth replied proudly. The devoted industry of the previous keepers of the History was really quite remarkable. All was noted, nothing omitted. He was confident that if there had been dragons in the Land Between the Lakes, there would be dragons in the History. “They go back quite a very, very long time, to the days of the Bonnie Prince. That’s when our branch of the badger clan came from Scotland to settle here.” (If you kno
w your British history, you will remember that Bonnie Prince Charlie came to England, with the idea of seizing the throne, in 1745.)

  “Only two dozen volumes?” Bailey gave a short, sardonic laugh. “And they go back only as far as the Young Pretender? If you’re looking for dragons, that’s not nearly far enough.” He took another turn. “But still—two dozen volumes, with hundreds of pages in each volume. I don’t suppose you should like to claim that you’ve read every paragraph on every page and can therefore declare with absolute certainty that there is no mention of a dragon, living or dead. Or fossilized,” he added. “Don’t forget about fossils.”

  “Well, no, I shouldn’t,” Bosworth confessed. To read the great badger chronicle from the beginning to end, he should have had to give over the greater part of every day to reading, and Bosworth wasn’t that sort of badger. He had other things to look after, such as the running of The Brockery and the well-being of the creatures who depended on him.

  “But a dragon?” Bosworth took a deep breath. “Really, Bailey, old chap, I very much doubt that—”

  “ ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, ’ ” growled Bailey, “ ‘than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ ”

  Thorn glanced around, puzzled, as if he were looking for someone. “Horatio?”

  “A character in a Shakespeare play,” the owl explained professorially. “It’s a quoootation.”

  Bosworth tried again. “Look here, old fellow. I’m not saying there hasn’t been a dragon or two in the area at some point in the past, and you’re undoubtedly right about fossils. People are always turning up fossilized thises and thats—I don’t see why they shouldn’t be finding fossilized dragons.”

  “If they are there tooo find, that is,” remarked the owl wisely. “There may be nooone.”

  Bailey gave a sardonic chuckle and stumped back and forth in front of the fire again.