Beatrix frowned. She had been so caught up in her discovery that she had forgotten all about the funeral luncheon. “You’re right,” she said. She thought for a moment. “Mr. Heelis and Captain Woodcock are in the drawing room,” she said. “Mr. Heelis was Mr. Wickstead’s solicitor, and Captain Woodcock is the Justice of the Peace. I’ll ask them what they think.”
Sarah bit her lip. “Yes, but—”
“Stay here with that album, Sarah,” Beatrix commanded. “Don’t let anybody take it. I’ll be right back.” And with that, she left the room, closing the double doors firmly behind her.
In the drawing room, Will Heelis was still in conversation with Miles Woodcock, talking over what they had just learnt from Joseph Adams, who was not, as it turned out, a well-known photographer at all. He was a government agent from the Home Office, who had come to Briar Bank at Mr. Wickstead’s request, to take custody of the treasure.
“At Wickstead’s request?” Captain Woodcock muttered. “Deuced odd, if you ask me. I could understand Hugh turning in his find to the government, if he did it right away. But after all this time? Are we sure this man Adams is who he claims to be?”
“He showed us his identification,” Will reminded his friend. “And the letter Wickstead sent him. He’s legitimate, Miles.”
“And Miss Wickstead insists she knows nothing about that treasure,” the captain said thoughtfully. “Which rather leaves the Crown holding the bag, doesn’t it?”
For that was what Joseph Adams had told them. A fortnight before his death, Hugh Wickstead had written to the Home Office, reporting that he had discovered a valuable hoard of Viking treasure—several dozen pieces, he said, all unique and, he felt sure, very valuable. He wrote that he was not sure he could guarantee the security of the find, and hinted that he thought someone—he did not say who—might be after it. He asked rather urgently if a person from the Home Office would come and take the find in charge as soon as possible. In the meantime, he had hidden it away for safekeeping.
It was Mr. Adams’ job to deal with discoveries that came within the aegis of the Treasure Trove law, so he had arranged to come to the Lake District as quickly as he could get away from his other duties. Mr. Wickstead had suggested that he book a room with the Crooks since he expected to spend at least two days in the area, taking photographs of the site where the find had occurred. Adams had done so. But when he learnt of Mr. Wickstead’s death from the charabanc driver, he thought at once that the poor man must have been killed for the treasure. In the circumstance, he thought it best not to mention his real reason for coming to the Lake District. Having his camera with him, he told Mrs. Crook he was a photographer—and she took care of telling everyone else.
“I can see why Adams thought Wickstead’s death was no accident,” Will muttered.
“Indeed,” said the captain. “Especially when he discovered that the treasure has disappeared.”
For that, it seemed, was what had happened. Mr. Adams had come to Briar Bank House, identified himself as a Home Office agent, and asked to see the treasure, which he was prepared to take back to London with him, at the request of Mr. Wickstead. (Do you remember the letter that Mrs. Crook posted for him, to a Mr. Howard Peasmarsh, Queen Anne’s Gate, London? It would not in the least surprise me to learn that it was written to his supervisor in the Home Office, reporting on this visit to Briar Bank.)
Miss Wickstead, however, seemed very surprised to learn that her brother intended to hand over the treasure to the Crown. She insisted she had no idea where it was. Yes, she admitted to having seen it once or twice, but now, she claimed, the treasure could not be found. She had searched the house from top to bottom. It was gone. Her brother had hidden it somewhere before he died, and that’s all there was to it.
Well, now. A few things are becoming clear, aren’t they? At least to us, that is—although I’m afraid that Mr. Heelis and Captain Woodcock must still be in the dark. You and I know—because we heard it from both Pickles the fox terrier and Bailey the Badger—that Mr. Wickstead was returning the treasure to the dragon’s lair when he was killed by the tree, or by Thorvaald the falling dragon, if you want to see it that way. And now we can understand what Mr. Wickstead meant when he said, “She’ll never think to look here.” He was talking about Miss Wickstead. No doubt he had discovered that she had photographed the treasure and was afraid that she was out to steal it. So he was putting it back where he had found it, until the Home Office sent someone to take it into custody.
“And then there’s Smythe-Jones,” the captain added. That gentleman, steaming from the cold shoulder Beatrix had given him, had blustered up to Mr. Heelis and demanded information about the treasure.
“I don’t think he’s involved,” Will said with a wry grin. “If he were, he wouldn’t be calling attention to himself.” He thought quickly through the consequences of what they had just learnt.
“Before anything else, we ought to discuss this matter with Miss Wickstead,” he said. “Her brother’s death does indeed seem to have been an accident, but this treasure business raises some other questions. He wrote to Adams that he thought someone might be trying to steal it. That someone might be his sister—and she might have already succeeded. What do you think, Miles?”
“I agree, Will,” the captain replied gravely. “She couldn’t have known that shortly she would inherit everything—including the treasure. So she might well have attempted theft. She might have brought it off, too.” He frowned. “Still, I’m not sure that this is the time nor the place. So soon after—”
“What better time could there be?” Will asked. He looked around, noticing that several people were leaving. “The luncheon is almost over. I suggest that we wait until—” He felt a light hand on his sleeve and looked down into a pair of very bright blue eyes. Startled, he said, “Oh, hello, Miss Potter.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Heelis.” She colored and took her hand away, hastily, as if she had not meant to put it there in the first place. “I’m sorry to interrupt you,” she said in a low voice, “but it really is rather urgent. Would you and Captain Woodcock step into the library for a few moments, please?”
Will frowned. Miss Potter had a way of seeing things that other people missed. Was it possible that she—
“Do you mind telling us why?” the captain asked.
“It has to do with Miss Wickstead,” Miss Potter replied uncomfortably. “I’ve something to show you, and I would really rather not discuss it here. You’ll understand when you see it, I think.”
“Well, then, come along, Woodcock,” Will said, taking charge of the situation. He smiled at Miss Potter, who was looking exceptionally pretty in her neat gray silk shirtwaist. In his opinion, in fact, she was the prettiest lady in the room, bar none. “Lead on, Miss Potter.”
The three of them went into the library, where they found Miss Barwick, holding what appeared to be a book of some sort and looking rather frightened. Miss Potter closed the doors behind them. She took the book—showing them that it was the Wickstead family photograph album—and placed it on a small table, turning the pages without commentary. When she got to one—a photograph labeled “Wickstead Family Home,” she left the page open and stepped back, so they could look at it.
“Palatial, I’d say,” remarked Miles in an appraising tone. “The family must’ve had money at some point.”
“That’s what I said when I saw it,” Miss Barwick put in excitedly. “It’s a very grand house.”
Will frowned down at the photograph. He had the feeling he had seen it before, and recently, too.
“Yes, it is a very grand house,” Miss Potter said. “But it never belonged to the Wicksteads. It was built by my grandparents, John and Jane Leech. This is Gorse Hall.” And in a few terse sentences, she told them the story. “The house never belonged to the Wickstead family,” she concluded.
As she spoke, Will suddenly remembered where he had seen the house before. “Gorse Hall!” he exclaimed. “Why, that’s where the
Storrs’ murder took place. I saw the photograph in one of the newspapers when it happened, back at the beginning of November. The police have finally arrested someone, I understand. A cousin, I believe.”
The captain wheeled to look at him. “You’re talking about the murder of Harry George Storrs, in Stalybridge?” he asked incredulously. “I read about it, too. This is the house where he was stabbed to death?”
“Yes,” Miss Potter said unhappily. “My mother’s family home. In fact, Mama and I discussed the killing just before I came down from London.” She gave them a crooked smile. “She’s afraid I’ll be murdered in my bed, you see.”
Mrs. Potter wasn’t the least bit afraid of that, Will thought darkly. She only wanted to make Beatrix afraid. He frowned. “It doesn’t seem likely that this business here at Briar Bank has anything to do with the murder.”
“I agree,” Miss Potter said. “Miss Wickstead—or whoever she is—has been here since August or so. Isn’t that the case?”
“That’s right,” the captain said. “She came, I believe, at the end of July. It’s an odd coincidence, granted. But it doesn’t seem related to Storrs’ death.”
Will was regarding Miss Potter. “ ‘Whoever she is,’ you said. Do you have reason to believe that she’s not Hugh Wickstead’s sister?”
“Yes!” Miss Barwick put in excitedly. “Show them the other photos, Bea!”
Miss Potter turned the pages to photographs of a woman, a man, and two little children. In a few careful words, she made her case. “These children cannot be Hugh and Louisa Wickstead,” she said. “I am sorry to say it, but I think this entire album was designed to deceive Mr. Wickstead. I do not think Miss Wickstead can be who she claims to be.”
“Astonishing,” Will muttered. He was not sure whether he was thinking of Miss Wickstead’s clever deception or Miss Potter’s cleverer discovery of it—the latter, he rather thought.
The captain rapped his knuckles on the album. “What we have here is a clear case of fraud.”
“What’s will happen now?” Miss Barwick asked.
“It’s time to have a talk with the lady,” Will said. The reading of Hugh Wickstead’s last will and testament was scheduled for the next morning. If there was some sort of fraud, it would be better to sort things out now. “It may take a little while, however, since we should wait until everyone else has gone. Miss Potter, I hope you won’t mind remaining here.” He cleared his throat and said, as tactfully as he could, “Miss Barwick, perhaps you would prefer to leave.”
“Well . . .” Miss Barwick said, with a glance at Miss Potter. “I suppose I really ought to box up the leftover baked goods.” She looked back at Will. “P’rhaps I’ll ask Mrs. Crook if I can ride back to the village with them.”
Will nodded, painfully aware of the meaning that hung in the air. “That might be best,” he said. “I don’t know how long this is going to take.”
Miss Potter had colored, and he wondered if she had understood, as well. “I’ll wait here,” she said, after Miss Barwick had gone. She glanced around at the collections with a little smile. “I shan’t be bored. There is plenty to occupy me. I’ve already found myself wishing for a sketchpad.”
Will nodded and turned to his friend. “Well, then, Captain. Let’s fetch Miss Wickstead. I want to hear what the lady has to say for herself.”
19
The Lady Comes Clean
It was another twenty minutes before the guests had all left, once again offering their condolences and best wishes to the sister of the deceased. Dr. Butters might have liked to linger, but he received a message saying that he was urgently required by Mrs. Knox, who was expecting the imminent arrival of a baby. With a dark look at Mr. Knutson, the good doctor left to do his duty.
Constable Braithwaite was on his way out the front door when Captain Woodcock caught him up. There was a brief consultation. The captain returned to the drawing room and the constable went outside to ask Mr. and Mrs. Llewellyn if Mrs. Braithwaite might ride back to the village with them, since he would not be coming back for a bit.
Mr. Knutson clearly intended to outlast all the other guests, but Miss Wickstead, who was very pale and drawn, said something to him privately. (Will, shamelessly eavesdropping, caught the words “so very tired.”) Clearly not pleased, Knutson took his hat and coat and left, with a promise to “see you tomorrow, my dear.” The phrase held, at least to Will’s ear, something of a threat. As Knutson left the room, Miss Wickstead looked so enormously relieved that he almost felt sorry for her. Whatever the relationship between the two of them, he had the feeling that the association did not fill her with joy.
When the last guest had left, Will approached Miss Wickstead, with the captain close behind. “Captain Woodcock and I are sorry to trouble you,” he said quietly, “but there is an important matter to be discussed.”
“Can’t it wait, gentlemen?” she asked wearily. She took a handkerchief out of the pocket of her black dress and touched her eyes. “It has been a long day, and I should very much like to rest.”
“I wish it could,” he said. “But it has to do with the inheritance. The reading of Mr. Wickstead’s will is scheduled for tomorrow. I really don’t think we should delay.”
If Miss Wickstead wondered why the Justice of the Peace might be involved in a discussion of an inheritance, she did not ask. She put on a brave smile. “Oh, very well, then. Shall we?” She gestured to the sofa. “I’ll ask Lucy to bring us some coffee. Or perhaps you’d rather have tea.”
“Neither, thank you,” Captain Woodcock said. “And we should prefer to speak in the library. There’s something there we should like to show you.”
“In the library?” She gave a half-impatient wave of her hand. “Oh, very well. I certainly hope it won’t take long.” Then, as she went into the library, she saw Miss Potter waiting. “Hello,” she said, surprised. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“This is Miss Beatrix Potter, of Hill Top Farm,” Mr. Heelis said. “She was acquainted with your brother.”
Beatrix gave her a steady look, noticing that while Miss Wickstead was trying to put on a show of confidence, she seemed unsure of herself. Or perhaps she was just very tired, which was certainly understandable, in the circumstance. Her face was pale and the corners of her mouth seemed to tremble.
“My father and I visited here at Briar Bank several times,” Beatrix said gravely. “We were both quite fond of Mr. Wickstead. I am very sorry for his passing.”
“Thank you,” Miss Wickstead said. “He was a very dear man. He shall be missed.” She took out her handkerchief and touched her eyes, then looked from Beatrix to Mr. Heelis. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Heelis. I thought this was to be about the inheritance.”
“It is,” Mr. Heelis said. “However, there is a matter that must be cleared up first. Please sit here.” He seated Miss Wickstead in a chair beside the table. “Miss Potter, if you will be so kind, please?”
Beatrix stepped forward, put the album on the table, and opened it to the page with the photograph of Gorse Hall. She explained, as she had to the others, that this was her mother’s home and had been in the family for over fifty years. As she spoke, Miss Wickstead’s face grew even paler, and she bit her lip. But she did not try to deny the truth of what Beatrix was saying.
“I . . . I can explain how that happened,” she began nervously. “You see, there were quite a number of photographs. Some of them were hard to identify. If I’ve made a mistake—”
Mr. Heelis raised his hand. “I believe we should keep the explanations until we have finished,” he said. “Please, Miss Potter.”
Beatrix turned back to the photographs of the family and pointed out the difficulties with the ages of the children. “And as you can see,” she added, “it appears that these photographs were taken at the same time. And that means—” She hesitated. By this time, Miss Wickstead had turned her head away, as if she could not bear to look at the pictures, and her cheeks, no longer pale,
were a dull red.
“And that means, Miss Wickstead,” Mr. Heelis said, with a quiet firmness that Beatrix very much admired, “that these cannot be photographs of you and Mr. Wickstead as children. Put this together with the fictitious Wickstead family home—” He gave a little shrug. “I think you must see the difficulty we face, Miss Wickstead. It is a question of identity.”
“But my brother didn’t see any difficulty!” Miss Wickstead cried, starting out of her chair. “He was perfectly satisfied with my explanation. He recognized many family similarities between us. Why, he even made me the beneficiary of his will, which shows you how he felt about me!”
“That may be quite true,” Captain Woodcock said. “However, as a Justice of the Peace, let me try to explain the situation from the court’s perspective. Now that the question of your identity has been raised, the Magistrate’s Court—that’s where Mr. Wickstead’s will must be probated—will require you to provide documentary proof of your identity. A certificate of birth is preferred.”
Miss Wickstead made a faint mewing sound, like a kitten, and twisted her handkerchief in her fingers. “But I don’t . . . I can’t—”
“Really, my dear lady,” the captain said in a tone of impatient disapproval. “If you are who you say you are, there should be no difficulty in proving it. You surely cannot expect the courts to hand over a very substantial inheritance without so much as an inquiry into your claims.” He scowled sternly. “Is that not so?”
In answer, Miss Wickstead dropped her head in her hands and began to cry.
Sensing that the tears were the beginnings of a confession, Beatrix felt a sharp pity for the woman. Putting a hand on her shoulder, she said, “I am very sorry for your trouble, Miss Wickstead. I am sure that none of this was in your mind when you came to Briar Bank. You could not have known that the pretense would go on so long. And I’m sure you never imagined that Mr. Wickstead would die and leave you his property, putting you in this horrible position. What started out as one thing has become something else altogether, hasn’t it?”
The Tale of Briar Bank Page 24
