The Tale of Oat Cake Crag

by Susan Wittig Albert

  The passenger, of course, was the brave Hero of the Moment, and made the best of his wetting by telling everyone what a thrilling ride it had been up to the moment the engine quit and how he had escaped death by a hair’s-breadth when the machine plunged into the ice-cold water, never saying a word (of course) about his fears of drowning or his frantic cries for help. As for the aeroplane—well! It looked to be a total loss, with one wing torn nearly off and the tail severely damaged. Surely this would be the end of Water Bird, which naturally pleased some (those of the “If God had wanted people to fly” opinion) and distressed others (those who felt that since the Germans were building aeroplanes, the British ought to be sharpish about it). With these and other similar remarks and still discussing the matter excitedly amongst themselves, the crowd dispersed.

  By that time, our spy had become more audacious. There was a great deal of commotion and everybody was fully engaged with what was directly in front of them. So the Professor flew into the aeroplane’s hangar and perched on one of the rafters, high above in the darkness. He took off his dark goggles, pulled out his notepad and pencil, and (like any good spy) began making notes about what he heard.

  He heard plenty. One of the men, a tall blond man whose name was Anderson, walked around the Water Bird, surveying the injured wing and damaged tail section with a grim shake of the head.

  “Broken struts, cracked ribs, torn canvas, wrecked airbag—and who knows what went wrong with the motor,” he said darkly. “The repairs are going to cost a pretty penny. Baum’s not going to like it. You know how he feels, Oscar. He may decide not to pay.”

  “Baum’s in no condition to decide to anything today,” said the pilot, Oscar Wyatt—the very man we were hoping to get a close look at. He was thin and wiry, with dark hair and a neatly trimmed dark beard and mustache. “Fellow’s laid up with a cracked head and a broken arm and a leg. They’ve taken him to Raven Hall. I tried to see him this morning, but was prevented.” He frowned. “Said it was doctor’s orders.”

  “A cracked head?” a third man asked, startled. “Broken bones? How’d that happen? And when? He was here yesterday afternoon, bustlin’ about and getting in the way, as he allus does. ’Tis a pity he’s been hurt.”

  “A great pity,” Anderson agreed. He stepped away from the aeroplane and folded his arms. He gave Wyatt a narrow look. “Especially if it means that we’re not going to be able to repair the Bird. If Baum’s laid up, where’s the money coming from?”

  “I have good news,” Oscar Wyatt said, and laughed roughly. “I’ve located another potential investor. I’m seeing this person this evening. If I’m successful—well, I’ll tell you, boys. This person has enough money to take care of any problem we could encounter, and then some.”

  “Another investor?” Anderson gave him a narrow look. “Why do we need another investor? Is Mr. Baum pulling out?”

  Wyatt didn’t answer.

  Anderson repeated the question. “Is Baum pulling out? And who’s this other investor you’ve found?”

  “Never you mind, Anderson. The person prefers to remain anonymous, and anyway, the deal isn’t done yet. But I’m confident enough that it will be that I’m telling you to carry on. Get that wing repaired. Build a new airbag. Patch up the tail. Fix the engine. Do whatever’s necessary.”

  Anderson wouldn’t give it up. “But what about Mr. Baum?” he asked insistently. “Does he know about this new ‘investor’? Does he want these repairs made?”

  Wyatt pulled himself up. “I am telling you, Anderson, to—”

  “The thing is,” Anderson cut in, “that Mr. Baum told us that he was drawing the line at any more expenditure.” He turned to the third man. “You heard him, didn’t you, Tommy? You were standing right there when he said he wasn’t putting another penny into this machine. It either flies or it doesn’t, he said, but he’s not—”

  “And I’m telling you to stop worrying about Baum!” Wyatt shouted. “That’s not for you to bother your head about, d’you hear? My job is to find the money to get this aeroplane into flying condition and take it back up in the air. Your job is to get the repairs done—and bloody quick, too. Churchill and his military men will be here in three days. They’ll expect to see the Bird take the air. And we’re going to make it happen.”

  In the rafters, the owl blinked. Churchill? Winston Churchill?

  Anderson was even more surprised than the Professor. “Churchill?” he exclaimed, staring. “Churchill, from the Admiralty? He’s really coming, then? You’re not just larkin’?”

  “Right,” Wyatt said flatly. “He’s really coming, and he says he wants to go up in the Bird—maybe even use her in his Royal Flying Corp. No time for games now, boys. It’s a matter of the national defense. So stop your jabberwocky and open up that engine. I want to know what happened up there. Why the motor quit. It’s never done that before.”

  Tommy cleared his throat. “Could’ve been the petrol,” he offered diffidently. “Water in it, mebbee? That would’ve made the pistons stop firin’.”

  “Water in the petrol?” Wyatt asked, his eyes narrowing. “How could that have happened?”

  Tommy gave a careless shrug, not quite meeting Wyatt’s eyes. “The petrol tank is right outside the door, ain’t it? Anybody could’ve poured water in it, couldn’t they?”

  Anderson stared at him. “Are you suggesting sabotage, Tommy?” he asked in a disbelieving tone. “You don’t really think—”

  “Not suggestin’ anything,” Tom said blandly. “I’m just sayin’, is all.”

  Wyatt’s mouth hardened. He turned to Anderson. “I want a twenty-four-hour guard put on this place, Anderson. All day, all night. You got that?”

  “A guard!” Anderson whistled. “That’ll cost as much as the repairs.”

  Wyatt slammed his fist against his palm. “I don’t care what it costs!” he shouted. “I want that engine repaired, the wing and tail put to rights, and a guard on this place. Nothing more is going to go wrong here. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Anderson said mildly, but with more than a hint of sarcasm. “You’re the man who’s getting the money, so you’re the boss.”

  “As long as you understand that, we’ll get along just fine,” Wyatt growled in a sour tone. “Now, you get to work.”

  The Professor watched as Anderson and the man called Tommy busied themselves around the plane, tending to its crumpled wing, opening the engine. Oscar Wyatt lingered for a time, watching, as if he didn’t quite trust them to do the job. After a while, he said he was going out to have a talk with the “new investor” and would see them tomorrow, at which point he expected major progress to be made on the repairs. The minute he was gone, Anderson laid down the tool he was holding and shook his head.

  “I don’t like this, Tommy,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t like this one bit. Baum said there’d be no more repairs, and now he’s laid up and Wyatt’s got money from a ‘new investor,’ whatever that means. And I’m supposed to hire a twenty-four-hour guard.”

  “I was thinkin’ ’bout that,” Tom said. “I got a friend who’s lookin’ for work. He could stand night guard. He’ll work cheap.”

  “Tell him to come by and talk to me,” Anderson replied shortly. He was scowling. “You know, I’ve got half a mind to go over to Raven Hall this evening and see what I can find out from Baum.”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” cautioned Tom in a practical tone. “I agree that it ain’t good, this business, but I can’t see as you can do anything about it. Baum’s out of the way and Wyatt is runnin’ things here. He made it plain. If we want to get paid, we do as he says. That’s how I see it, anyway.”

  Anderson hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, going back to work. “But if you ask me, something’s fishy here. I wonder how Baum got that cracked head.”

  And so, of course, do we. But our spy has begun to feel that there’s nothing more to be learned from these two men and has decided to aba
ndon his station—and anyway, he is feeling the pangs of hunger. It has been, all told, a rather long morning. He finishes taking his last note, quietly pockets his pad and pencil, and flies silently out of the hangar, a dark shadow against the darkness of the roof over the crippled Water Bird.

  The flight back across the lake doesn’t take long. Fifteen minutes later, the Professor has landed in the tall tree at Oat Cake Crag, where he pulls out his ham-and-onion sandwich and begins to eat. While he is eating, he reviews his notes, considering what he has seen and heard over the past several hours. It has been a very busy and eventful several hours, to be sure. His mission has been—at least in the Professor’s view—remarkably productive.

  Of course, while the owl has been spying, other things have been going on in the area. Mr. Heelis has returned to his solicitor’s office in Hawkshead. Captain Woodcock has gone back to Tower Bank House to have luncheon with his loving wife. Mr. Baum continues to lie, white and unmoving, in a guestroom bed at Raven Hall, tended to by Dimity Kittredge, who is hoping that Dr. Butters will be able to stop in during the afternoon to check on his patient.

  And while all these things have been happening, Miss Potter has been making her way toward—

  But I think perhaps we should start a new chapter.

  15

  Miss Potter Investigates: At the Vicarage

  When we last saw Miss Potter, she was on her way back from Belle Green in the company of her friend Rascal. She had just opened her brother’s letter and read that her parents had been told that she was secretly engaged to Will Heelis. This news was startling and dreadfully unwelcome, and it had left her deeply dismayed.

  But Beatrix was a staunch person who rarely gave in to darker sorts of feelings. Her philosophy was trusting and uncomplicated: she believed that a great power silently turned all things to good, and that you should behave yourself and never mind the rest. Of course, she wasn’t above taking a hand herself when there was something she could do to help. But for the most part, her practical turn of mind encouraged her to behave as though things would turn out well and trust that they would and leave the problem or the challenge or the dilemma to sort itself out. Then she could be surprised and pleased when it did, when what she dreamt of turned out right in the end. And if it didn’t—well, it wasn’t meant to be, that’s all.

  It had been that way when she had lost Norman. She had feared, deep in her heart, that she would never again be happy. But she had believed and trusted, and now, to her surprise, just six years later, she found herself busy and content with her books and her farm and her animals here in this little Lake District village. And to her great delight, she had found another man who loved her and whom she could love, perhaps even more deeply and truly than she had loved Norman so long ago. The letter from London was lead in her pocket and the thought of what was happening at Bolton Gardens was an ominous cloud over her head, but she reminded herself that if she could only believe and trust, things would turn out well.

  So she resolutely turned her attention away from the letter to the sun-brightened landscape around her. “Isn’t the countryside beautiful, Rascal?” she asked, making her voice as light and cheerful as she could. “It’s such a wonderful day. I want to go for a long, long walk!” But a few minutes later, to her surprise, she found that she couldn’t quite keep her attention from the letter. So she spoke about it to Rascal, and in a few moments, had spilled out the whole story, from the moment of the engagement to her efforts to keep it secret to receiving Bertram’s letter. She felt she had to tell someone, and who better than Rascal?

  Rascal had been aware of the engagement for some time, of course. Animals always know a great deal more about human affairs than we give them credit for. But he wasn’t about to let Miss Potter know that he was already in on the secret.

  “I’m delighted,” he said firmly, when he had listened to the whole thing. As of course he truly was, for he loved Miss Potter with all his heart and was a great fan of Mr. Heelis, who always seemed to find a bit of biscuit in his pocket for his four-footed friends. “I’m sorry to hear that your parents have learnt your secret. But it was bound to come out sooner or later, wasn’t it?”

  Beatrix sighed. Now that she thought about it, she was surprised that the news of her engagement hadn’t leaked out sooner. Villages were horrible places for gossip, and she and Mr. Heelis had been together as often as they could. They pretended that they were just going about the country in search of property, but someone must have seen them and thought otherwise.

  “But what am I going to tell my parents?” she wondered aloud. “What am I going to tell them?”

  “Whatever you decide,” Rascal said in a comforting tone, “I’m sure it will be the right thing. Just trust your heart, and you’ll be fine.” He leapt up and nipped gently at her sleeve. “Now, then, shall we go for our walk? It’s such a beautiful morning. I will follow you wherever you like and we will make a grand time of it, just you and I. Lead on, dear Miss Potter. Lead on!”

  So, cheered by the little dog’s friendship and encouragement, Beatrix led on. The north wind was blustery and chill, and the trees in Penny Woods and along Claife Heights had not yet put on their springtime dresses. But the sun was bright with the promise of April, not many days away, and the grass was green and sweet-smelling. The new lambs frolicked joyfully around their mothers, who watched with patient forbearance and now and then reminded their young charges not to venture too far. In the hedges, the robins were singing as gaily as if the warm days were already here and it was time to think about mates and babies and blossoms and worms. Spring in the Land Between the Lakes is a magical time, and it didn’t take long for that magic to lift and lighten Beatrix’s spirit.

  The path that she and Rascal were following led away from the village, eastward across the meadows, to the rocky ford across Wilfin Beck. The name itself says what it is, for the word wilfin means “willow” and a beck is a stream. Even though (in the grand scheme of things) it is only an insignificant little beck, Wilfin feels very proud of itself and its willows as it wends its way across the greensward. I don’t wonder at that, for small as it may be, the beck is very beautiful. In the winter, it is sometimes frozen and quiet, glassy with ice and sparkling with diamonds of frost. And in the summer, when there is less rain, the water may move slowly, loitering along like a sluggish schoolboy. But in the spring, oh, in the early spring the beck brims bank-to-bank with the clearest, purest, sweetest snow-water from the higher fells, some of which are often still white with snow in March, even though the land below is emerald green.

  This morning, the beck was in a mood to make sure that all this fresh, lovely water flowed as fast as it could into Windermere, and south right through the lake to the River Leven, under Newby Bridge and past the lovely white cottages of Greenodd and into Morecambe Bay and finally out into the broad, blue Irish Sea, a journey that takes a great deal more time to make than for me to tell you about it. But if you think this lovely adventure has ended when Wilfin’s water is lost in the vastness of the salty ocean, you must think again, for the sun on the sea is warm and inviting and pulls the water up to itself, into the highest atmosphere, where each drop lives in the clouds until the perfect moment, when it falls once again onto the higher fells, onto Crinkles Crag and Bow Fell and High Raise, and onto the lower fells, too, onto Latterbarrow and Claife Heights and then into the myriad rivulets that hurry down to Wilfin Beck and its willows and the green grass of the Land Between the Lakes.

  Beatrix was reflecting on this wonderful cycle of nature as she lifted her woolen skirt and stepped from rock to mossy rock across the beck, whilst the dippers and wagtails and water-ouzels, splashing and chirping in the shallows, cheered her on. It was comforting, somehow, to know that all the life around her was part of a larger pattern, in which even the smallest drop of water, the least lichen and liverwort, and the slightest water-ouzel had its great and important and even magnificent role to play. It helped her to believe and trust that he
r own life would turn out as it was meant to do, no matter how dark it might seem at the moment.

  It was in this more optimistic frame of mind that Beatrix looked across the meadow and realized that she had reached a fork in the path. One way led north into the higher fells, in the direction of Latterbarrow, where there were no houses and no people, only a great stone cairn standing guard at its lonely post and a splendid western view of the Coniston mountains and the Kentmere fells beyond. Oh, and from Latterbarrow a path went on to Windermere and Wray Castle, that huge, ugly pile of rock where her family had stayed one holiday long ago, when she was sixteen. Should she go that way, and visit Wray, and spend the day poking around her past?

  But the other, nearer path led to the vicarage. This, of course, was where Reverend Sackett lived—the same Reverend Sackett who was pledged to marry her friend Grace Lythecoe sometime next month, if nothing intervened. At the distant sight of its gray stone walls, its gables and steeply pitched slate roofs, Beatrix discovered that her question was answered. She had not consciously chosen to come this way, but now that she had, she knew why. She would have a sit-down chat with Mrs. Thompson, the vicar’s cook-housekeeper, who was destined to be replaced when the vicar and Mrs. Lythecoe were married. Mrs. Thompson was said to listen at doors. If she knew or suspected that she was facing imminent discharge, she would have a very good reason to wish that the marriage would not take place, and (although one did not like to think of it) the motivation to write those ugly letters.

  But although Beatrix had met Mrs. Thompson on one or two occasions, she didn’t really know the woman and felt that she couldn’t just go barging in on such a slight acquaintance. She needed an excuse for her visit, like the tablecloth she had taken to Matilda Crook for mending. What could it be?