The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  “It was a deal of toil and trouble,” replied Max. “Nothing to eat but eyes of newts, toes of frogs, and tongues of dogs. She had,” he added meaningfully, “red hair.”

  At the mention of tongues of dogs, Rascal shuddered. “So what do you think of Mrs. Kittredge? Is she a witch, then?”

  “I haven’t met her,” Max said, “but from all I have heard, I’m sure of it.” He leaned forward and added, in a confidential tone, “In fact, I predict that she is going to cause everyone a very great deal of trouble, especially—”

  “Hello, Rascal,” said Miss Potter with a smile, coming up the post office path with a letter and several parcels in her hand. She was wearing her leather clogs and the straw hat she always wore about the village. “And Max. How nice to see you. How are you today?”

  “Not very well,” began Max in a dismal voice, but Rascal broke in with a welcoming yip.

  “Welcome back, Miss Potter!” he cried, leaping up on his hind legs.

  Miss Potter was one of Rascal’s favorite humans. She was unfailingly kind and thoughtful to small dogs and very clever when it came to figuring things out. Rascal always looked forward to Miss Potter’s visits to the village, and made it a point to spend as much time with her as he could when she was there.

  “Max,” said Miss Potter, putting her head on one side and regarding the cat thoughtfully, “it strikes me that you aren’t looking very well fed. I wonder what you’re getting to eat these days, now that the Misses Crabbe have gone away.”

  “How kind of you to inquire,” said Max, his gloomy expression lightening a little. He extended a paw. “I am not at all well fed, sad to say. I have eaten all of the mice in the Castle Farm barn and now have very little to sustain life and breath besides crickets and—”

  “Why, hello, Miss Potter!” exclaimed Hannah Braithwaite, coming out of the post office door. “How nice to have thee home again.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Braithwaite,” Miss Potter said. “I was just about to tell Max that if he is not otherwise engaged, I should be glad to offer him a place at Hill Top. Bread and milk regularly for supper, Max, and all the rats you can catch.”

  Max’s green eyes grew round. “All the rats—” he began, in a faltering tone.

  Hannah Braithwaite giggled. “Fancy thee talkin’ to that old black cat with no tail. But then, I s’pose it’s nat’ral, since thy stories are full of cats and frogs and t’ like, and all of ’em talkin’, one to another. And Max’ud be a good ratter, I’d reckon.” She gave Miss Potter a slantwise look. “Hill Top could use one, I hear.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” said Miss Potter regretfully. “The current Hill Top cat does not have a taste for rats. Mrs. Jennings has acquired a new tomcat, but there’s room for Max, should he care to come on.” She smiled. “Mrs. Jennings will like him, I’m sure, since he has a very plain name.”

  “Should I care to come on . . . should I CARE?” Max cried, in a tone of disbelief. He began to curl himself around Miss Potter’s ankles. “Of course I should care to come on! And I am an experienced ratter, if I do say so myself. Why, in my second life, I—”

  “Just look at the beast,” Mrs. Braithwaite marveled. “It’s for all t’ world like he understands you!”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised,” Miss Potter replied. “I do hope that all the little Braithwaites are keeping well.”

  “Oh, verra well, thank you,” Mrs. Braithwaite beamed. “We was glad of t’ book, Miss Potter—The Tale of Two Bad Mice, ’twas. The children have fair read t’ words off t’ pages, and t’ pages out of t’ book.”

  “I’m glad,” Miss Potter said warmly. “I’m working on The Tale of Tom Kitten just now. I’ll send the children a copy when it’s published. Good day.”

  “Just t’ nicest lady,” murmured Hannah Braithwaite, as Miss Potter went into the post office.

  “Oh, yes,” Max the Manx rejoined in a reverential tone. “The very nicest lady!”

  13

  Miss Potter Delivers

  While Beatrix was posting her letter, Dimity Woodcock was arranging an armful of blooming forsythia branches in a tall vase on the hallway table at Tower Bank House. She had come to live there with her brother Miles some twelve years before, and had not for one instant regretted it. At the time, perhaps, the decision had not seemed very wise, for she was just twenty-four and had seen very little of the world. Her friends cautioned her that moving to the country would condemn her to spinsterhood, and the village of Sawrey was, as her brother put it, “quite removed from modern society.” And since she had her own small fortune and did not have to concern herself overmuch about money, she could have lived anywhere she chose.

  But Dimity was an old-fashioned person in many ways and did not care a fig for “modern society,” especially that part of it which rushed about on underground subways and dashed off to parties and rarely slowed down long enough to take a deep breath and wonder where in the world it was. At any rate, she had flourished in the village, and intended to make her home with her brother as long as he wished to continue the arrangement. Of course, she had hoped, a few years before, that she and Major Kittredge might—

  Dimity sighed and willed herself to stop thinking about the past. The major had made his choice, and she could only hope that he would enjoy every happiness. But as she stepped back to admire the flower arrangement, she could not help one last, wistful wish, that he had chosen her instead of—

  Dimity made an impatient noise. She was not going to think such thoughts. She had a wonderful home with Miles, and she would stay as long as it was comfortable for both of them—although she did sometimes wonder if the convenience of having his sister oversee the household and manage their entertainments made Miles a little less likely to look for a wife. But her brother seemed perfectly content to go on as they were, perhaps because their society was limited and he had few opportunities to meet suitable candidates, women who were well bred, well read, educated, and interesting but who preferred life in a country village to life in the city. Perhaps if he found a suitable—

  This time, it was the doorbell that interrupted her. “I’m right here, Elsa,” she called to her housekeeper, Elsa Grape. “I’ll answer it.” She opened the door to see Miss Potter, a parcel in her hand.

  “Why, hello, Beatrix,” she said warmly. “How nice of you to drop in this morning. Do come in and have some tea. How are you getting on with the rats?”

  “I think it’s a question of how we are getting on with the cats,” Beatrix said wryly, stepping into the entry hall. “So far, there are two, Fang and Max the Manx, who used to belong to the Crabbe sisters.” She handed over a package. “Your crepe paper, Dimity.” She glanced admiringly at the forsythia. “My, how the flowers brighten your hall.”

  “They do, don’t they?” Dimity said happily. “Thank you for the crepe paper. You saved me a trip across the lake.”

  “Do you have all the help you need for the pageant?” Beatrix asked, following Dimity down the hall.

  “I think so,” Dimity replied. “The children make their own flower crowns. The teachers manage the games and songs, and the Ladies Guild does tea. Mr. Skead always puts up the pole in the school yard, and Mr. Llewellyn lends his old white horse for the May Queen to ride to school—this year, the Leeches’ daughter Ruth will be queen.”

  “And what happens if it rains?”

  “It doesn’t dare,” Dimity replied staunchly. “The sun always shines on May Day.”

  “Well, just in case it turns chilly,” Beatrix said, “I have something from Mrs. Corry for your brother.”

  “Oh, dear,” Dimity said with a sigh. “Another scarf.” She brightened. “Wouldn’t you like to deliver it yourself?”

  “I would,” Beatrix said. “Actually, I wanted to talk with the captain, if he’s available.”

  “Yes, of course. He’s in his study. We’ll have our tea in there, shall we?”

  And then, as Dimity opened the study door, she was suddenly struck by an
idea that was so obvious, so amazingly, perfectly right that she was amazed that she had not thought of it before. Miss Potter would make Miles a wonderful wife, and a perfect sister to herself! This thought was so exciting as to send her into a state of giddy confusion from which she barely recovered in time to open the library door and say, in as normal a voice as possible, “Miles, Miss Potter has brought you something.”

  Miles was sitting at his writing-table, his fingers tented under his chin, scowling at nothing. But Dimity noticed that when Miss Potter came into the room, his face cleared and he leapt to his feet—surely a sign of personal interest.

  “Hello, Miss Potter,” he said, extending his hand cordially. “I’d heard you were back at Hill Top. Staying for a time, I hope.”

  “A fortnight,” Miss Potter said, taking his hand.

  “I’ll get tea,” Dimity said quickly, and left the room, feeling a warm glow of pleasure. She knew that her brother admired Miss Potter, who was certainly well read, interesting, and had a broad (if unconventional) education, having taught herself in books and museums and art galleries. She came from excellent family, and was pretty, too, in a very English way, with those bright blue eyes and beautifully pink cheeks and the clearest of complexions. Best yet, if she and Miles were married, they would no doubt live right here at Tower Bank House, and she herself could do so as well, and they would all be quite, quite happy and comfortable.

  Miles Woodcock certainly did admire Miss Potter, who had provided some very helpful assistance in several difficult matters over the past two years. As Justice of the Peace for Sawrey District, he’d had to investigate the passing of old Ben Hornby, who had died in a fall from a cliff. It was thanks to Miss Potter—who struck him as a remarkably perceptive and thoughtful observer—that the case had been solved. And a few months before that, she had shrewdly unraveled a scheme of art robberies that culminated in the theft of a Constable miniature stolen from Anvil Cottage. Altogether an estimable woman, Miles thought warmly, and found that a smile had replaced his frown.

  “I’ve brought you a knitted scarf from Mrs. Corry,” Miss Potter said, her blue eyes twinkling. She handed him a paper-wrapped parcel. “I stopped at her cottage to get some plants she promised me, and she asked me to deliver it.”

  “Yet another scarf,” Miles said ruefully, unwrapping it. “The old dear was always after me when I was a child to wear my scarf and mittens. Here I am, past forty, and she’s still doing it.”

  “And such a . . . quickening shade of green, too,” said Miss Potter with a smile. “It quite takes the eye, doesn’t it? But I’m sure it gave her a great deal of pleasure to make it. When I was eight, I knitted a scarf for Mr. Gaskell, one of Papa’s friends.” She chuckled. “Such a kindly old gentleman. He wore the horrid thing whenever he came to visit.”

  “I’ll be sure to wear this the next time I stop in to see Mrs. Corry,” Miles said, feeling that he had been nicely rebuked and not minding a bit. “Won’t you sit down? Dim will be along with our tea in just a minute.”

  “Actually, I have another reason for coming,” Miss Potter said, taking a chair as Miles sat down across from her. She reached into her pocket and took out a calling card. “I overheard a conversation at the ferry landing yesterday afternoon, which troubled me a good deal. After thinking about it, I decided to tell you about it.” And with that, she related the conversation and handed over the card, which bore a name, address, and London telephone number.

  “Augustus Richardson,” Miles read, in astonishment. He looked up. “I don’t know how you do it, Miss Potter, I really don’t. Is it magic? Are you a witch?”

  “Magic?” Miss Potter’s eyebrows arched. “Really, Captain Woodcock, I hardly think—”

  “No, of course not,” Miles said hastily. “Forgive me. It’s just that you always seem to appear with the information one needs, just when one needs it.” He smiled. “One can’t help wondering, you see, if there’s not a bit of witchcraft about it.”

  Miss Potter’s expression softened somewhat. “I could not avoid hearing them,” she said quietly. “They did not attempt to lower their voices. And when I heard the mention of villas, I’m afraid I was so incensed that I did not think to return the card Mr. Richardson dropped.” She paused. “So you knew about this?”

  “I knew only the man’s name and had heard of the intention,” Miles said, placing the card on his writing table. “The name of the syndicate—the Sandiford Syndicate, I believe you said—and the address on this card will allow me to make further inquiries.”

  “Yes, Sandiford. But I hope you will do more than make inquiries,” Miss Potter said urgently. “I hope you will put a stop to it.”

  Remembering his conversation with Will Heelis, Miles sighed. “That’s easier said than done, Miss Potter. Owners are generally free to do as they like with their property. You wouldn’t want the villagers telling you how to manage Hill Top Farm, I’m sure.”

  “I understand that,” Miss Potter said quietly. “But it does seem to me that land is part of the community as a whole, and that property owners should use it in a way that serves the community. Perhaps that sounds idealistic, but—”

  Miss Potter was interrupted by the appearance of Dimity and the tea tray, and the conversation took a more general turn. When at last Miss Potter rose to go, Miles said, “Dimity and I are driving to Raven Hall for the Kittredge reception tomorrow. Would you care to go with us?”

  “Oh, please do, Beatrix,” Dimity put in, as Miss Potter seemed to hesitate. “Will Heelis is stopping here, and will be going with us, as well. We shall have such fun.”

  Miles remembered that Miss Potter was not overly fond of riding in his motor car. “I promise to drive slowly,” he said, and smiled. “And it does have a top, so in case of rain, you and your hat are sure to stay dry.”

  Miss Potter looked thoughtful. Then a smile lightened her china-blue eyes, and he thought for an instant that they were her best feature—her eyes and her shy, sweet smile.

  “Thank you for the invitation,” she said. “I should like to see Raven Hall, which I understand was designed by David Bryce. From a distance, it looks to be a fine example of the Gothic style.” She gave Miles a meaningful glance. “I should not like to think of it being turned into an hotel, with a dozen villas sprawled out along the lakeshore.”

  Miles sighed heavily. “Nor should I, Miss Potter. If you can think of a way to keep that from happening, I’d be most grateful.”

  But of course, he thought to himself, that was quite impossible. Miss Potter had certainly been of help in other matters, but even she was powerless to stop the march of what many would no doubt call progress.

  14

  De Parvis, grandis acervus erit

  Bosworth Badger was enjoying a cup of tea and a bit of Friday afternoon sunshine on his front porch when he heard the bracken rustle and saw a small tan-colored terrier clambering up the steep slope of Holly How. Bosworth rose from his rocking chair in alarm, recalling the Badgers’ Second Rule of Thumb (Be wary of all dogs, and especially of terriers who have been taught to tunnel, for it is safe to say that they do not have a badger’s best interests at heart) and thinking that it was time he went inside and locked The Brockery’s front door.

  But then he recognized Rascal and settled back down in his chair with a wave and a smile. Badger was glad to welcome the cheerful little dog, who always brought news of the village activities. And since he’d just heard some rather unsettling rumors from that direction, he was even gladder than usual.

  The Brockery had been the home of the Holly How badgers for nearly two centuries and was widely judged to be the oldest badger sett in the Land between the Lakes. Beside the oaken door hung the Badger Coat of Arms, picturing twin badgers rampant on an azure field, with a shield inscribed in Latin, thus:

  De Parvis, grandis acervus erit

  In English, this family motto proclaimed, From small things, there will grow a mighty heap, or (in the local vernacular) Many littles ma
ke a mickle, Many mickles make a mile. It described, Bosworth understood, the badgers’ habit of excavating their burrows inch by inch, one generation after another, and piling the earth outside the door—although it could be taken, of course, to refer to a great many other things.

  At the moment, the Brockery was home to five badgers: Bosworth; Parsley, the Brockery’s cook; and Primrose, her daughter Hyacinth, and her son Thorn, a promising lad who, Bosworth thought, might someday take his place as the custodian of the History. It was also the best-known hostelry in the Land between the Lakes. Some of its residents (like the twin rabbits who helped with the housekeeping) were permanent lodgers, while others were of an itinerant bent, like the fox who occasionally popped in for a day or two, or the trio of hedgehogs displaced when their log-pile home was destroyed by a farmer, or the pair of rats who had stopped, just last night, on their way out of the District. Most paid in kind, with services or food or other useful items, like the silver thimble one of the rats had brought, and which Primrose immediately claimed for a flower vase. But Bosworth was a kindly soul, and out-of-pocket lodgers were allowed to stay on even though they could not pay their bill.

  Bosworth (more properly, Bosworth Badger XVII) was not just The Brockery’s proprietor. He also had the important duty of maintaining the official History of the Badgers of the Land between the Lakes and its companion, the Holly How Badger Genealogy, which were contained in some two dozen leather-bound volumes in The Brockery’s library. And because earlier badger historians had recorded not only their own clan’s activities but those of a great many other animals as well, the History was widely regarded as a reliable record of the changing flora and fauna of the Land between the Lakes. Bosworth was often consulted about questions of history, and he enjoyed thumbing through the closely written pages, looking for long-forgotten bits.