Beatrix was taken quite aback and felt really rather disappointed, as you would no doubt feel if you thought yourself in the middle of a great wilderness and suddenly discovered that you were in somebody’s garden, with the real world of houses and people not a stone’s throw away. And the realization of where she was made her remember that she had not yet had lunch and was feeling rather empty, so she looked around for a place to eat.
After a bit of searching, she found a pleasant willow-hung bank cushioned with a hummock of green moss exactly the size and shape of an overstuffed chair, and every bit as comfortable and welcoming. She took off her hat, sat down on the mossy bank, and unwrapped her mutton sandwiches. She ate both of them, and then, because the view of Fern Vale Tarn was so serene and the mossy bank so nicely warmed by the sun, she thought she would take a few quiet moments to relax. She was dozing dreamily, her sleepy mind turning over this and that—the farm, and the fox she had seen on Holly How, and the fairies she had not seen in the fairy glen—when something bounced off her nose and into her lap. She opened her eyes and saw that it was a plump acorn, and that a red squirrel (the same one she had seen earlier, or its cousin) was perched on the limb over her head, his head cocked, his tail twitching. And then the squirrel stopped twitching his tail and sat very still, listening. Beatrix listened, too, and heard voices.
Two voices, a man’s and a woman’s.
She thought at first that perhaps she was asleep and the voices were part of a dream, and then she remembered that Raven Hall was not so far away, which woke her up fully. It was probably the major and his wife, and they were coming closer. Perhaps she ought to jump up and declare herself before they got any nearer, so that they would not think she was spying on them. But perhaps that wasn’t a good idea, after all, since popping up like a jack-in-the-box in front of two unsuspecting people would startle them, to say the least, and might lead to a disagreeable encounter. Anyway, she was sitting on the opposite side of quite a large bank, under an overhanging willow. If she made herself as small as possible and sat very quietly, perhaps they wouldn’t notice her.
By then, of course, it was too late to do anything at all, even if she had wanted to, for the man and the woman were no more than a dozen feet away, just on the other side of her bank. The woman was indeed the major’s wife (to judge by her throaty voice), but the man was definitely not the major. After a moment, Beatrix recognized the unmistakable voice of Mr. Thexton, and with that came the guilty realization that the conversation was something that she ought not be hearing. It was obviously intended to be private, and Beatrix had been taught since childhood that listening to other people’s private conversations is extraordinarily impolite.
But Beatrix was in no position to stop listening. She could not escape without calling attention to herself. And worse, the more she heard, the more she knew she had to listen. (Ever afterward, when she thought of this extremely uncomfortable moment, she would remind herself of the lesson it taught her: that sometimes when you get into an adventure, there is no easy way to get out, and you simply have to carry on the way you are going and hope for the best.)
“I have told you and told you, Mr. Thexton,” the lady was saying, her voice tight and shrill with vexation, “I have nothing whatever to give you! Every shilling belongs to my husband, who is a very hard man when it comes to money. I haven’t a prayer of getting anything from him—much less the thousand pounds you’re asking.”
A thousand pounds? Beatrix pulled in her breath. Mr. Thexton was demanding a thousand pounds from Mrs. Kittredge? But . . . but that was extortion. It was blackmail!
Mr. Thexton’s voice was cold and unpleasant. “You have a great deal of fine jewelry. That necklace you’re wearing, for instance. If the emeralds are real, as I don’t doubt they are, I should put its value at twelve or fifteen hundred pounds. I suggest that you sell it.”
“I can’t sell it!” Mrs. Kittredge wailed. “It’s not mine. It belongs to my husband’s family.”
Mr. Thexton chuckled disagreeably. “But Major Kittredge is not your husband, my dear lady. Your husband is my friend, James Waring. And Mr. Waring is very much alive, as I am sure you know—Mrs. Irene Waring.”
Beatrix, by now thoroughly shaken, could scarcely believe her ears. The lady couldn’t be two people! She couldn’t be Mrs. Irene Waring and Mrs. Diana Kittredge at the same time. It was impossible. It was—
But of course, it was all too possible. Beatrix, an avid newspaper reader, had happened on many accounts of people who changed their identities, some of them many times. She had also read about the crime of bigamy: being married to two people at the same time. Sometimes this happened accidentally, as when a soldier went away to war and was reported dead and his wife married someone else, only to open her door one day and discover her first husband standing on the stoop. Of course, everybody felt very sorry for the people involved in this unhappy situation, and the law usually left them alone to sort things out as best they could.
But sometimes this was deliberate, as when a married person pretended to be single and (motivated by a desire for money or property or respectability) married someone else. Then it was a crime, and charges were pressed, and the bigamist could be sent to gaol.
The lady gave a low moan. “I didn’t know he was still alive, Mr. Thexton. I swear I didn’t! I thought James had died when his ship caught fire.”
Mr. Thexton’s “Really?” was full of scornful disbelief. “But he told me that he had written to you from South America, assuring you that he had escaped unhurt, and that you had written back to him in reply. At the time of that exchange, you were quite aware that he had not been killed when his ship went down. Granted, that was eighteen months ago. But he still had your letter in his possession when I spoke with him just last month.”
“My . . . my letter?” There was a tearful little gasp. “I didn’t . . . I don’t remember. I’ve been ill. I’ve—”
“Oh, come now, Mrs. Waring. Poor James has been looking everywhere for you. It was very unkind of you to drop out of sight as you did, changing your name and leaving no forwarding address. James has been quite beside himself, searching all over London. Anyone might think that you disappeared deliberately, to avoid being reunited with your lawfully wedded husband.” Another disagreeable chuckle. “I am sure that Major Kittredge will be terribly disappointed to learn that his wife isn’t who she says she is. That she isn’t his wife at all, but somebody else’s. What do you think he’ll do? Will he press charges? Or will he simply pack you off to your husband, where you belong?”
Beatrix bit her lip. Poor Major Kittredge! What was he likely to do?
“Oh!” the lady cried pitiably. “Oh, Mr. Thexton! You wouldn’t tell him! You can’t!”
Mr. Thexton gave an ironic sigh. “I shouldn’t like to, of course. What a wretched string of misfortune the poor chap has had. I should hate to be the one to tell him that the woman he thought was his wife is married to another man.”
“Oh, then don’t!” the lady pleaded desperately. “Don’t tell him!”
“I shall delay until Friday, Mrs. Waring. That will give you ample time to sell some of your fine jewelry.” Mr. Thexton’s voice hardened. “But only until Friday. After that, I shall be forced—oh, quite regretfully, you may be sure—to discuss the matter with Major Kittredge.”
Beatrix heard a man shouting in the distance, and the woman said, “He’s calling for me. I must go back.”
Mr. Thexton chuckled. “Oh, yes, you mustn’t disappoint the major, my dear Mrs. Waring. By all means, go to him. I shouldn’t think you’ll want to tell him anything about our conversation, though. It will be our little secret, won’t it? Just between the two of us. At least until Friday. After that—”
There was a little cry, and the rustle of silk skirts, and then the sound of running footsteps. After a moment, Mr. Thexton began to whistle, tunelessly. He must have walked away, for shortly, Beatrix could hear nothing at all.
She sat very still fo
r quite a long time, thinking what she ought to do. There were two crimes afoot here, involving several different people. Reluctant as she might be to meddle in people’s private affairs, she knew she could not simply go home and forget what she had heard. But what should she do? Confront Mr. Thexton or Mrs. Kittredge—or Mrs. Waring, or whoever she was—with what she had heard, and demand that they do the right thing? Take her story, instead, to Major Kittredge, whom she barely knew, or to the constable, or to Captain Woodcock, the Justice of the Peace? The whole affair was very complicated, and it was difficult to know what was best to do.
At last, she got cautiously onto her knees and peeked over the top of the rock, to be sure that the garden was empty. Then she gathered her pack and her walking stick, put on her hat, and set off.
She did not like to be the bearer of bad news, but Mr. Thexton could not be permitted to blackmail anyone. And Major Kittredge must be told that there was a serious question about the legality of his marriage. She shivered, feeling suddenly apprehensive. There was altogether too much duplicity and deception in this world. Appearances could not be trusted: people were not always who they pretended to be. And even though the sun continued to shine and the sky was just as blue as ever, the day seemed suddenly darker.
And back at Fern Vale Tarn the red squirrel, chittering happily, jumped off the willow branch and scampered across the mossy glade until he came to Miss Potter’s fairy garden-house, where he paused and peered under the canopy. He took one of the berries off one of the acorn plates and nibbled it appreciatively, then skipped across the glen and disappeared under the root of a very large oak tree.
28
Ridley Finds a Fifteen Percent Solution
As you no doubt know by now, Ridley Rattail is by nature a timid, irresolute, and definitely unheroic individual. Throughout his life, he has placed his personal comfort and safety above all other things, above family, friendship, and the society of other rats. Not once in his life has he put someone else first, or exerted himself in any way on another’s behalf, or—I am especially sad to say—offered a helping paw to a rat in need. Ridley has spent his entire existence caring nothing for anyone but Ridley and getting as much for Ridley as he possibly could, and making Ridley’s life as comfortable and convenient as possible. There it is, I’m afraid: we would be hard pressed to find a more selfish and self-satisfied rat in all of the Land between the Lakes—indeed, perhaps in all of England—than Ridley Rattail.
But fate has a mysterious way of offering us opportunities to redeem ourselves, and this occasion has now come to Ridley. A scheme for disposing of the Cat who was wreaking such havoc in the Hill Top attic had been sent to him in a dream—a gift from whatever deity guards and guides the rats of this world—and Ridley now knew what he had to do. The thought of confronting the Cat, of coming anywhere within striking distance of those horrific claws and fangs, might make him feel dizzy and faint, but he knew he could not give in to his fears, or allow himself to delay even one moment. There was no way of predicting how long the Cat was likely to sleep after last night’s battle. Ridley had to act now, and act fast.
So the rat left the sanctuary of Farmer Potatoes’ barn and ran as fast as he could back to Hill Top Farm. But instead of entering Miss Potter’s part of the house, he ducked through a hole in the masonry under the main room of the Jenningses’ addition, a hole made by the rats so they could have easy access to both the old and the new parts of the farmhouse. It was Sunday, and Ridley was well aware that Mr. and Mrs. Jennings and all of their children would be spending the morning attending worship services at St. Peter’s Church in Far Sawrey. In fact, Sunday mornings had always proved an excellent time to raid the Jenningses’ cupboards and pantries, and since Ridley knew his way around the place, he wasted no time in going about his business.
On this particular morning, however, Ridley was not headed for the pantry or the bread shelf or the potato bin. He went straight to the bedroom, and the shelf beside Mrs. Jennings’s side of the bed, where she kept a flat brown bottle of something that Dr. Butters had prescribed to help her get a good night’s rest. The medicine was potent and she did not use it often, for it made her sleep so soundly that she did not hear the children crying or her husband getting up, and she worried that she might even sleep through a fire, if nobody woke her up. The bottle had two labels on it. On one label, there was a cautioning notation:
Not to be administered to infants
And on the other was written:
Laudanum
Ridley could read (hadn’t his dream come from his reading of Miss Potter’s little book about Samuel Whiskers and Anna Maria Rat and Tom Kitten?), but his vocabulary was not very large and while he might be able to sound out a word (laud-a-NUM), he did not always know its meaning. He did not, for example, know that laudanum was a solution of opium poppies prepared with alcohol, usually in a fifteen percent solution, or that it was one of the most powerful narcotics available. He did not know that bottles of the stuff sat on the shelf of almost every household in the country, or that colicky infants were regularly given doses of it (in spite of the caution on the label), or that such famous people as Queen Victoria, Charles Dickens, Lewis Carroll, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning had been addicted to it, or that it was a socially acceptable way of taking opium, which most people recognized as a dangerous drug.
But Ridley did know that whatever was in that brown bottle sent Mrs. Jennings into such a sound sleep that a rat could run across her chin and never wake her, which made it the perfect potion for his purposes. So he stole it, by the simple expedient of chewing a length of string from the string ball Mr. Jennings kept on the mantelpiece, wrapping it three times around the neck of the bottle, taking the free end in his teeth, and pulling the bottle along behind him like a sled—a very clever trick for a rat whose brain was not the biggest.
Dragging the bottle, Ridley went through a hole in the wainscot and into Miss Potter’s part of the house, and from thence made his way up the spiral staircase to the attic. He pushed open the attic door, and stood stock still. Prepared as he was by the stories he had heard from the surviving rats, he was still struck dumb by the sight that met his eyes. As far as he could see, the attic floor was littered with what remained of Custard’s Last Stand: bodies of the dead and wounded, broken lances, snapped cutlasses, splintered cudgels, empty slings, torn flags, bloodied banners, and loose marbles. And everywhere there were the mourners, crying and wailing and bemoaning their losses, picking their way through the rubble to find their loved ones.
Ridley was still staring stunned and speechless at the carnage, when Rosabelle marched up to him, pushed her face up against his, and snarled, in an ugly tone: “What do you think you’re doing here, Ridley Rattail?”
Rosabelle was joined by her sister Bluebell, whose left ear was torn and bleeding. “Yes, why are you here, Ridley?” she cried passionately. “Have you come to celebrate our defeat?”
Ridley was jolted to the bone. “Celebrate?” he cried. “You can’t think that of me, Bluebell! Surely you can’t!”
“Surely we can,” Rosabelle said bitterly. “Now, get out, Ridley. You don’t live here anymore.”
Ridley bowed his head. “I know I don’t,” he said in a voice of great humility. “You were right to evict me, Rosabelle. There is nothing I can say or do that will in any way atone for posting that advertisement. I am a thoroughly wretched rat, a rat of no redeeming virtues. But I can get rid of the Cat who has caused this horror, and I mean to do it.”
By this time, they had been joined by other rats, who—when they heard Ridley’s assertion—burst out in mocking, malicious laughter.
“You?” Bluebell scoffed. “Ridley, the greatest coward who ever wore a tail, thinks he is going to get rid of a Cat who is as fierce as a ferret and strong as an ox? What utter nonsense!”
“You?” cried Bluebell’s friend Maybell. “What can you do to save us? Why, you couldn’t even save yourself, you ridiculous rat!”
An
d even Rosabelle had to agree, although she said it in a kindlier tone. “Don’t be foolish, Ridley. This isn’t your fight now. You’re no match for that cat, any more than we are. Get out of here, and let us mourn our dead in peace.”
But Ridley knew that if he did as he was told, Rosabelle, Bluebell, Maybell, and all the others would shortly be dead. So, ignoring the sneers, jeers, taunts, and teasing that rang in his ears, he began to work at putting his plan into action. To do so required making several more trips down to the Jenningses’ kitchen, first for one thing and then for another.
And finally, on the third trip, he returned with Mr. Jennings’s ball of string. He was ready now to put his fifteen percent solution into operation.
The Cat Who Walks by Himself was in a very fine temper that Sunday morning. After the Battle of Hill Top Attic (as he thought of it), he had come downstairs, washed his paws and ears, and jumped up onto Miss Potter’s featherbed. She tried to push him off as she had the previous night, but he resisted, for while all places were alike to him, any Cat who had a ha’p’worth of sense would prefer a featherbed to a floor.
So, curled into a contented ball of fur, well fed and delightfully warm, the Cat slept a deep, dreamless sleep for the entire night. He didn’t bother to wake when Miss Potter got up, straightened the covers, dressed, and went out for the day. He finally roused himself at midmorning, yawned, stretched, scratched, and jumped up on the windowsill to see what sort of day it was.
The weather was truly glorious, with the sun spilling across the garden, the green hill rising steeply beyond, the sheep grazing contentedly, the animals in the barnyard going busily about their appointed tasks, and everything just right with the small world of Hill Top Farm. It was the sort of day on which a Cat Who Walks by Himself might prefer to go out into the fresh air, have a bit of a dig in the soft earth of a flower bed, relish a tasty green grass salad, sharpen his fine claws on a wooden post, climb a tree, catch a bird, admire his reflection in a puddle, and amuse himself by chasing the mother hens and their baby chicks in the barnyard.
The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood Page 22
