Caroline had been delighted when Miss Potter appeared with Mr. Heelis to give her a lift from school, and astonished to learn that her grandmother had granted permission for her to spend the night at Hill Top Farm—something that had never happened before and seemed like quite a magical thing, all by itself. Deirdre, too, was overjoyed when Mrs. Sutton (at Miss Potter’s request) allowed her not only to take the evening away from her usual duties, but to stay the night at Hill Top. Miss Potter had explained that she wanted to do some drawing and would like to use the girls as models, a request that Mrs. Sutton—who really tried very hard to be a good mother and felt guilty at all the hard work Deirdre was asked to do—was perfectly willing to grant. And since Miss Potter did not like to think herself a complete liar, she did exactly what she told Mrs. Sutton she would do: she drew the girls as they gathered rue, lavender, thyme, rosemary, primroses, and hawthorn in the garden.
In after years, when Caroline had grown up to be a lady (although not at all the sort of lady her grandmother envisioned), she had a thousand magical nights upon which to reflect. Of course, I can’t tell you what these were, because they hadn’t happened at the time of our story. But it is safe to say that Caroline would always remember this May Eve as the most enchanted—and one of the most exciting—of all the nights of her long life.
To the west, the sun had transformed the sky into a remarkable tissue of gold and purple, colors that lingered behind long after the sun had gone to rest. To the east, a blue haze hung over Claife Heights, and a full, round moon floated up like a silver balloon. The evening breeze, sweet and cool, brushed her face with easy fingers. Somewhere a thrush was singing, and nearer at hand, a cuckoo reminded them that the wheel of the year had turned, bringing back the long, slow twilights of summer, when the pale sky would not darken enough to see the stars until nearly eleven.
And with all this, Caroline (who was following behind Deirdre on the woodland path) kept remembering what had happened on Saturday. She was no closer to understanding than she had been then, and no matter how much and how often she and Deirdre had talked about it (and that had been almost constantly whenever they were together), they were both still completely mystified. Not even Jeremy, who always had an opinion about things—especially things that couldn’t be seen, like the North Pole and the wireless—could offer an explanation. But now it was May Eve at last, and they were returning to the magical glen, and Miss Potter was with them, and perhaps the mystery would be solved. Having Miss Potter along made that seem more likely, somehow. She was the sort of person who could make impossibilities happen, like obtaining Grandmama’s permission to stay all night at Hill Top Farm, or solving the mystery of the riddle pinned to the oak tree.
Deirdre, walking in front of Caroline and behind Jeremy, was also very glad that Miss Potter had agreed to come along. Not that she was afraid of the dark. Eleven was far too old for that, and anyway, there was enough light to see where they were going, at least until they reached the darkest woods and the path took them under the tall trees near the top of Claife Heights. No, it was something else. If there were fairies in the glen (and after what had happened on Saturday, how could it be doubted?), Deirdre suspected that they were more likely to show themselves to Miss Potter than to anyone else in the world—if only because they would be afraid not to. Miss Potter was that kind of person, somehow. She took it entirely for granted that the fairies would be there and that was simply that, no questions asked or answered.
And Jeremy, who had taken the lead as they went up the path, was also still in the dark, figuratively speaking, about Saturday. No matter how much thought he had given the matter (and he had given it quite a lot), he had never quite got things entirely sorted in his mind. He had not the least idea of what they might encounter tonight, either, whether magic or fairies or something else altogether. In fact, he had to own to being glad that Miss Potter had come along, for she was the least likely of all of them to be taken in by whatever chicanery was afoot. He had not forgotten how she had defended him against Miss Crabbe’s accusation of theft, and he knew her to be clear-eyed, strong-minded, and unafraid. She would see through any sort of underhanded nonsense in a flash, whilst all three of them were still blinded by their belief (or half a belief, he thought ruefully) in magic.
And Miss Potter? Well, having believed in fairies when she was a child and continuing to believe in the creative power of the imagination, she was not at all bothered by the possibility that she and the children might see something they didn’t understand. So she was quite content to let Jeremy and Rascal take the lead while she herself brought up the rear of their little caravan, enjoying the magical sights and sounds of twilight, even though she didn’t know where they were going. Indeed (and it is important to remember this), neither Deirdre nor Caroline had told her (or would have been able to tell her, even if they wanted to!) the exact location of the magical glen. All they had said was that it was a green place on the shore of a lake at the top of Cuckoo Brow Wood, a little distance from Raven Hall. So Beatrix had only a general idea of where they were going, which was through Cuckoo Brow Wood to the tarn at the top of Claife Heights.
It was with some surprise, then, that she began to recognize the path they were taking as the very same path that she had followed on Sunday morning. And when they reached the top of the mossy bank and slid down the other side into the green and magical silence of the glade on the shore of Fern Vale Tarn, she knew that her fairy glade and the children’s fairy glade—the place where they had discovered the riddle pinned to a tree with a silver knife—were one and the same.
Which was rather nice, of course, except that it meant that the children were about to discover the fanciful garden-house she had built, with its fern-roofed canopy and table and toadstools and acorn cups full of berries, and were bound to think it had been built by enterprising Folk planning to picnic out in the open.
And that, of course, is exactly what happened, before Beatrix could open her mouth to explain. Deirdre was the first to see it, and flew to it with shouts of delight. “A fairy house!” she cried, falling onto her knees. “Look, oh, look! They’ve left it for us to find! It’s proof they’ve been here!” She looked up, her eyes shining. “Why, this is as good as seein’ a fairy! It means I’ve still got me mum’s gift!”
“Miss Potter?” Caroline whispered, reaching for Beatrix’s hand. “Do you suppose it’s real?” She looked up into Beatrix’s face, the question huge in her eyes.
And Beatrix, who had been about to say that she had visited this very same glen and had made the little garden-house herself, just for a lark, found herself saying instead, “It certainly looks real to me, Caroline.” She let go of the girl’s hand and gave her a little push. “Take a look and see what you think.”
Jeremy, with Rascal at his knee, was looking on with surprise and incredulity written across his face. “Do you think,” he said very seriously, “that the fairies are here? If they are, maybe I could make a wish, even though I can’t see them.” He glanced around. “Of course, it’s hard to tell what shape they’re in. Perhaps I’m looking right at them.”
“Do wish, Jeremy,” Rascal barked encouragingly. “It certainly can’t hurt.”
Beatrix said quietly, “I’m sure it’s possible. Wishing never harmed anyone, as far as I’ve been able to learn, and it requires such a little expenditure of effort. All one has to do is do it.”
So Jeremy closed his eyes, clenched his hands, and whispered something so low that Beatrix could not hear it, although she was sure she knew what it was. And then he opened his eyes again and said distinctly, “The knife.”
“The knife?” Beatrix asked.
“The silver knife we found on the tree, pinning the riddle. We hid it.” He went toward the twisted tangle of roots at the foot of a large oak. “It should be right here.” He poked around for a moment, then said excitedly, “But it isn’t where we put it! It’s gone!”
Deirdre, still on her knees in front of Beatrix
’s garden-house, looked up at Jeremy. “Of course it’s gone,” she said matter-of-factly. “The fairies took it back.”
“But where are they?” Caroline asked, looking around. “Why won’t they show themselves?”
“Because they’re dwelves,” Rascal explained, “and not to be trusted.” He glanced nervously over his shoulder. “It’s probably better that we don’t see them, if it’s all the same to you. We have no idea what form they’re going to take or—”
“Hush, Rascal!” Jeremy commanded. He cocked his head. “I hear voices.”
“Right over there,” Caroline said, pointing. “At the end of the lake!”
“It’s them!” Deirdre gasped, jumping to her feet, her eyes nearly starting out of her head. “It’s the fairies!”
But it wasn’t. Beatrix recognized the voices as human voices, and knew that they came from the path at the foot of the Raven Hall garden. One voice was easily recognizable: the throaty, petulant voice of Mrs. Kittredge, now known to be Irene Waring. The other voice was . . . Beatrix frowned. She had heard that voice before. It belonged to Mr. Augustus Richardson, the toadlike gentleman who planned to build the villas on the shore of Lake Windermere!
He was saying, “I’ve brought the horses, my dear, as you requested—although I should have thought a carriage would have been more comfortable for you.”
“Someone might have heard the wheels on the gravel,” Irene Waring replied in a guarded tone. “And I am dressed to ride astride.” She gave a low chuckle. “As you can see, I am wearing trousers. Where have you put the horses?”
“They are hidden under the fir trees, in the place where the carriages were parked during the reception on Saturday. Do you have your things?”
“My bag is packed. It’s hidden in the pantry.”
“And the gems? You managed to get them out of the safe?”
Beatrix pulled in her breath. The gems? The Kittredge family jewels?
“Of course I have them,” Irene Waring snapped. “Do you take me for a fool? I’m not leaving this appalling place without something to show for all the time and effort I’ve put into this business. And I’m not going back to James Waring, either. That’s all over and done with. The jewels will allow me a comfortable living in France.”
“Your half of the jewels, you mean,” Mr. Richardson remarked in a dry tone. “They are part of our bargain, as you recall. Now that the villas are out of the picture, I require something for my time and effort, as well.”
“Yes, of course. Wait for me here. I’ll get my things and join you—it will take me seven or eight minutes. And then we’ll go to the horses.”
Seven or eight minutes! That didn’t give them much time. Beatrix grasped Jeremy’s arm. “I need your help,” she said urgently. “Can you run fast?”
“Of course,” Jeremy said. “As the wind. Well, almost,” he amended.
Beatrix gave him instructions, then turned to the girls. “I would like you to stay here,” she said, “and keep a sharp eye out. There’s no predicting what you might see, but above all, you must keep yourselves hidden.”
“Yes, Miss Potter,” the girls chorused.
“Thank you,” Beatrix said. She looked down at Rascal. “You stay here and guard the girls,” she said. “We’ll be back as soon as we can.”
The exact sequence of affairs over the next few minutes is rather confused, so perhaps I will tell it one bit at a time, rather than trying to put it into its original jumble. It was Jeremy, of course, who ran as fast as he could (not quite as fast as the wind, but almost) round to the front door of Raven Hall, where he rang the bell and, when the butler appeared, insisted on seeing the major immediately, at the urgent request of Miss Beatrix Potter—all of which took (although I wasn’t watching my watch) approximately five minutes, perhaps six. After that, it was two minutes more before the major could be summoned from his smoking room, where he was enjoying a cigar. Jeremy’s story took another two minutes (because he had to tell it twice, to be believed), and another two minutes for the major to summon a suitable party for pursuit. And then they all had to run out a side entrance (Jeremy, the major, the butler, the valet, and the boot boy) and through the woods to the place where the carriages had been parked, some four minutes away. This entire business took—oh, let us say, some sixteen minutes, more or less. Which means that Mrs. Waring and Mr. Richardson, had they been undeterred, would have already reached their horses, mounted, and ridden off with the Kittredge family jewels.
But Miss Potter had another plan. As Jeremy ran for the front door of Raven Hall, she ran for the carriage park, taking care to be silent, so that Mr. Augustus Richardson, who was pacing up and down in the garden, smoking a cigarette, would not hear her. Beatrix was hardly as fleet-footed as Jeremy (one does not have much occasion to run in London), but she managed to reach the trees where the horses were hidden in just under seven minutes. She was quite out of breath, to be sure, and she had a painful stitch in her side, but these slight disabilities did not keep her from accomplishing what had to be done in the space of five minutes.
The horses were curious, of course, and swung their heads round to see who this person was and what she was doing. But Beatrix rubbed their necks and spoke a few quiet words into their pricked ears and they listened and nodded and agreed. After all, horses (while they are often used by people with evil intentions) are honest creatures who do not like the idea of being involved in larceny, and were actually quite pleased to see what Miss Potter was doing. When she had done what she came to do, she slipped back into the shadows, sat down on a stump to catch her breath, and waited to see what would happen next.
While Jeremy was fetching the major and Miss Potter was managing the horses and Mr. Richardson was smoking a cigarette and pacing back and forth in the garden, Irene Waring was getting her bag (filled mostly with the jewels, as well as the few pieces of silver that had not gone off to Edinburgh with the thieving steward). As she had predicted, it had taken seven minutes to get her bag out of the pantry and join Mr. Richardson, and they set off.
Always the gentleman, he offered to carry the heavy bag, but she refused. “What?” she said, laughing unpleasantly. “Give you a chance to run off with the loot? Not on your life, sir!”
“Not my intention!” Mr. Richardson protested, but Irene Waring was clutching the bag very tightly and he did not pursue the matter.
The lady and gentleman were nearly as fleet as Miss Potter (who was really quite unused to running) so they reached the horses in only ten minutes. All that was left was to climb into their saddles and ride off down the lane. No wonder Irene Waring was looking forward so confidently to establishing herself in France on her half of the stolen jewels, or that Mr. Richardson was anticipating using his share to purchase some land that was just coming up for sale at the southern end of Lake Windermere, where the syndicate might build its villas, after all.
But things did not turn out as Irene Waring intended. For when she put her foot into the stirrup to lift herself onto the horse, the saddle—without any warning at all!—slid all the way round under the belly of the horse. She was suddenly and unceremoniously flung onto the gravel of the carriage park, flat on her back. Her red hair had come loose and the breath was knocked out of her.
And in that moment, quick as a wink, Mr. Richardson seized the advantage. He snatched up the fallen bag of jewels and silver and strode to his horse. “There appears to be some sort of difficulty about your saddle, my dear,” he said with an ironic chuckle. He untied his horse and gathered the reins. “How very regrettable.”
Irene Waring suddenly found her voice, and spit out some very nasty names which I will not repeat here. “You cad!” she cried furiously (or words to that effect). “You rascal! You cur!” She scrambled to her feet. “You sabotaged my saddle! You meant to make off with the jewels all along!”
“I did nothing of the sort,” Mr. Richardson protested, as he slung the bag onto his horse’s back. “But you are clearly unhorsed, and there
is no time to spare. Forgive me, dear Irene, but I must be off.” And with that, he leapt gracefully into the saddle.
But this did not turn out as Mr. Richardson intended, either, for he was not even settled in the saddle when it slid away underneath him. With a sharp cry, he tumbled onto the ground on the other side of his horse, landing with a decisive thump.
Which gave Irene Waring the opportunity to seize the bag of jewels and use it to beat Mr. Richardson about the head and shoulders, which must have been quite painful, for the bag was heavy. He got to his feet and hunched over, trying to ward off her blows, remonstrating with her loudly. But there was no stopping her. In fact, she might have beat the poor fellow senseless if she had not been interrupted by a sudden firm command from the shadows under the trees.
“Hold there, you scoundrels!” It was Major Kittredge. “Stop, thieves! You’re not getting away with this!”
Irene Waring screamed, dropped the bag, and turned to run. Mr. Richardson reached into his pocket for the gun he had hidden there, but just as he was drawing it out, he was tackled by the butler and boot boy and roughly wrestled to the ground. Major Kittredge’s valet grasped Irene Waring’s arms and pinned them behind her.
“He did it!” she shrieked piteously. “He stole them, Christopher! I was only trying to get them back so I could return them to you.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” Mr. Richardson growled. “She burgled them out of your safe, Kittredge. I confiscated them on your behalf.”
“Quite,” said the major dryly. “Come on, you two. We’ll see what Captain Woodcock has to say about this.”
The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood Page 27
