Miss Potter gave her a direct look. “I’ve asked them to stay on,” she said, “although we shall have to work out the details of living arrangements.”
“Perhaps,” Rose Sutton ventured, “they could take Miss Tolliver’s cottage. She died, as I suppose you know, very suddenly and mysteriously, only last week.”
Miss Potter cleared her throat. “Yes, I know,” she said in a low voice. “It was quite a shock to hear of her death.”
“What did she die of?” Rose asked Dimity. “I don’t think I heard.”
“That’s what we’d all like t’ know,” Mathilda remarked in a meaningful tone. “Nivver sick a day in her life.”
“It was her heart, Dr. Butters said,” Dimity replied, picking up the plate of sponge cakes that Elsa had just put down. “More cake, Vicar?”
“It wasn’t poison, then,” Rose said, and gave a nervous little laugh. “One always wonders, doesn’t one? When it’s unexpected, I mean.” She laughed again, looking from one to the other. “It’s the sort of question Sherlock Holmes would ask.”
Dimity looked up to see that Elsa was standing with the kettle in her hand, listening intently to the conversation. “Thank you, Elsa,” Dimity said, taking the kettle. “That will be all for the moment.” When Elsa had reluctantly left the room, Dimity returned to the conversation.
“I should have thought, Rose,” Miss Crabbe was saying, “that your children would keep you so busy that you wouldn’t have time for those silly detective stories.”
“Oh, but they’re such fun, Miss Crabbe,” Rose protested. “Everyone likes a mystery. And surely there’s no harm in a little entertainment.”
“The harm is in wasting one’s time,” Miss Crabbe replied sternly. “One should read to improve one’s mind, not just to entertain oneself. For instance, I am reading a wonderful book about genealogy, called—” She frowned. “Bother. I can’t remember the title, exactly, and the author’s name escapes me, which is odd, since I never forget an author’s name. But it was an enormously enriching book, and well worth anyone’s time to read. I have recommended it to both of my sisters. It—”
“I’m afraid there’s no chance of getting Anvil Cottage for the Jenningses,” Dimity interrupted hurriedly, for Miss Crabbe showed every sign of launching into one of her lectures. “Mr. Roberts will ask a pretty penny for it.”
The conversation turned to other village matters. Mathilda Crook told Dimity that her hens were laying unusually well for the time of year, and if she were in need of some large brown eggs, to send Elsa Grape with a basket. Margaret Nash, in a low voice, offered to lend Rose Sutton The Return of Sherlock Holmes, which had only been published the month before. And the vicar, in a very confidential whisper, asked Grace Lythecoe whether she had noticed that the Parish Register was missing from its accustomed place and wondered if she might possibly have a clue as to its whereabouts.
“The Register?” Grace asked, startled. “Oh, dear! No, I don’t have the foggiest, I’m afraid. You don’t suppose someone took it, do you?”
“That’s the only explanation I can think of.” The vicar sighed heavily. “But I can’t imagine who would want it, or why. Now, if it were the chalice cup gone missing, I could understand it, for the cup is fine silver and very old. But it’s not the cup, it’s the Register, and I really can’t think what to do about it.”
“I understand that you don’t want to raise a general alarm,” Grace said. “But it might be well to spread the word. Quietly, of course.”
The vicar glanced at Miss Crabbe, who was popping the last sponge into her mouth. “Perhaps I should ask Miss Crabbe. Her sisters are often in the church, since both of them are involved with the Choral Society. And she has had occasion to—”
“Another cup of tea, Vicar?” Dimity asked, going round once more with the pot.
These changes of subject were much to Beatrix’s relief, for she had not expected to be the center of attention at so large a gathering. She had felt quite out of place and awkward, especially when Miss Crabbe and Mrs. Crook began to criticize her drawings for such silly reasons. But now everyone was talking to someone else about other things, and she could simply watch and listen and rather enjoy herself. She decided that she liked Rose Sutton (Beatrix herself had devoured every single one of the Sherlock Holmes stories), and Margaret Nash, who had a practical, down-to-earth air. She was already acquainted with Grace Lythecoe and Dimity Woodcock, both of whom she wanted to know better, and with Mathilda Crook, whom she did not, as least, not especially. The vicar was a fuss-budget but kindly. And Miss Crabbe—
Beatrix suppressed a smile. With her gray hair, very long nose, and reproachful glance, Miss Crabbe reminded her of a cross old stork who couldn’t quite remember where she had delivered the most recent arrival, and hated to admit it.
Given her interest in Sherlock Holmes, Beatrix might also have been interested in the conversation that was taking place in the kitchen, among the three friends who had gathered at the scrubbed-pine table. Elsa Grape was pouring tea for her sister-in-law, Bertha Stubbs, the Sawrey School caretaker, and Hannah Braithwaite, the wife of the local police constable. Like Elsa, both Hannah and Bertha had healthy curiosities. Because little of importance ever happened in the village, anything out of the ordinary—a wandering cow, a new hat or a new baby, or a death—was a matter for vigorous discussion.
“Poison!” Bertha Stubbs exclaimed, with just the right mixture of frozen horror and wide-eyed enjoyment, when Elsa had told them what Mrs. Sutton had said upstairs.
“Poison?” Hannah Braithwaite repeated doubtfully. “Really, now, Elsa. Mr. Braithwaite didn’t mention anything ’bout poison, and tha’d think he’d know, him bein’ t’ constable an’ all. If that’s what she died of, I mean.”
“I didn’t say Miss Tolliver died of poison.” Elsa sat down at the table and picked up her teacup. “I only said that Rose Sutton said she wondered. Doctor Butters didn’t seem to think so, though. He told Cap’n Woodcock that Miss Tolliver’s heart just stopped.” She paused. “It’s awful’y queer, though. What would make a person’s heart just stop? There’s got to be a reason.”
“Mappen Dr. Butters doan’t know what made it stop,” Bertha Stubbs replied significantly, helping herself to the last jam tart. She pinched off a piece and gave it to her cat Crumpet, who had followed her into the kitchen and taken up a place just under the edge of the tablecloth.
“Thank you,” Crumpet said politely. She liked Elsa Grape’s jam tarts and found her way into Elsa’s kitchen as often as possible.
“Doan’t know?” Hannah asked, pulling her brows together. “But he’s a doctor, and doctors are s’posed t’ understand about things like that.”
“But there’s secret poisons,” Bertha replied in a mysterious voice. “And there’s accidental poisons, and poisons of all sorts. Remember when auld Mr. Davies died at Stone Well Cottage a few years ago? That was accidental poison, or so ’twas said. His daughter-in-law gave him a tea that had foxglove leaves in it. Stopped his heart, quick as tha please.” She frowned. “O’ course, there were others who said that t’ daughter-in-law brewed it a-purpose, ’cause t’ old man was sick and sufferin’. They had her up ’fore t’ magistrate in Hawkshead, and Dr. Butters had to testify. But t’ jury couldn’t decide whether she meant to kill him or not, so they had to let her go. ’Twas a real percadillo.”
“A predicament?” Elsa asked doubtfully.
“Whatever,” Bertha replied, with a wave of her hand.
Crumpet was more interested in something else Bertha had said. “Foxglove?” she exclaimed. “My goodness gracious! Why, there’s a patch of foxglove growing in Miss Tolliver’s garden, right beside the path!”
Elsa frowned. “Now that tha mentions it, Miss Tolliver did tell me once that she used foxglove regular, to strengthen her heart. But she said she was always careful with it, ’cause it was dangerous. I doan’t think she’d’ve done it accidental-like. If she was poisoned, like Bertha says, it had to be
somebody else done it.”
“I didn’t say she was def’nitely poisoned,” Bertha said stiffly. “I was just spectacularizing, is all.”
“Speculating,” Crumpet amended.
Hannah shook her head, frowning. “But who would do such a thing? And why? Miss Tolliver was t’ very soul of kindness.”
“Who?” Elsa gave them both a knowing look. “Doan’t tha read t’ newspaper? People kill other people because they think they’re going to get something out of it.”
Bertha leaned forward. “That fat nephew from Kendal, for instance, who’s getting t’ cottage, and any money Miss Tolliver had. A draper, he is, name of Henry Roberts. If anybody did it, he did.”
Crumpet was so excited that she jumped into Bertha’s lap and stared her right in the face. “Roberts is the man I saw the other night, when I was out hunting. He was trying to climb through the casement window at the back of Anvil Cottage.”
“Ay, that one,” Elsa remarked, rolling her eyes. “Miss Tolliver told me once that her sisters’s side of t’ family was always after her about money, but they weren’t going to get a penny out of her, alive or dead.” She folded her arms and sat back, satisfied. “Alive or dead. Her words ’xactly.”
“Get down, Crumpet,” Bertha said in a scolding tone, pushing the cat out of her lap. “Tha knows better than to make yersel a nuisance in somebody else’s kitchen.” She turned to Hannah. “Ye’re sure Constable Braithwaite hasn’t said anything ’bout how she died, Hannah?”
Crumpet gave a low, disgruntled meow. “I wish, just for once,” she said crossly, “that you would try to understand me, Bertha Stubbs. I tell you, that man Roberts was trying to break into Anvil Cottage!”
“I’m sure,” Hannah said. “But I’ll ask him, I will, when he comes home t’ supper.” She cast a look at Elsa, changing the subject. “What does tha think o’ Miss Potter, Elsa? I saw Becky Jennings at t’ village shop this morning, and she says Miss Potter has asked ’em to stay on at Hill Top Farm.”
“Humans!” Crumpet exclaimed in disgust. “There’s no point in telling you anything.” And she stalked out the door, her tail held straight up, twitching the tip to show her displeasure. She only went as far as the porch, though, where she sat down and curled her tail around her front paws, watching a beetle move ponderously across the flagstone and half-listening to the conversation.
“Miss Potter seems a nice sort,” Elsa replied, in an appraising tone. “Pretty enough, but plain, if tha takes my meaning. Seems not to care o’er-much for t’ way she looks.”
Crumpet put out a paw and flicked the beetle over on its back. It was always so much fun to watch the little legs waving frantically in the air.
“Aye, I recall that about her,” Bertha said. “She was in my sitting room, y’ know, drawing my cupboard. Made some pictures of my cat, too.” She shook her head. “Seemed reet queer t’ me, it did. Tha’d think a rich London lady would care more for curls and pretty frocks than cupboards and tabby cats.”
Crumpet flipped the beetle right-side-up again and watched it run in mad circles. Beetles were barmy. Always good for a laugh.
“She put that cat of yours into her latest book,” Elsa replied. “Big as life and twice as nat’ral. I didn’t see it mesel, but they was sayin’ so, upstairs. G’ve it a diff’rent name, though. Pippy Ribstone, or something like that.”
“My cat?” Bertha asked, breaking into a pleased smile. “My gray Crumpet, ye mean?”
Crumpet abandoned the beetle and trotted back into the kitchen. “Yes, that’s right,” she said proudly. “Miss Potter told me herself.”
“That’s t’ one,” Elsa said. She looked down at Crumpet, who was rubbing herself against the leg of a chair. “Cats are funny, aren’t they? She knows we’re talking about her.”
“Fancy Crumpet, in a book.” Bertha was shaking her head in amazement. “I reckon I’ll have to buy it and send it to my cousin Ruth. She’s allus braggin’ ’bout how pretty that Persian cat of hers is, though she’s a poor mouser, not near as good our Sawrey cats.” She looked down at Crumpet and laughed uproariously. “What d’ye think, Crumpet? You’re famous! And Ruth’ll be that jealous, she’ll turn green as gooseberries. She woan’t be doin’ any more braggin’ on that silly auld Persian of hers.”
“Well, it is rather nice to have one’s better qualities recognized,” Crumpet purred happily. “I won’t let it go to my head, though, the way some would do.”
“Are t’ Jennings goin’ t’ stay at t’ farm?” Elsa asked curiously. “If they’re not, I have a bachelor cousin who’d be interested.”
“A bachelor woan’t do at all, Elsa,” Bertha said disapprovingly. “Miss Potter couldn’t stay in t’ same house with a man. Wouldn’t be at all proper, now, would it? Even if she is an auld maid. Wonder why she never married. Tha’d think somebody as rich as her would’ve had lots of chances.”
Hannah frowned. “Mr. Jennings wants to stay and farm, Becky says. T’ trouble is t’ house. Miss Potter wants it for hersel, which she’s not to be blamed for, o’ course, since it’s her money what’s payin’ for it. But if she takes t’ house, where are t’ Jennings to go?”
Elsa sighed with pleasure and poured another cup of tea all around. It was very agreeable to have so many interesting things to discuss, and all at the same time, too.
7
Tabitha Twitchit Has a Bright Idea
Crumpet also had something interesting and important to discuss, and she hunted and called until she located Tabitha Twitchit and Rascal in the garden at Belle Green, lounging lazily on the grass and watching Edward Horsley, who was building a pen for Miss Potter’s animals. It took only a moment to summarize what she and the ginger cat had seen in the back garden at Anvil Cottage, what people were saying about poisons, and what she knew about the foxglove in Miss Tolliver’s garden. And of course, she thought it necessary to say that Miss Potter had put her into the latest book, although she didn’t mention that Miss Potter had changed her name.
Tabitha Twitchit sat up straight, narrowing her eyes and laying her ears flat against her head. “You’re in a book? Why?”
“Because I’m clever, I suppose.” Crumpet lifted her paw, admiring her sharp claws. “I’m also a superb mouser, of course.”
“No better a mouser than I am,” Tabitha snapped. “Last night, I caught two in Mrs. Crook’s larder.”
“That’s nothing!” Crumpet retorted tartly. “The other night, the ginger cat and I—”
“Girls, girls!” Rascal barked. “Stop the babblement this instant! Crumpet, are you sure it was Henry Roberts who was trying to break into Anvil Cottage? I know cats can see in the dark, but it’s been pitch black the last several nights.”
Crumpet paused, wanting to answer as honestly as she could. “It’s true that it was awf’lly dark,” she admitted. “What I saw was a very short, very stout man trying to push himself through the window at the back of the cottage. Who else could it have been but that Roberts fellow?”
“Well, did he get in or didn’t he?” Rascal asked.
“I don’t know,” Crumpet said, beginning to feel defensive. “A vole scurried past just about that time, and I was distracted for a few minutes.” The vole had been very fat and very tasty—a distraction worth the effort. “When I looked back, he was gone.”
“You mentioned poison,” Tabitha said, frowning. “What’s that about?”
“All I know,” Crumpet said with a dark look at Tabitha, “is what I’ve already told you. People are wondering whether Miss Tolliver might have been poisoned with foxglove, accidentally or . . .” She did not finish her sentence.
Tabitha flicked her tail, giving Crumpet an irritated glance. “I am quite sure that Miss Tolliver did not poison herself accidentally. Yes, she used foxglove, but she knew it was dangerous and she was always especially careful with it.” She sighed. “As I said, she was eating a teacake someone sent her and reading a letter when she died. And she hadn’t taken any medicine at all that
evening. She seemed to be feeling quite well. It was her birthday, and she had enjoyed the party.”
“Did the letter come with the cakes?” Crumpet asked.
Tabitha frowned. “No, I don’t think so. If I remember rightly, the teacakes arrived on the day before the birthday party, and the letter in the afternoon post.”
“I wonder . . .” Rascal said, and stopped, cocking his head to one side, his bright eyes intent.
“Wonder what?” Crumpet asked. When Rascal looked like that, he was usually thinking something important.
“Whether somebody put something in those cakes.” Rascal frowned. “Remember Old Ebenezer the shepherd, up on Raven Crag? He put poison into a sheep’s carcass and murdered the vixen and three of her little fox kits.” He spoke fiercely, for Jack Russell terriers were bred to chase foxes, and Rascal often went out with the Hunt. He had developed a very great fondness for the foxes on the fells, who allowed the dogs to chase them and give the hunters an exciting day’s pursuit. The thought of anyone poisoning a fox turned his stomach.
Crumpet turned to Tabitha, beginning to feel that this was a matter that needed looking into. “Who sent those cakes, Tabitha? It wasn’t that Roberts fellow, was it?”
“I have no idea,” Tabitha replied. “I was so shocked and upset about poor Miss Tolliver that I didn’t even think to take a look at the packet and see who might have sent it.”
“You couldn’t have read the address, anyway,” Crumpet said. She batted at a moth that had landed on a blade of grass at her feet. It annoyed her when Tabitha put on airs.
Tabitha twitched her whiskers disdainfully. “That’s all you know, Crumpet. I have spent a great many afternoons perched on the back of Miss Tolliver’s chair whilst she read out loud to the village children. I might not know every single word, but I could make an educated guess.” She stood up to stretch, showing off her calico markings. “I have an idea. Do you two want to hear it?”
“Of course,” Rascal said eagerly. He was always ready for any new adventure. “What do you have in mind?”
The Tale of Hill Top Farm Page 9
