The Tale of Hill Top Farm

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Crumpet didn’t say anything. She was wishing she had taken the trouble to look over Mrs. Stubbs’ shoulder when she read the Westmoreland Gazette out loud to Mr. Stubbs in the evening. If Tabitha Twitchit could learn to read, she certainly could, too. And then she’d be able to read what Miss Potter had written about her.

  “I’ll wager Anvil Cottage is just as it was left after Miss Tolliver died,” Tabitha said in a conspiratorial tone. “I think we should take a look at that package and see who sent it. Want to go with me?

  “But the cottage is locked,” Crumpet objected. “And Mrs. Lythecoe has the only key. I heard her tell Mr. Roberts so.”

  “Of course it’s locked,” Tabitha replied. “But I know a secret way in, don’t I?”

  Rascal gave three excited yips. “I say, Tabitha, old girl, that’s a topping idea!”

  “We should wait until dark,” Crumpet said cautiously. She always hated it when somebody else’s ideas were better than hers—Tabitha’s, especially. “We don’t want anybody to see us going in.”

  “Don’t be such a scaredy-cat, Crumpet,” Tabitha scoffed. “Nobody pays any attention to a pair of cats and a dog. As long as we stay out of the Big Folks’ way, we can go anywhere we like.”

  “Right-o!” Rascal exclaimed. “Tally-ho, girls!” And he was off.

  Crumpet had to admit that Tabitha might be onto something. And since she didn’t want to be left behind, she joined the others as they scrambled under the fence and dashed off down the hill.

  Seeing them go, Edward Horsley put down his hammer and straightened up. “Wonder what got into that lot all of a sudden,” he remarked out loud. He shook his head. “Funny things, them little creatures. Sometimes you’d think they was ivver bit as smart as people.”

  Tabitha Twitchit found the expedition to Anvil Cottage interesting, in more ways than even she might have anticipated. Feeling quite proud of herself, she showed Crumpet and Rascal the hidden opening in the stonework at the back of Miss Tolliver’s kitchen, which she had always used as her own private come-and-go-as-you-please door. She went through first, with Crumpet following after. And although Rascal found it a bit of a squeeze, he managed almost as easily, for Jack Russells can never resist the opportunity to squirm through narrow openings.

  Feeling rather melancholy at the sight of her old home, Tabitha led them through the cozy kitchen—cold now, since there had been no fire in the range for several days—and down the hall to the sitting room. The cottage held all the pleasant smells of home: lavender, Earl Grey tea, washing-up soap, lemon-oil furniture polish. Tabitha felt a sudden pang, remembering how many happy evenings she and Miss Tolliver had spent together in front of the fire.

  “It doesn’t look as if anything’s been changed,” she said, as they went into the sitting room. She frowned. “Although . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Although what?” Crumpet demanded.

  “Something isn’t quite right,” Tabitha said uneasily. “I’m not sure what, but—”

  “Never mind,” Rascal said, impatient. “Where are the cakes?”

  “Up here,” Tabitha said, and a surprisingly easy grace for a cat of her advanced age, she jumped up on the table and sniffed at a cardboard box, empty now except for a trace of crumbs. There was a trail of crumbs on the table, as well.

  “I’m afraid the mice have been here.” She shook her head, disapproving. “I’ve always done my best to keep them in their place, but the minute I’m off somewhere, or busy about other things, they will take advantage.”

  The look Crumpet gave Tabitha was clearly disdainful. Tabitha sighed. She knew that Crumpet, who was younger and a great deal more competitive, would never tolerate even one mouse in the house. She herself found them occasionally useful, though, and felt that it was good to cultivate a working relationship with them.

  Rascal, not so graceful as Tabitha, scrambled up on a chair, put his paws on the table, his nose twitching as it always did when he was on a scent. He took a deep breath, then frowned. “If there’s something poisonous here,” he said, “I don’t smell it.” He sneezed, having inhaled one crumb too many.

  Crumpet leapt up beside Rascal. “Just a minute,” she said, the tip of her tail flicking back and forth. “If the cakes were poisoned, any mice that nibbled on them ought to be dead. Right?”

  “Right!” Tabitha cried, and jumped off the table. Trotting to the corner behind the chair, she tapped the floor with her paw and meowed several times, authoritatively. Then she put her ear to the wall, listened for a moment, and meowed again.

  Rascal hurried over to join her. “What are they saying?” he asked. Tabitha knew he didn’t have much respect for mice and had never bothered to learn their language.

  “Nothing of any real consequence,” Tabitha reported with a toss of her head. “Mice are such silly creatures, chattering endlessly about the weather, the food, the neighbors. But apparently they all ate the cakes, and nobody’s been reported sick. Which means—”

  “Which means that the cakes weren’t poisoned,” Crumpet replied, from the vantage point of the table. “So there’s no point in trying to figure out who sent them. But you mentioned a letter, Tabitha, and there’s one right here.” She put her paw on it. “Maybe it will give us a clue.”

  But it turned out that although Tabitha Twitchit could read words printed in a book, handwritten words in a letter were an entirely different matter.

  “Oh, dear,” she murmured, after studying the page top-to-bottom for several moments, then turning herself to study it bottom-to-top. “I’m afraid I can’t make head nor tail of this. These little marks and squiggles—they’re all Greek to me.”

  Crumpet looked down her nose as if she wanted to say “I told you so” out loud. But she only flicked her gray tail. “I suppose we’ll need to think of a way to get a human to read this for us. Perhaps we could—”

  “What’s that noise?” interrupted Rascal urgently.

  “It must be that dreadful man,” Crumpet hissed, the gray fur rising along her back. “The one I saw last night. He’s trying to climb in the window again!”

  “It’s not the window,” Tabitha said. She might be older, but her hearing was just as acute as Crumpet’s. “It’s someone at the front door, someone with a key.”

  Impetuously, Rascal launched himself off the chair. “I’ll take care of whoever-it-is! I’ll show him my teeth! I’ll have a nip of—”

  “No, Rascal!” Tabitha exclaimed. “Let’s hide and see what he’s up to!” And she darted behind the green sofa, with Crumpet and Rascal close behind. The animals crouched down, making themselves very small.

  But it wasn’t that dreadful man, after all. A moment later, the sitting room door opened and Mrs. Lythecoe came in, accompanied by Miss Potter. They were talking about a book that Mrs. Lythecoe had loaned to Miss Tolliver—a new book called A Rambler’s Notebook at the English Lakes, by Canon Rawnsley—which she had come to retrieve.

  Mrs. Lythecoe shivered, feeling saddened by the empty chill of the cottage and the even emptier feeling of Miss Tolliver’s absence. She went to the shelf beside the window and found the book.

  “Here it is, Miss Potter,” she said, picking it up. “There are some lovely descriptions of the lakes in it, and some amusing stories about Lake District traditions. I’m sure you’ll find it interesting, especially as you know the author.”

  “Canon Rawnsley is a family friend,” Miss Potter said, taking the book. “We first knew him when my parents took their holiday at Wray, where he was vicar, and he calls at Bolton Gardens whenever he is in London. I’m sure I’ll enjoy the book immensely.”

  At that moment, a calico cat leapt out from behind the sofa, startling both ladies. “My gracious, Tabitha!” Grace said breathlessly, when she saw that it was her old friend’s cat. “You’re not supposed to be here! How did you get in?”

  “Let’s not talk about that now,” Tabitha replied urgently. With an agility that would have done justice to a much younger cat,
she jumped to the table and planted both front paws on the letter. “Read this,” she commanded.

  Grace reached for the cat. “I’m afraid it’s out the door with you, poor old thing,” she said sympathetically. “I know you miss your dear mistress, as we all do. But Anvil Cottage belongs to somebody else now—and he’s not the sort of fellow who is likely to want a cat.” To Miss Potter, she added, “Mathilda Crook is taking Tabitha. She said she needs a good mouser at Belle Green. Tabitha was a sterling mouser in her day, although she’s getting a bit slow in her old age.”

  “I am not!” Tabitha exclaimed indignantly. “There’s nothing at all slow about me.”

  Miss Potter was looking at the letter. “I wonder,” she said in a low voice, “whether Miss Tolliver’s correspondent has been notified of her death. I lost a . . . a friend recently. I know how important it is that people learn about it as soon as possible.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Grace said, hearing the sadness in Miss Potter’s voice and wondering what it meant. She put Tabitha on the chair and reached for the letter, which was written in a slanting feminine hand on beige linen letter-paper. “I suppose I had better contact the writer. I’m sure that Miss Tolliver’s nephew won’t think to do it.” She scanned the first page quickly, noting the address at the top. “It’s from a Sarah Barwick, in Cumberland Lane, Manchester. I’ll drop her a note.” She put the letter back on the table.

  “But what does it say?” Tabitha insisted, stretching out her paw.

  Grace glanced down at the table, seeing the box and the crumbs. “My goodness, Tabitha,” she said, “what a dreadful mess the mice have made since you’ve left the cottage.” She swept the cake crumbs off the table and into the empty box. “I’ll carry this home and put it in the dustbin.” To Miss Potter, she added, “We have such a problem with mice in this village. Without a cat in the house, they simply take over.”

  “Read the letter!” Standing on her hind legs, Tabitha put both forepaws on the table and switched her tail from side to side in an imperative gesture. “It might contain a clue to Miss Tolliver’s death!”

  Miss Potter fixed her blue eyes on Grace. “Perhaps you will think this silly,” she said in a half-apologetic tone, “but you might consider keeping the package safe, rather than disposing of it. One does not wish to leap to conclusions, of course, but I believe someone mentioned poison whilst we were at tea, just a little while ago. I’m quite sure there’s nothing to it, but as long as someone in the village is thinking of poison, the possibility does remain, if only in the mind.”

  “There!” Crumpet exclaimed into Rascal’s ear. “You see? I told you so! Poison!”

  “But the mice said—” Rascal began.

  “Oh, what do mice know?” Crumpet growled impatiently. “Stupid creatures! Almost as stupid as snails. Half of them could have died and never been missed.”

  Grace chuckled, albeit a little uneasily. “Why, Miss Potter,” she said in the lightest tone she could manage, “I do believe you’ve been reading your Sherlock. And you do know a thing or two about villages, don’t you? The way people gossip—” She gave her head a disapproving shake. “Rose Sutton is likely to have poor Miss Tolliver murdered twice over—in her imagination, of course. But you’re right. I’ll take the box and keep it safe, in case it’s ever wanted.”

  “The letter!” Tabitha cried, and reached up to catch at Miss Potter’s sleeve with her extended claws. “There’s nothing wrong with the cakes, but do read the letter. Aloud, please!”

  Miss Potter smiled down at the cat, her blue eyes twinkling. “Such an expressive creature. My own little animals often seem to have an understanding that is almost human. One quite imagines that Tabitha is trying to tell us something important.” Her eyes went back to the letter. “I wonder if Miss Tolliver was reading this when she suffered her attack. Do you happen to know if this Sarah Barwick was a friend?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say,” Grace replied regretfully. “Miss Tolliver and I were rather close, certainly, but she was never one to share confidences.” She paused, thinking about how kind and understanding Miss Tolliver had been when her husband the vicar had died, and how much she had come to depend upon her unquestioning friendship.

  Miss Potter nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose it is easy to have acquaintances in a village. Indeed, one must find it hard not to be acquainted with everybody. But I daresay it is exceedingly difficult to find a friend one can trust with one’s interior secrets.”

  Exactly! Grace thought, looking at Miss Potter with respect. She had received that kind of friendship from Miss Tolliver, and had freely shared her hopes and fears. But it had not worked the other way round, and Grace had to admit that the older woman’s interior life had remained a mystery to the end.

  “I think Miss Tolliver never found that kind of friend,” Grace replied. “She was born in this cottage, and lived here her entire life. She never left the village, you see, and never married. She was devoted to her elderly father, who was rather a difficult person. She took care of him until he died, ten years or so ago, without question or complaint.” She paused and added, “I understand that he did not want her to marry.”

  “Parents can be unreasonably demanding,” murmured Miss Potter, averting her glance.

  “They can indeed,” Grace replied. Frowning, she glanced around at the furniture, the windows, the walls. “It’s curious,” she said, “but I have the feeling that something’s not quite right in this room. That something is missing.”

  “Missing?” Tabitha repeated. She raised her head and followed Mrs. Lythecoe’s glance from one wall to another. “Yes, I had thought about that earlier. Something is definitely—”

  “I rather think,” Miss Potter said quietly, “that the Constable miniature is gone.”

  “The . . . Constable?” Grace asked, nonplussed.

  Miss Potter pointed to a spot on the wall, above a mahogany writing table on which stood several photographs. “It was there, in a gilt frame, the last time I was in this room.”

  “Of course,” Grace exclaimed, going across the room to the table. “Why, how very perceptive you are, Miss Potter! It was a framed miniature landscape of the English countryside, no more than a few inches wide and high. You can even see where it hung, since the print wallpaper around it has faded.” Frowning, she turned back to Miss Potter. “But—a Constable? Surely you’re not referring to John Constable, the great English landscape master?”

  “Oh, but I am,” Miss Potter said, her face growing animated and almost pretty. “I recognized the painting the moment I first saw it, when I visited her several years ago. Both my brother Bertram and I are admirers of Constable’s work, you see. Bertram likes to paint large landscapes, although rather gloomier than Constable’s.” She paused and added diffidently, “I daresay this little landscape needed cleaning. But of course it was quite a valuable piece, especially since Constable painted so few miniatures—only nine or ten, as I recall. Perhaps Miss Tolliver did not like to entrust it to anyone for cleaning.”

  Even more surprised and perplexed by this deepening mystery, Grace looked back at the wall. “A Constable,” she mused. “I certainly had no idea, and I’m sure that no one else in the village suspected that the painting had any particular value.” She paused, now very much disturbed. “But what on earth could have happened to it? It must have been there when we celebrated Miss Tolliver’s birthday on the day before she died, or I should have noticed its absence, especially owing to the way the wallpaper has faded around it.”

  “Has anyone been in the cottage since Miss Tolliver died? Other than those who removed her body, I mean.”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Grace answered, “and as I told Mr. Roberts, I have the only key.” She stared at Miss Potter. “Mr. Roberts was certainly anxious to get in, wasn’t he? But I hardly think that he would have—”

  “Listen!” Crumpet exclaimed, jumping out from behind the sofa. “I saw that Roberts fellow last night, trying to break in
to this very cottage! It was dark, of course, but I’m sure it was him. I don’t believe he got in whilst the ginger cat and I were watching, but he might have come back after we left.”

  “Crumpet!” Grace exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” She went to the sofa and looked over the back. “And Rascal! My goodness! Are there any more of you? Get out of here, right this minute! You know better than to come into a house uninvited!”

  “But we were invited,” Crumpet protested. “Tabitha Twitchit asked us in.”

  “Out with you,” Grace repeated. And with a squirming cat under each arm and Rascal creeping guiltily at her heels, she marched to the front door and thrust all three outside.

  Returning to the sitting room, she continued with her thought. “I hardly think, though, that Mr. Roberts could have gotten into this cottage during the daylight hours—and especially after making all that fuss about the key.”

  “But perhaps Mr. Roberts had already entered the cottage and taken the painting,” Miss Potter remarked. “He may have raised the commotion over the key to mislead us, feeling that—when the painting was discovered to be missing—he would not be suspected.”

  Grace smiled. “Why, my dear Miss Potter, you astonish me. You are a skeptic at heart!”

  “I’m afraid so,” Miss Potter said ruefully. “I come from a long line of Dissenters—obstinate, hard-headed, matter-of-fact Lancashire folk, and skeptics to the very bone. For better or worse, I have inherited their spirit.”

  “My husband, the former vicar, always used to say that he cherished the skeptics in his parish,” Grace said, “because they were the only ones from whom he was likely to hear the truth—especially when it wasn’t a truth he wanted to hear.” She paused. “Speaking of the vicar, I’m reminded that something else has gone missing in the village. The Parish Register.”

  “The Register?” Miss Potter looked surprised. “That’s an odd thing for someone to take. I’m sure it’s quite valuable, of course, but only for the information it contains.”