But her ladyship is still in the dark, for she doesn’t know as much as you and I do about the history of the book in question—the rare book in question. She did know about the Tower of London, of course, and the name Mr. Darnwell had mentioned seemed vaguely familiar.
“Cotton, Robert Cotton,” she mused, trying to remember if she had ever met the gentleman. “The family is from Kendal, is it?” she hazarded.
Mr. Darnwell coughed dryly. “Sir Robert Cotton is dead, Lady Longford. He died in 1631.”
“Oh,” said her ladyship. “That Sir Robert. Yes, of course. Quite.”
To his credit, Mr. Darnwell did not laugh, although his mutton-chop whiskers were trembling with suppressed amusement. He cleared his throat and continued. “Sir Robert was an antiquary and without a doubt the most important collector of books England has ever seen. He lived during the reigns of Queen Elizabeth, King James, and King Charles the First. He sought out and acquired such remarkable treasures as Beowulf, The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, along with many other early works that would surely have been lost had he not rescued them from oblivion. His library has been held in the British Museum since 1753. It is one of the museum’s most valuable possessions.”
“Of course, of course,” her ladyship murmured, putting on a knowing air. She never liked to appear ignorant in any way. “I am to understand, then, that Lord Longford had a book from Sir Robert’s library?”
“Yes, if the catalog is correct—although, strictly speaking, the Revelation is not a ‘book,’ but a codex—that is, a bound manuscript of eight vellum pages. It was produced by Bishop Eadfrith on Lindisfarne Island in Northumbria in the late seventh or early eighth century. It is a companion work to the Lindisfarne Gospels, now owned by the British Museum.”
Mr. Darnwell put his pince-nez back on his nose and opened Lord Longford’s notebook. He held it for her, turned a page, and pointed to an entry in his lordship’s handwriting. “Here we have the title, you see: The Book of the Revelation of John, and the name of its creator, Eadfrith, bishop of Lindisfarne.” He shook his head and said, half under his breath, “I am truly astonished at this—in fact, I confess that I find it hard to credit. The Revelation of John has been considered lost since long before Sir Robert’s library was acquired by the museum. There was a fire in 1731, and many of the priceless items were destroyed. Or it is possible that it was stolen. No one knows.”
This made no sense at all to her ladyship, and for once her need to know outweighed her need to pretend that she already knew. “Then how can you be so sure that the book my husband possessed is the book that’s been lost?” she asked.
“I cannot be sure until I see it, of course. And even then, someone from the British Museum will have to make the confirmation, since the curators there are the acknowledged experts on the Cotton Library. But here is a bit of very strong evidence, in your husband’s own hand.” Mr. Darnwell pointed to the page again. “These letters. Nero D.iv. They are the code for the case and shelf where Sir Robert kept the book. It is the same case and shelf where he also kept the Lindisfarne Gospels .”
Lady Longford pulled in her breath. “The late seventh century?” she asked. Her voice felt scratchy. No wonder the thing was rare—and undoubtedly of great value. “I should think that the paper would be falling apart.”
Mr. Darnwell looked down his nose, severely, as if at a laggard student. “The pages of the codex are not paper. They are made of vellum—treated calfskin—and hence quite durable.” He closed the black notebook. “The Lindisfarne Gospels unfortunately lack the original cover, which would of course be priceless, but even so, the book itself is astonishingly wellpreserved. The Book of the Revelation of John was described by Sir Robert as incomplete, but it still had—at least at the time it was in his possession—the original cover.”
“Ah,” her ladyship said.
Mr. Darnwell lifted his head and gave her a searching look. “Do you know if your husband’s book still has its cover? It would be leather, bound with gold and ornamented with precious jewels. Not large. From the description of the book held in Mr. Cotton’s library, I believe it to be no more than ten by twelve inches. It is likely only about an inch or two in thickness, since the book is unfinished. There are only eight pages. Bishop Eadfrith died before he could complete his work.” Mr. Darnwell’s eyes glittered. “If your husband’s book still has its cover, Lady Longford, it could be . . . priceless.”
Bound with gold? Ornamented with precious jewels? Numbed by the thought of such a thing, Lady Longford shook her head. At last, she forced herself to speak. And for once, she told the complete truth, which she almost never did.
“I am sorry. I cannot tell you anything at all. I have never seen the book.”
Mr. Darnwell let out a long, regretful breath, and his mutton-chop whiskers drooped dispiritedly. “Oh, dear,” he said. “Oh, dear, oh, dear. Then the Revelation is not in a safe somewhere? You’re sure that your husband didn’t put it into a bank vault for safekeeping?”
Lady Longford bit her lip. Recently, she had inventoried every item in the vault at the bank in Hawkshead—the property deeds, the family papers, the jewels that would someday belong to Caroline. There were no books in the vault, and nothing even remotely resembling the description she had just heard. She shook her head mutely.
“Oh dear,” Mr. Darnwell said again. He straightened and handed her the black notebook. “If I were you, Lady Longford, I should have a look around—a careful look. It is entirely possible that your husband, understanding as he must have done the value of this precious book, hid it somewhere in the house.” He gave her a slightly sour smile. “I also hope you will give some thought to the matter of disposing of the collection, as it is. If you decide to place it up for sale, I shall be glad to assist you.”
“Of course,” Lady Longford said, although she had already made up her mind. Ten thousand pounds sterling was quite a nice sum. She would tell Mr. Darnwell that he could put the books up for sale. She might even throw in a few fossils and a carved walking stick or two.
But before she did that, she would take his advice and have a careful look around the house. She was at a loss to think where her husband’s book had got off to. But it must be somewhere.
7
The Constable Brings Bad News
Captain Miles Woodcock opened the door of the library and called out testily, “Margaret, have you seen my pipe?” He waited, then, hearing nothing, called again, louder. “Margaret! Any idea where I might have left my pipe?”
Now, you and I (because we know about Rooker’s gang) might leap to the conclusion that a rat had visited Tower Bank House and stolen the captain’s pipe, but this is not the case. He has simply mislaid it.
“You left it beside your plate at the luncheon table,” Mrs. Woodcock said, coming to her husband’s rescue. She held out his pipe. “Here it is.”
“Sorry,” Miles muttered. “Shouldn’t have raised my voice.”
“Probably not,” Margaret said cheerfully. “I do wish you’d tell me what’s afoot, dear heart. You’ve been cross as a bear the past day or two. And abstracted. I hope you haven’t forgotten that we’re expecting guests for dinner tonight.”
“We are?” Miles added hastily, “Oh, yes, of course we are. And of course I remembered.”
“Of course you did,” Margaret replied in a reassuring tone, although both of them knew that he had entirely forgotten that Beatrix Potter and Will Heelis, as well as Miles’ sister and brother-in-law, had been asked to dinner. She eyed him, concerned. “Is there anything you want to tell me, Miles? About why you’ve been so cross, I mean.”
“No,” Miles said, turning half away. “Sorry, my dear. It’s nothing to do with you.”
“Good.” Margaret smiled and stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cleft of his chin. “I do hope your temper will be improved by the time our guests arrive this evening.” She paused, adding, “Oh, Miles, you haven’t by any chance moved our
wedding photograph from the mantel in the library, have you? The small one in the miniature silver frame that Dim and Christopher gave us as a wedding present?”
“Wedding photograph?” Miles asked, taking out his pocket watch. “No, haven’t moved it. Not I.”
“That is very strange,” Margaret said. “I can’t think where it could have gotten.” She sighed. “Your sister will notice that it’s missing and wonder about it, I’m sure. And what I’m to tell her, I really don’t know.” Shaking her head in puzzlement, she went off to consult with Elsa Grape, their cook, about dessert for the evening’s dinner—a damson tart, she thought, if Elsa could be persuaded. Elsa had her own ideas about desserts.
Miles looked at his watch and frowned, and went back into the library to sort through some papers. He had been justice of the peace for Sawrey for almost a decade now. For the most part he enjoyed the work, for it involved him in almost every aspect of village life. His position required him to witness certain transactions, hear complaints, certify deaths, and deal with disturbances of the peace—all of the small and large messes that people got themselves into, sometimes on purpose, sometimes not. And sometimes quite inconveniently.
Miles had not intended to become a justice of the peace when he resigned his post in Her Majesty’s Army, but his experience fitted him for the work. He had served honorably in Egypt and the Sudan, where he had earned a bad knee and a case of malaria and begun to yearn for a place where one did not have to go about with a gun in one’s holster and eyes in the back of one’s head, and where the landscape was fogkissed, green, and cool. Near Sawrey fit the bill rather well, for it was certainly green and cool and far enough from the alarums and excursions of the Empire to give him some peace of mind. (Of course, that was before the Germans had begun to beat their war drums and build up their war machines and the Admiralty had done likewise, to the point where the newspaper articles were making it seem that war was very nearly inevitable.) His sister Dimity had lived with him for a time, until she had married Christopher Kittredge and went off to live at Raven Hall, above Windermere. The captain had imagined briefly that Miss Potter might make a fine wife, but when he broached the idea, the lady had not warmed to it. After that, he regretfully resigned himself to living alone, with Elsa Grape in the kitchen and old Fred Phinn in the garden.
Of course, being a bachelor was all well and good, for the captain was a man who enjoyed his privacy. It was, he thought, very civilized to be able to smoke one’s favorite cigar at one’s luncheon table without being asked by a female to please take the horrid thing out-of-doors. But he had to concede that there were certain matters—the dinner menu, for instance, and one’s collars and cuffs—that had been better managed by Dim than himself, for Elsa had a very bossy way about her and was inclined to brush off his suggestions.
And then something miraculous happened. In his capacity as a member of the village school board, Miles had frequently worked with the teacher at Sawrey School, Miss Nash. One afternoon she had stopped at his front door to ask about the repair of the school’s stovepipes, and he quite properly asked if she would like to come in and have a cup of tea while they discussed it. One thing led to another, and before Miles quite knew what was happening, he found himself on his hands and knees in this very hallway, in a mess of broken crockery and spilt tea and milk, proposing to the lady, who accepted him on the spot. And so they were married and lived happily ever after.
As happily as most married couples, that is. If you had asked the captain on any given day whether he was a happy man, he would have said, “Oh, yes, very, thank you. Couldn’t be happier, actually.” Except that right at this moment, he was looking once more at his watch and asking himself, “Where the devil is that fellow? He should have been here by now.”
As if on cue, the doorbell rang, and the captain hurried to answer it himself. “Oh, there you are, Heelis,” he said. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
“Sorry, old man,” Will Heelis said gruffly. He pulled off his leather motorcycle helmet and smoothed his hair. “I was to meet Beatrix up at Castle Cottage to go through the house. I had to tell her that I couldn’t keep our appointment.” He looked down at his feet, where a fawn-colored Jack Russell terrier was sitting politely. “I seem to have collected a friend. Rascal, you’ll need to wait outside.”
The little dog looked up, his tongue hanging out, his eyes dancing. “Really? I was hoping I could join you. I wanted to tell you that Jeremy and Deirdre have a baby boy. They’re calling him—”
“No need for him to sit outside.” Miles opened the door wider. “The little fellow makes himself at home in every house in town. Quite the favorite, you know. Fancies himself the official Top Dog.”
“That’s my title, actually,” Rascal replied with some pride. “I am the official Top Dog.” He followed Mr. Heelis into the house.
“I hope Miss Potter wasn’t seriously miffed when you broke your appointment,” Miles said, leading the way toward the library. He had a great deal of affection for Miss Potter, and an even greater respect, for the lady had a sharp wit and a keen eye for detail, and when she was confronted with a problem, she generally came up with a solution, and often an ingenious one. She had helped him out with several puzzling matters—mysteries, really, and some of them quite serious—that had come his way in his capacity as justice of the peace. He had been especially impressed when she solved the mystery of the baby who had been left on her doorstep—the baby his sister Dimity had adopted and who now called him “Uncle Woodcock.” (You may remember this story: it is told in The Tale of Hawthorn House.) He had been pleased, if a little surprised, when he had learnt that she and Will Heelis were engaged.
“Not miffed, I think, but definitely perturbed,” Heelis replied. “She seems inclined to speak urgently to Biddle about the fellow’s delinquencies up at Castle Cottage. I had to stop her.”
Miles stopped, surprised. “Biddle? Good Lord! She can’t possibly have heard—You don’t think she suspects—” He broke off.
“Suspects what?” Rascal asked, although he knew he wasn’t likely to get an answer. Only a few of the Big Folks—Miss Potter, for instance, and sometimes Jeremy Crosfield—could understand him, or any of the animals. They didn’t take the time.
“Suspect? No, I’m sure she doesn’t,” Will replied. “Not about that. She’s concerned about the lumber left out in the rain and workmen who don’t work. The ordinary sort of problems one has with most contractors. At least, that’s the way I read the situation.”
“Ah,” Miles said. “She would be. Your Miss Potter is very sharp when it comes to the ‘ordinary sort of thing.’ In fact, I’ve often suspected her of being a female Sherlock. If she had been watching whilst Biddle rebuilt my stable into a garage, I daresay the rascal would have been found out sooner.”
Rascal looked from one to the other. “ ‘Found out sooner’?” he repeated. “Something underhanded going on here?”
Miles paused. “But there’s some news that you may not have heard yet, directly connected to this business. Shall we ask Margaret to bring us some tea?” He looked down at Rascal. “And a little something for our friend here, as well.”
“A little something would be splendid,” Rascal barked happily. That was the nice thing about being Top Dog. Everyone offered him a little something.
“Tea would be just the thing, I should say,” said Will, sinking into a chair and pulling out his pipe. “And I have news for you, as well, which is why I wanted to talk this afternoon. It’s not the sort of thing that would make for good dinner conversation—in the presence of the ladies, that is.”
“Margaret just reminded me about tonight,” Miles replied ruefully, on his way to the door to summon tea. “I’m afraid I had quite forgotten.”
A few moments later, teacups in hand and clouds of smoke filling the air, the two men were discussing the problem which—as you have likely guessed—concerned Mr. Bernard Biddle. Rascal, having finished his little someth
ing—which proved to be a very acceptable biscuit, broken in pieces and nicely served in a saucer of milk—was settled at Mr. Heelis’ feet. The dog might seem to be preparing for a nap, but he was listening with both ears. Listening was one of his jobs, and a very important one at that. How could a fellow manage the village if he didn’t know what was going on?
“Yes. Well, then, what have you found?” Miles asked, leaning back in his chair. He had discovered what looked like a substantial irregularity involving materials in the building project he had hired Mr. Biddle to do and had asked Will to look into it for him. “Tell me there’s nothing to worry about, and I shall feel very much better.”
“I wish I could do that,” Will replied ruefully, “but I can’t. In addition to the stable Biddle renovated for you and the current job at Castle Cottage, he completed construction projects for three of my legal clients since the beginning of the year.” Will began ticking them off on his fingers. “He built a new hay barn for Harold Grimes to replace the one that was struck by lightning. He put up a dairy for Mrs. Moore. And he constructed two outbuildings for Mr. Kirkby, at the Grange. I have spoken to each of these people confidentially and examined the invoices he gave them for the building supplies. Lumber, stone, slate, hardware, and the like.” He shook his head. “The situation is clear enough, I’m sorry to say—although it won’t be so easy to prove. Biddle is inflating his bills by purchasing more than is needed for the job, then apparently diverting the extra materials to his own uses.”
“Ah,” Rascal said grimly. “So that’s what the fellow has been up to. I had him down for a slacker, like his workmen, but he’s apparently a thief. Much worse than I thought.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Miles muttered. “I could not for the life of me see why we needed all that lumber. It looked enough to build two stables.” He looked up. “You say ‘apparently.’ What’s he doing with the stuff he’s stealing, then?”
Will shook his head. “Now, that’s a puzzle. A ‘gert mezzlement,’ as the villagers would say. I rather suspect that he sells it off as fast as he can—but I haven’t been able to figure out where he’s storing it until he can offload it. His office is in his house at Hazel Crag Farm. He’s building an addition to the place, and if that’s what the materials are being used for, I doubt it would be easy to trace them.”
The Tale of Castle Cottage Page 9
