Today, the ewes were all atwitter about a local birth, a local death, and a gang of thieves. They had learnt about these events from Fritz the Ferret, who lived in a bankside burrow (very nicely appointed, for Fritz was a ferret with an artistic bent) not far away. Fritz had heard the news from his friend Max the Manx, the black cat who lived with Major Ragsdale in Teapot Cottage, which is next door to Slatestone Cottage (where Jeremy and Deirdre Crosfield’s new baby entered this world early that same day) and next door but one to the Adcocks’ (where poor Mr. Adcock left it). About the thieves, Fritz could tell the sheep little, except to say that he had heard that they managed to break into quite a few cottages and barns and hen coops in Near Sawrey.
The sheep were overjoyed with the announcement of the baby’s arrival.
“’Tis a joy to hear thaaat Jeremy aaand Deirdre haaave a boy,” bleated Tibbie to Queenie. The two of them were acquainted with both young parents. Jeremy was a talented artist (according to Miss Potter), and as a lad, he had often sketched the Herdwicks. And Deirdre, who worked for Mr. and Mrs. Sutton, always brought the large flock of Sutton children to Hill Top Farm to admire the new spring lambs, which of course endeared her to the lambs’ mamas.
“But a calaaamity for the Aaadocks,” baaed Queenie in reply. She lowered her head and butted a little lamb who was playing too rough with his sister. “Why? Why would he do such a saaad thing?” Like Crumpet and Rascal, the sheep could not comprehend the idea of suicide.
“I don’t suppose we’ll ever know,” Queenie said sadly. “Humaaans behave in baaaffling ways.” She glanced up. “Oh, look, Tibbie—it’s Miss Potter, come to see us!”
And so it was. Miss Potter, walking along the footpath beside the beck, wearing a sad and pensive look. But when she saw the Herdwicks, a smile lightened her face.
“Why, hello there, ladies!” she said, as her two favorite ewes came eagerly forward to greet her. She loved these remarkably sturdy little creatures, whose ancestors had arrived in the north of England with the Viking settlers many centuries before. It didn’t matter to Beatrix that their fleece was coarse and scratchy, for it could be spun into a long-wearing yarn that was perfectly suited to wool carpets and nearly weatherproof tweeds. What she liked best, though, was the Herdwicks’ gentle, sweet personalities. They always made her feel better—as they did today, licking her hands with their raspy tongues, pushing playfully against her, bleating inquisitively.
“Isn’t it good news aaabout Jeremy aaand Deirdre’s babe, Miss Potter?”
“Isn’t it saaad about Mr. Adcock, Miss Potter? Whaaat do you suppose haaappened?”
Wishing she could understand what her friends were saying and answer them back in their own language, Beatrix stroked the soft ears, pulled a few raspy burrs out of their fleece, and touched their dear, sheepish faces. But even though she couldn’t make out what they wanted to tell her, the sweet sound of their voices made her feel immeasurably better, as if someone had just given her a large spoonful of feel-good medicine and a comforting there-there-my-dear kiss on the forehead. And I daresay that you and I would feel exactly the same way, for a world that has woolly sheep in it, and joyful white lambs and a wide sweep of sweet green grass and a clear, happy brook with splashing water ouzels and cheerful dippers—well, a world like that couldn’t be so very bad, now, could it?
A woman’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Miss Potter! Oh, Miss Potter, such good news—I have wonderful news!”
Beatrix looked up to see a familiar figure in a homespun brown dress and white apron, waving her blue bonnet as she hurried along the path, almost at a run. It was Jane Crosfield, Jeremy’s aunt, an expert spinner and weaver who had produced the woolen cloth for Beatrix’s new tweed suit. Jane lived at Holly How Farm, just along the path a little way.
“Hello, Jane,” Beatrix said, and guessed at the news from the look on her friend’s face. “Has the baby arrived?”
“It’s a boy, Miss Potter! Jeremy and Deirdre have a fine, healthy baby boy, born this mornin’ quite early. I’ve just left’em—mother and baby are both well,” she added breathlessly. “He has his mum’s red hair an’ he’s ever so sweet an’ fat an’ round—a perfect little lamb.”
“A perfect little laaamb,” bleated Tibbie, beaming. “Naaaturally.”
“I think he should be called Laaambie-Pie,” replied Queenie, for that was the name she had given to her lamb this spring.
“Oh, Jane, how wonderful!” Beatrix breathed. She was thrilled, although if she were quite, quite honest, she would have to admit to an uncomfortably sharp twist of envy somewhere deep down inside. Deirdre, just a schoolgirl when Beatrix had first met her, was happily married and a mother now, while she herself was still—
But this was a selfish and ungenerous thought, and Beatrix shoved it aside. “I’m walking in that direction,” she said. “Would it be too soon for me to drop in?” She didn’t have a gift to take—that would have to come later—but she could pick some flowers.
“I’m sure they’d be pleased to see you an’ to show off their new babe,” Jane said. She paused, and her face grew serious. “You’ve heard about Mr. Adcock, now, have you?”
“Yes, I’ve heard,” Beatrix said, “and I think it a great shame. Truly, I can’t imagine why Mr. Biddle would do such a thing, Jane. Mr. Adcock worked for me last year, and I have found him to be—”
She was stopped by the horrified expression on Jane’s face.
“Mr. Biddle?” Jane cried, her hand going to her mouth. “Oh, no! He didn’t have anythin’ to do with it, Miss Potter! Nor him nor nobody else. ’Twas all Mr. Adcock’s very own doin’, although how any man could bring himself to do such a bad thing, I doan’t know.”
“Yes,” Queenie baaed sorrowfully. “A very baaad thing.”
“Do such a—Whatever are you talking about, Jane?” Beatrix asked, frowning. Of course, she was thinking about what Hannah Braithwaite had told her earlier that afternoon, that Mr. Biddle had sacked Mr. Adcock, saying he couldn’t be trusted. Had Mr. Adcock stolen something? What had he done?
“Why, t’ poor man has killt himself, Miss Potter,” Jane said, very soberly. “Mrs. Adcock found him this mornin’, in t’ shed at t’ foot of the garden. The Adcocks live just next door to Jeremy and Deirdre at Slatestone Cottage, which is how I know about it. I saw Constable Braithwaite comin’ out of Mrs. Adcock’s house just a little while ago. T’ constable is who told me. I went in to see Mrs. Adcock and say a comfortin’ word, an’ it’s true.”
“Killed himself?” Beatrix pulled in her breath, stunned nearly speechless. “Why, I can’t believe it, Jane!”
“So very saaad,” Tibbie and Queenie bleated in unison. “Saaad, saaad!”
Jane sighed heavily. “What Mrs. Adcock’ll do now, I doan’t know. Poor thing, her. Poor thing!” She lifted her apron to her eyes and began to cry.
Beatrix put her arm around Jane’s shoulders, and they stood there for a few moments in a shared sadness. And then, since there really was nothing more to say, they bade each other goodbye, Jane going home to Holly How Farm and Beatrix toward Far Sawrey, no longer loitering but walking faster, now that she had a destination and a purpose.
But she was even more sorely torn in spirit than before, and not even the chatter of Wilfin Beck could help. For whilst she was delighted by the birth of a fine, healthy boy, she was at the same time astonished and saddened to hear about the death of Mr. Adcock, a quiet, mild-mannered man whom she had genuinely liked. And she was wishing that she had pressed Jane for more details.
How? When? Why? Was anyone there when it happened?
But mostly why, why, why?
10
At the Adcocks’ Cottage: The Investigation Begins
Since Captain Woodcock felt that time was of the essence in the investigation of Mr. Adcock’s death, he decided to drive the Rolls-Royce. But the engine didn’t want to go, and it took nearly fifteen minutes of cranking and tinkering and cranking again before he could reverse the au
tomobile out of its place in his stable-cum-garage and invite the constable to jump in beside him. Meanwhile, Will Heelis had kicked his motorcycle into life and driven on ahead, proving once more (at least to Will’s satisfaction) that the motorcycle was a more efficient vehicle than an automobile.
The captain’s sleek, teal-blue motorcar had attracted enormous attention when he purchased it a few years before. A few “forward-thinking” villagers had greeted it with enthusiasm, but most regarded the thing with fear and loathing. Those who drove plodding plow-horses hitched to farm wagons gloomily predicted that their animals would be stampeded off the roads by hordes of these monstrous machines, racketing along at speeds approaching an unimaginable twelve or thirteen miles an hour. Mothers worried that automobiles would spew out choking exhaust smoke, create clouds of dust, and frighten the village chickens and dogs and cats—not to mention the children. And what would happen if the chickens and dogs and cats and children didn’t get out of the road? Would they be run down mercilessly, limbs mangled, lives lost forever? And why would anyone be in such a beastly hurry, anyway? The place they were going would still be there when they arrived, wouldn’t it? And so on and so forth.
Constable Braithwaite waged his own war against the automobiles, flagging them down and lecturing the drivers severely about the dangers of speeding and taking a secret pleasure in the sight of a motorcar idled beside the lane with a punctured tyre or an engine breakdown. But even he had to admit that a motorcar came in handy now and again, especially when on official business. So he climbed into the passenger seat beside the captain and put his tall blue constable’s hat on the floor between his feet so that the wind wouldn’t blow it off his head whilst they rattled along the road to Far Sawrey. And in truth they arrived in a fraction of the time it had taken him to walk the distance, if you don’t count the time it took to persuade the Rolls to start.
Will Heelis was waiting beside his motorcycle when the captain’s motorcar arrived at the Adcock cottage. The constable put his hat back on, and Captain Woodcock led them up to the door, where he knocked gently. Since everyone in the district knew who he was, and Mr. Heelis as well, there was no need for introductions.
“I’m very sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Adcock,” he said to the tear-stained widow, a woman in her sixties with a bent back and gray hair. “The constable and Mr. Heelis and I should like to go around to the shed now, if you don’t mind.”
She nodded wordlessly, and the three took the path to the back garden, where they were greeted by a tall, good-looking young man, pacing nervously. A black cat sat just off the path, under a quince bush, keeping an eye on things.
“Ah, there you are, Captain,” the young man said with a relieved look.
“At last,” said the cat. “I was wondering what was keeping them.” He was Max the Manx, a rather ironical cat. He lived next door but one, at Teapot Cottage, with Major Ragsdale.
“Likely the motorcar wouldn’t go,” Rascal said. He was slightly out of breath, having run the whole way from Near Sawrey to Far Sawrey, after his brief conversation with Crumpet. “That happens a good deal of the time.”
“Motorcars,” sniffed Max. “Filthy machines. As bad as locomotives. Nothing but smoke and dust.”
“Ssh,” said Rascal. “Let’s listen.”
“Thank you for keeping watch, Jeremy,” the captain said, and extended his hand. “And please accept my congratulations. Mrs. Woodcock tells me that you and your wife have a fine young lad.”
“My congratulations as well, Jeremy,” Will said heartily. He remembered the young man as a boy, studious and more thoughtful than the other village chaps, and now grown up to be a schoolmaster, and a good one, too, much beloved by his students.
Jeremy pushed his red-brown hair out of his eyes, smiling, and shook their hands. “Yes, indeed. Born bright and early this morning, and healthy as a young horse. He has a strong pair of lungs, too, as his mother and the neighbors will tell you.”
“And they’ve named him Rascal,” the little dog whispered proudly to Max.
“I doubt that,” Max said ironically. “They wouldn’t name their child for a dog.”
“But it’s true,” Rascal protested. “The Professor said so.”
Max rolled his eyes. “Oh, well, the Professor,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “If the owl says so, then of course it must be true.”
Jeremy lowered his voice and glanced around, making sure they were alone. “Look. I’ve found something out, and I feel I need to let you know about it. May have something to do with what happened here.”
“Indeed,” the captain said, matching his tone to Jeremy’s. “What is it?”
“It has to do with that man,” said the cat.
“What man?” Rascal asked.
“The visitor,” Max replied. “Here. In the garden.”
“There was a fellow here this morning,” Jeremy replied. “Deirdre’s friend Gilly Harmsworth saw him. Gilly is here to help with the birth, you see. Aunt Jane was here, too, but she was in the kitchen making some breakfast for me, and Gilly was with Deirdre. Gilly happened to glance out the bedroom window—it was just daylight, right after the baby was born—and saw him, coming down the path to the shed. She didn’t think to mention it until I told her about poor Mr. Adcock.”
“It wasn’t Mr. Adcock?” the captain asked.
Jeremy shook his head. “Gilly says no. She doesn’t know the Adcocks well, but she says she would’ve recognized Mr. Adcock. She guessed that the stranger might be one of the Adcock sons, home from the Army, in which case there was nothing odd about him being out in the garden so early. But that can’t be the case. Both of the Adcock boys are soldiering in India.”
“About what time would you say this was?” the constable asked, taking out a small notebook and a pencil.
“Make it six thirty,” Jeremy replied. “As I said, the sun was just rising.”
“Six thirty-five,” put in Max authoritatively. “I had just finished my breakfast and was beginning my morning patrol of the neighborhood.”
“And she didn’t see the fellow go into the shed or leave it?” Will asked.
“I saw him go into the shed,” Max volunteered. “He didn’t come out while I was in the vicinity, however.”
“Who was it?” Rascal asked, but Max could only shrug.
“She said she didn’t see anything after that,” Jeremy replied. “The baby had been born a little earlier. As you can imagine, everyone was busy. Dr. Butters got here just in time for the birth,” he added. “Mrs. Margrove had twins last night, or he would’ve been here sooner.”
“Anything else?” the captain asked.
“I think that’s it,” Jeremy replied. “If you’d like to talk to Gilly, she’ll be here for another day or two. To help out.” He grinned bashfully. “It turns out that women are much better at looking after babies. But I suppose I’ll learn.”
“Oh, you’ll learn, all right,” the constable said gruffly, and clapped the young man on the shoulder. “Speakin’ as the father o’ three, I can guarantee that.” He cocked his head. “And that’s your babe cryin’ now, I’ll warrant.”
“I’ll be off, then,” Jeremy said. “Shall I tell Gilly to expect you?”
“Do that, please,” the captain replied. When Jeremy had gone, he said, “Well, gentlemen, I think we must have a look.”
Built against the back fence, the wooden shed was small and dark. The only window was set in the wall beside the door, its light nearly obscured by the vine that grew over it. The square space contained a wooden workbench, a wall rack filled with carpenter’s tools, and a small, unfinished piece of cabinetry on the bench. Mr. Adcock’s body, covered with a muslin sheet, lay on the dirt floor. A rope noose hung limply from a rafter. A wooden crate lay tipped on its side.
“Doesn’t take much to reconstruct the event,” the captain said, after they had looked around. “Poor chap must have looped the rope over the rafter and around his neck, then kicked over the box.”
>
“That’s what it looks like,” Rascal said to Max, as the two of them watched from the door.
“My conclusion, as well, sir,” the constable said gruffly. “But what I want to know is why. Why would he do such a thing?”
“And what about this fellow who was seen in the garden?” Will put in.
“As to why,” the captain said, “I suppose he might have been dejected over getting the sack. A man his age, it wouldn’t be easy to find other work, especially if Biddle gave him a bad character.” He looked at the constable. “Biddle told you that he wasn’t trustworthy, you said?”
“Aye,” the constable said. “He wouldn’t give me any details, but I got t’ idea that there was some sort of theft involved. A tool, maybe, or some lumber.” He sighed. “I happen to know that t’ Adcocks have fallen on hard times. Mrs. Adcock has been sick, and there’s been medicine and doctor bills. My brother says he had to tell them they’d have no more meat from him. He was sorry, but he had to do it.” The constable’s brother, Charlie Braithwaite, was the butcher.
“That’s very sad,” Will said quietly, and Rascal agreed. Animals don’t have to worry about paying the butcher or the doctor, but they understand and commiserate with humans who do.
The captain became brisk. “Well, now, gentlemen, let’s review the situation as we know it so far. The young woman looks out of the window at six thirty this morning and sees a strange fellow in the garden. Mrs. Adcock goes to her sister’s house around nine thirty—her husband is alive and well at the time—and is gone until eleven thirty. She assumes her husband is working here in the shed, comes to tell him that lunch is ready, and finds the poor fellow dead. She summons Constable Braithwaite, who takes down the body.” Frowning, he looked from Will to the constable. “Does that about sum it up?”
“I b‘lieve so, sir,” the constable said. “’Tis sad, but t’ facts are as t’ facts are.”
“One can’t argue with facts,” Rascal agreed.
The Tale of Castle Cottage Page 12
