The Tale of Castle Cottage

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “As long as one knows what the facts really are,” Max remarked in an acerbic tone.

  “Are you suggesting that there are other facts?” Rascal asked, narrowing his eyes.

  “I’m not suggesting anything,” Max said dryly. “I leave that to the captain and the constable. However, there may be a rat in the woodpile somewhere.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Rascal demanded, by now thoroughly confused.

  “Just speaking figuratively, old boy,” Max replied.

  Will Heelis looked down at the sheeted form. “Has Butters been sent for? The facts may seem indisputable, but I’m sure this calls for an autopsy.” He paused. “Especially since we don’t know who this fellow in the garden was and what he had to do with the death. But perhaps Mrs. Adcock can tell us.”

  “Aye, t’ doctor’s been summoned,” the constable replied, putting his notebook back into his pocket. “He was in surgery, but he’ll be along when he can.”

  As if he had been conjured by their mention of his name, Dr. Butters himself opened the shed door and came in, carrying his scuffed leather bag. He was a tall man, somewhat stooped, with reddish hair and a gingery moustache, not quite so thin and gaunt as he had been before he married Mrs. Butters several years before. One of the most beloved men in the district, he lived in Hawkshead and had his surgery there.

  “Hullo, Butters,” the captain said. “Thank you for coming. We have what appears to be a suicide, I’m afraid.”

  The doctor looked up at the dangling noose and down at the sheet-covered figure. “A birth next door this morning, a death here this afternoon,” he said, sighing heavily. “The good Lord giveth and the good Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.” He pulled off his coat. “Well, let’s see what we have here.”

  After a few moments of careful examination, he looked up at the three men gathered around him. “Who took this fellow down?” he asked.

  There was a silence. Then, “I did,” the constable admitted. “Didn’t feel seemly like, leavin’ him up there. He’s a slight man—I could manage.” He glanced anxiously to the captain, then back to the doctor. “Did I do wrong?”

  “Not unless you dropped him and banged his head against something with a sharp edge,” the doctor replied curtly. “And bruised his eye.”

  “Oh, sir, no, sir!” the constable protested horrified. “Oh, no, I didn’t do no such thing! He got t’ black eye from Mr. Biddle, in a fight outside t’ pub last night. Dunno about t’ other. His head, you say? He didn’t get that in t’ fight, I doan’t b’lieve.”

  Will knelt down beside the doctor. “Why are you asking, Butters? What have you found?”

  “This,” the doctor said, pointing to a deep, two-inch gash in Mr. Adcock’s scalp, above his right ear. He glanced up at the constable. “That’s all right, Braithwaite. I’m sure you had nothing to do with this wound. But we’ll need to get him to my surgery where I can examine him more closely. I want to be sure about the cause of death before I issue a death certificate.” He stood up, dusting his hands. “From the look of the bleeding, I’d hazard a guess that it happened before he died—but not long before. Not, I should say, last night.”

  “Ah,” the captain said regretfully. “That means—”

  “Yes,” Dr. Butters said. “It means that he was hit by something hard enough to break the skin—and perhaps render him unconscious. You might look around and see if you can find the weapon that was used.”

  “You don’t think he might have . . . well, stumbled and hit his head against something?” Will asked tentatively.

  “I rather doubt it,” the doctor replied. “But as I say, I’ll have a closer look and let you know. Now, let’s see what we can do about getting this poor fellow to Hawkshead. My motorcar is parked in front of the cottage.” The doctor had put his old horse out to pasture the previous year and bought an automobile that occasionally doubled as an ambulance—or a hearse.

  “The constable and I can handle that,” Will said.

  “Good,” the doctor replied. “I’ll have a look in on Mrs. Adcock, then. She hasn’t been well, you know.”

  “I’ll go with you,” the captain said. “I want to ask her something.” To Will, he said, “When you’ve moved the body, you might have a word with the girl—Gilly Harmsworth. Find out if she thinks she might recognize the fellow if she saw him again.”

  “Of course,” Will said.

  The captain and the doctor walked to the house. As they went, the captain told the doctor about the report of the stranger seen in the garden, adding, “I’m wondering whether you saw anyone when you were here to deliver the Crosfield baby.”

  “Afraid not,” the doctor replied. “I can tell you that there was neither person nor vehicle in sight when I arrived or when I left.” He chuckled ruefully. “Babies seem to come just before sunrise, you know. Except for Mrs. Margrove’s, of course. That lady always delivers hers around three a.m. Twins, this time.”

  A few moments later, they were knocking at the cottage door and apologizing to Mrs. Adcock for another intrusion. The doctor explained that he needed to take her husband’s body to Hawkshead and would release it just as soon as he could. She gave her consent, and Dr. Butters excused himself to get on with the business.

  When he had gone, the captain said quietly, “I wonder, Mrs. Adcock—did you happen to notice anyone in your garden early this morning? Before breakfast, that is.”

  Mrs. Adcock, her eyes red-rimmed, looked at him blankly. “In our garden? Why in t’ world would anybody be walkin’ around in our garden afore breakfast? Or any other time, for that matter.”

  “So you didn’t see anyone? Anyone at all?”

  “No, o’ course not.”

  The captain persisted. “Did Mr. Adcock mention a plan to meet or talk with anyone today? Early or late or whenever?”

  “Well, yes, he did,” Mrs. Adcock said slowly. “He said he would go with me to talk to t’ butcher after lunch. He had a bit of money put away, you see, and he thought we’d best use it to pay part of the butcher bill, so we could keep on gettin’ meat.”

  The captain gave her a sympathetic look. “Besides the butcher, anyone else?” He cleared his throat. “Mr. Biddle, p’rhaps?”

  She made a sharp clicking sound with her tongue against her teeth. “An’ why should Mr. Adcock be wantin’ to see Biddle after t’ terrible trouble he’s caused us?” she asked fiercely.

  “What trouble is that?” the captain asked.

  “Why, sackin’ Mr. Adcock!” she exclaimed. “An’ sayin’ he was a thief! My husband nivver in t’ world took nothin’ that di’n’t belong to him, whatever Biddle may say.” She burst into a storm of angry weeping.

  The captain waited until she was calmer. “Did your husband tell you what Biddle believed he might have stolen?”

  Mrs. Adcock shook her head despairingly. “No more he did, for Biddle wouldn’t tell him. Just kept pushin’ him with his hand an’ sayin’ over ’n’ over that he had to give it back, an’ ‘twas worth a pot of money.” She looked up at him, her eyes swimming with tears. “But how could Mr. Adcock give it back when he hadn’t took it in t’ first place?”

  “Mr. Biddle was pushing him?”

  “Right. An’ sayin’ that if he di‘n’t return it, he’d have to go to gaol. If you don’t b’lieve me, ask Maguire, that supervisor o’ Biddle’s. He was there when it happened.” She reached for a handkerchief and began to mop her eyes. “I doan’t know how I’m ever goin’ to tell t’ boys what’s been done here.”

  Feeling that there was nothing more to be learned from the widow, Captain Woodcock said his goodbyes and was letting himself out when he encountered Vicar Sackett and his new wife coming up the path to the house.

  “Ah, Captain,” said the vicar sadly. “You’ve spoken to Mrs. Adcock?”

  “Just now,” the captain said, and tipped his hat to Mrs. Sackett. “She’s rather broken up, I’m afraid.”

  “Poor thing,” Mrs. Sacke
tt said. “I am so sorry for her.”

  The vicar frowned. “You’ve been investigating, I take it,” he said to the captain. “Have you come to any conclusions?” He cleared his throat. “As I understand it, this is not . . . er, a natural death. I’m asking because there will be a question about the burial service that will have to be used.”

  “Samuel,” his wife remonstrated. “I thought we settled that.”

  “Easier said than done, my dear,” the vicar replied. “It is not entirely in our hands, you know. Have you learnt anything definitive, Captain?”

  The captain recognized the vicar’s dilemma, but there was nothing he could do about it—yet. He shook his head. “The investigation is going forward. I’m afraid that is the most I can say at this point.”

  And with that, the vicar had to be content.

  11

  At Slatestone Cottage: Mr. Heelis Has a Few Questions

  At this same moment, on the other side of the hedge, a visitor was knocking at the door of Slatestone Cottage.

  “Why, Miss Potter!” Jeremy exclaimed, answering the knock. “How very nice of you to come! Deirdre will be delighted.”

  “I hope I’m not intruding,” Beatrix said, handing her bouquet of wildflowers, ferns, and grasses to Jeremy. “I picked these along the way. I thought Deirdre might like to have them. And of course, I want to see the new baby—if it’s not too soon. If it is, I’ll come back another time.”

  “May I come in, too?” Rascal said from behind Miss Potter’s skirts. “I want to meet my namesake!”

  “Of course it’s not too soon,” Jeremy assured her. “It’s good to see you.” He looked down. “And you’ve brought Rascal! Hullo, there, old chap! Come in, both of you.”

  “Delighted,” Rascal barked, and followed Miss Potter to the bedroom.

  In a moment, Beatrix was saying hello to Deirdre and cooing over the blanket-wrapped baby the new mother held in her arms. Deirdre’s carroty-red hair was caught up on top of her neck, loose tendrils curling down, and the freckles sprinkled liberally across her nose and cheeks made her look all of fourteen years old. But of course she was a young woman now, Beatrix reminded herself, and a mother—and all the more capable for having minded the young Suttons for so many years. Deirdre already had more experience at bringing up babies than many mothers earn in an entire lifetime.

  Beatrix couldn’t help smiling as she looked down at the cherubic face peeking out of the blanket. “He’s beautiful,” she said, quite honestly. She did not believe, as some people did, that all babies were beautiful, but this one certainly was. At that moment, the baby yawned and opened his eyes. “Oh, how sweet!” she exclaimed, touching the little nose with the tip of her finger. “He has his father’s eyes, don’t you think?”

  Into her mind flashed the picture of young Jeremy as she had first seen him, a slightly built, barefoot boy, dressed in a faded blue shirt and ragged britches, with a scrap of paper and a piece of burnt coal, drawing a picture of his cat. He was grown up now, an accomplished artist, an admired teacher, and a father. Beatrix was very proud of him—although she couldn’t help wishing, just a little, that he had taken at least one year at Cambridge, as both she and Major Kittredge had wanted. But if he had, there wouldn’t be this baby.

  Jeremy chuckled. “He has my eyes, yes, but his mother’s hair.” He set the vase full of Beatrix’s flowers on the stand beside the bed.

  “Red as a carrot, I’m sure,” Rascal said. “Tell us what you’ve named him.”

  “See?” Deirdre pulled off the tiny knit cap and Beatrix saw that yes, indeed, little Jeremy’s head was covered by carroty-red hair, the same shade as Deirdre’s. The new mother looked up at her husband, her eyes wet. “He’s perfect,” she whispered.

  “Of course he is,” Jeremy replied with a smile. “He’s ours. That makes him perfect, wouldn’t you say?”

  “And what’s his name?” Beatrix asked. “I should have asked your aunt, but I was so excited I forgot.”

  “Rascal!” Rascal barked excitedly, and stood up on his hind legs, his forepaws raised. He did a little dance. “They’ve named him after me!”

  “We’re calling the dear little rascal Jeremy,” Deirdre said, and dropped a kiss on the baby’s head.

  There was a silence. “Oh,” Rascal said, feeling suddenly very foolish. “Oh, I see.”

  Jeremy took the dog’s forepaws in his hands and danced with him. “Now we have two little rascals,” he said. “And when baby Jeremy is a bit older, you can play with him and go with us on our rambles through the woods and fells. What do you think of that, Rascal?”

  “I think that’s splendid,” Rascal said, and meant it.

  Jeremy turned back to Deirdre. “Now you must get some sleep, my dear.” He bent and kissed his wife, then straightened. “I have something to show you, Miss Potter.”

  “I think I’ll stay and watch the baby,” Rascal said. “We wouldn’t want anything to happen to him, now would we?” And he lay down beside the bed, his muzzle on his paws.

  A moment later, Beatrix was standing in front of an easel that was placed near a window for good light. An array of artist’s brushes and paints lay on the small table beside the easel, which displayed a large painting of a flower, its green leaves tinted with copper and faintly veined with red, its pale green, waxy petals enclosing a constellation of starry flower parts. Every part of the flower was rendered with delicate, loving attention.

  “A green hellebore!” Beatrix exclaimed, delighted. “Jeremy, it’s lovely!” She did not say that he was following in her footsteps, but in a way he was, for she had painted many delicate watercolors of flowers—and had then moved on to mushrooms, rendering them in exquisite detail. She was elated at the thought that Jeremy was beginning to share her passion for picturing the natural wonders of the Lakes—not the large landscapes of trees and sky that her brother Bertram liked to paint, but the tiny, hidden, secret things that people didn’t see because they didn’t take the time to look.

  “I know it’s not exactly a rare plant,” Jeremy said in an apologetic tone. “But it was so striking, I couldn’t resist painting it.”

  “It’s becoming rare,” Beatrix said softly. “The shady, woodsy places it loves to grow are being sold up for cottages. In a few years, there won’t be many left.”

  “I know,” Jeremy said regretfully. “That’s happening to too many of our native plants. Painting them is one way to save them for the future.” He brightened. “And I’m glad to tell you that I’ve sold this painting. It’s going to the same gentleman who bought the helleborine I painted not long ago. And he says he wants to see more—to see all my paintings.”

  Beatrix clapped her hands. “Jeremy, that’s wonderful,” she cried. “I’m so proud of you—and so very glad that you’re finding time to go on with your work. With your painting, that is.” She laughed a little. “I know that you have plenty of other work, as well.”

  “You can say that again.” Jeremy put his arm around her shoulder. “Now, come into the kitchen and have a cup of tea, Miss Potter.” He grinned merrily, and Beatrix saw a hint of the young Jeremy that she remembered so well. “You can’t know how wonderful it is to be able to invite you to have tea in our very own kitchen, with my wife and my new son sleeping upstairs.”

  In the tiny kitchen, Deirdre’s friend Gilly Harmsworth, her blond hair plaited into two braids and twisted up at the back of her head, was just pouring hot water from a kettle into the teapot.

  “Oh, Miss Potter!” she exclaimed, putting the kettle back on the coal range. “How nice to see you again.”

  Beatrix had first met Gilly when she was living with her uncle and his wife at Applebeck Farm. There, the girl had been made to work long, hard hours in the Applebeck dairy, until Beatrix helped her find another place and persuaded Gilly’s uncle, Adam Harmsworth, to release her. Altogether, it had been an ugly, unhappy business and revealed the darker, exploitative side of human nature. (You can read about it in The Tale of Applebe
ck Orchard.) But in the end, things had turned out surprisingly well. Mrs. Harmsworth got what was coming to her. Mr. Harmsworth, who never really wanted to be an orchardist, sold up and left. And Gilly was still happily working for Major Kittredge and his wife Dimity in the dairy at Raven Hall, the position Beatrix had found for her. She was now in full charge of the dairy, a very responsible position for a young woman who was not yet nineteen.

  Jeremy opened a cupboard and got out a plate of tea biscuits. “Gilly and I were just talking about what happened next door,” he said soberly. “Have you heard, Miss Potter?”

  “I ran into your aunt Jane a little while ago,” Beatrix replied. “She told me. It seems very hard to believe. And so very sad. I—”

  She was interrupted by a knock. Jeremy disappeared. He was back in a moment with Mr. Heelis, whom he introduced to Gilly. Beatrix caught Will’s glance, and was glad that it was warm and welcoming, although there was still that sense of distance.

  “Why, hello, Miss Potter,” he said formally.

  “Hello, Mr. Heelis,” Beatrix replied.

  If you wonder at “Miss Potter” and “Mr. Heelis,” please remember that both Beatrix and Will are thorough-going Victorians, raised in an era when even husbands and wives called each other “Mr.” and “Mrs.” Beatrix and Will always call each other by their first names when they are alone or when they are writing to one another, as they do quite often. But when they are in company, except with their closest friends, they feel obliged to be formal. They might even want to hold hands and kiss in greeting, but they would never do so in public. They save those intimacies for their private moments, which I daresay makes those moments even more pleasurable. There is something to be said, after all, for pent-up longing.

  Gilly put sugar and milk on the table, with cups and saucers and spoons. Beatrix noticed with pleasure that the cups were part of the china set that she had given Jeremy and Deirdre as a wedding present—along with the blue rug on the floor. It was nice to see them being used.

  “I’ll go look in on Deirdre,” Gilly said, “and leave you to your tea.”