“Well, yes,” Miles replied. “But doesn’t it seem odd that an experienced carpenter should steal a common tool that he must already possess?”
“He must have taken something else, then,” Margaret mused. “I wonder what it was.”
“Or Mr. Biddle thought he did,” Beatrix said thoughtfully, “which is not quite the same thing.” She tasted the stuffing. “Margaret, whatever Mrs. Grape’s shortcomings, she certainly makes a fine onion and sage stuffing. Do you suppose she would give me her recipe?”
“I’ll ask, but I’m sure it’s Mrs. Beeton’s,” Margaret said. “Elsa and I live and die by Mrs. Beeton. Do you have the book?”
“I’m afraid not,” Beatrix said ruefully. “Mama’s cook keeps one in the kitchen at Bolton Gardens, of course, and I’ve looked at it for menu ideas. But I don’t have a copy of my own.”
Margaret leaned toward her guest with a teasing smile. “Perhaps you ought to have one for a wedding present.”
Beatrix laughed a little and slanted a look at Will, who was now engaged in a deeply serious conversation with the captain, speculating about what might or might not have been stolen. “I’m sure I should,” she said. “I certainly haven’t had much practice as a cook. And I’m definitely not up to stuffing a duck.” She looked down at her plate and added ruefully, “Or even tomatoes. Perhaps I won’t need it, though. I’m afraid the wedding will never take place, Margaret.”
“Oh, dear,” Margaret said with sincere compassion. Beatrix was the first person she had told when she and Miles became engaged, and she had been among the first in the village to hear about Beatrix’s engagement to Will. She knew that the Potters stubbornly opposed this match, just as they had opposed Beatrix’s earlier engagement, and she knew how painful this whole episode had been for Beatrix. “Has something happened?” she ventured sympathetically.
Beatrix put down her fork. “Bertram has decided to tell our parents about his marriage to Mary,” she said, very low.
Margaret—who knew that Beatrix’s brother had been secretly married for a decade—understood the implications of this at once. “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, this time more fervently. “That’s going to upset the applecart, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid it will,” Beatrix said with a sigh. She leaned toward Margaret. “I just learnt about this today, from Bertram himself. I haven’t told Will about it yet. I thought . . . well, I thought I would wait until it has happened and then let him know the outcome. My parents are going to be in a terrible state, of course. I dread what’s to come.” She sighed, her eyes dark and troubled. “I hope you won’t mention it to anyone, not even the captain. He might feel obliged to tell Will.”
“Of course,” Margaret said. “Not a soul.”
At the end of the table, the captain broke off his conversation with Will and raised his voice. His eyebrows were pulled together, and he wore a serious look. “Will and I are agreed that we must speak to Maguire tonight, Margaret. We shall leave directly after dessert. Will tells me that the fellow lives on this side of Hawkshead, so it’s only a few miles.”
“Oh, dear!” Margaret exclaimed, for the third time in just a few moments. “Are you very sure, Miles? It’s getting late. And it’s raining!”
“We’re sure,” the captain said. “And a little rain isn’t going to hurt us. I daresay we won’t melt.”
“And it’s only going nine now,” Will added, glancing toward the dining room windows. “The sun won’t set for another fifteen minutes, and the sky will be light for several hours.”
Margaret sighed. That was true. At this time of year, twilight lingered long past sunset. On a clear evening, one could sit outside in the garden and read the newspaper until bedtime, if the gnats didn’t drive one indoors. “Well, if you must, then of course you must,” she replied bravely. “But I hope you’ll be very careful.”
“Perhaps,” Beatrix suggested, “you might take the constable with you.”
“We shall do that,” the captain replied. With a grim satisfaction, he added, “We may be able to make an arrest, you know. I should certainly like to get this dreadful business wrapped up.”
Will cast an apologetic look at Beatrix. “I’m sorry. I hope you don’t mind, Bea. It’s rather an unusual situation, and it seems that I should be involved, since I managed the investigation into the theft of the construction materials.”
“Of course I don’t mind,” Beatrix said resolutely. “I don’t like the idea any more than you do, Will, but the man must be confronted. And the sooner the better.”
“Well, then,” Margaret said, “now that you have decided what you are going to do, shall we set the subject aside and talk about something else? Something a little less . . . well, worrisome? More nicely suited to the dinner table?”
“Of course, my dear,” her husband replied in a reassuring tone. He turned to Will. “I read in the Sunday Times that the Kaiserliche Marine has just commissioned the first German U-boat powered with a diesel engine. There are plans for several more just like it, apparently. Kaiser Wilhelm and his gang are spoiling for war.” He raised his fork, brandishing it in the air like a weapon. “I tell you, Heelis, if I were Churchill, I wouldn’t waste a minute. I’d send the Royal Navy over there to clean up that nest of filthy rats!”
“Miles!” Margaret exclaimed, nettled.
“What?” the captain asked, looking up. “What did I say?”
Margaret looked at Beatrix and rolled her eyes. Beatrix shook her head, and both women began to laugh.
21
The Lost Is Found, or Revelation Revealed
The men excused themselves immediately after finishing Mrs. Grape’s damson tart, not even staying for the customary coffee, port, and cigars. Beatrix and Margaret walked with them to the porch and watched them drive off in Miles’ Rolls, on their way to pick up the constable. It had stopped raining, the air was fresh and cool and deliciously rain-scented, and the sky was beginning to clear. To the west, the sun had already slipped below the horizon, and the clouds over the fells were tinged with orange and lemon. The sky itself had a pearly quality, the promise of a lingering summer twilight.
After the men were gone, Beatrix followed Margaret into the sitting room where they sat with their after-dinner coffee and a few sweets, talking in a desultory way about community matters—Jeremy and Deirdre’s new baby, the fête that was coming up in a few weeks, the plan to renovate the schoolhouse, and the possibility of hiring a village nurse, a project that Beatrix had long had in mind. Dr. Butters was wonderful, but he was just one person, and the people he cared for were scattered across a dauntingly large district. A nurse would be an enormous help to him—and to the villagers.
But neither Beatrix nor Margaret spoke of the thing that was on both their minds: what might be happening with Miles, Will, and the constable. Would they be able to find Mr. Maguire? What would they learn? Would their interview end in an arrest?
After a while, the conversation grew more and more haphazard, punctuated by longer and longer silences. Finally, Beatrix glanced toward the window and said, “I wonder—would you like to go for a walk, Margaret? It’s not that late, and there’s plenty of light left.”
Margaret jumped to her feet. “What a splendid idea, Beatrix! I’m longing for a breath of fresh air.”
Beatrix smiled as they went to the door, thinking how very different village people were from Londoners. In the city, two women would not venture out in the evening unless they were going somewhere specific—to the theater, to a party—and even then, they would have to take a cab or the family coach and would feel much better if a man accompanied them. They would never just go walking, especially not after the sun had set. That could be dangerous, even in the best neighborhoods, and of course, people might talk. Here in the village, there was no danger. No one thought anything of two women going out for a walk in the twilight.
A few moments later, Beatrix and Margaret were walking slowly along the Kendal Road in the direction of the vill
age. When they reached Sarah Barwick’s bakery, they turned left and went along the main lane, past the village shop, the blacksmith, and the joinery. They were enjoying the quiet sounds of the evening—a dog barking urgently in the distance, a baby crying nearby, small scurryings here and there in the shrubbery, the soft swish of a tree branch against a wall, the quiet drip-drip of a gutter. The lane was deserted. People were indoors, finishing their dinners and gathering around their fires.
“You know, I haven’t been up to Castle Cottage for quite a little time,” Margaret remarked, as they walked slowly up the street. “Shall we walk there? I would very much like to see what you’ve been doing to the house and to hear more about your plan for it.”
“Of course, if you would like,” Beatrix said. “As a matter of fact, after I mentioned the barn at dinner tonight, I’ve been thinking about it. I suppose it’s possible that at least some of the ‘extra’ material I’ve been charged for might be stored in the loft. Mr. Maguire would never imagine that I would look there.” She sighed a little, thinking once again that she had been foolish to try to renovate the old house. “As to my plan, well, perhaps the least said about that, the better. I’ve learnt that plans don’t always work out the way we hope.”
Suddenly something scurried across their path, a large, furry creature with a very long tail. Startled, Margaret gave a breathless shriek and stepped back. Then she laughed, embarrassed. “Just a rat,” she said. “Sorry, Beatrix. I’m not one of those women who faint at the sight of a mouse. But I do think it takes a bit of cheek for a rat to be out and about in the lane before full dark, don’t you?”
“I do, indeed,” Beatrix said. “I’m glad that the village hasn’t had a rat problem since that awful time we had to clear them out of the attics at Hill Top. I—”
She stopped. Another rat, even larger than the first, had just flashed past them, its lips pulled back from yellow teeth in what looked like a taunting grin.
“Just look at the size of that fellow!” Margaret exclaimed, turning to watch the rat as it skipped into the shadows. She added, “You know, Elsa Grape was complaining this afternoon that something—she thought it must have been a rat—made off with a half-dozen carrots she had put by for tonight’s dinner and a couple of crumpets from her bakery box. We must be—”
A third rat careered around the corner of Croft End Cottage, darted across the front stoop, and disappeared through a hole in the fence.
Beatrix finished Margaret’s sentence. “We must be in the middle of an invasion. What a pesky nuisance. We shall have to get the cats to do something about it.”
“Oh, those cats!” Margaret exclaimed with scornful disdain. “I have never in my life seen such a lazy lot as these village cats, Bea. I doubt that there’s more than one or two who are capable of dealing with a plague of rats.” She shuddered. “I daresay traps are in order, but from the size of those beasts, I’m not sure that what we have will do the job. We’ll have to get bigger traps!”
They were walking up Stony Lane now, toward Castle Cottage, which rose like a gray ghost at the top of the village. As they walked, a delicious scent wafted from the roses along the lane, and Beatrix pulled in her breath appreciatively, already feeling somewhat better, under the spell of the quiet evening. She was still apprehensive about Will, of course. If Maguire had been responsible for poor Mr. Adcock’s death, he was clearly dangerous. But three strong men—Will, the captain, and Constable Braithwaite—ought to be able to deal with him.
By this time, they had reached the gate that opened into the Castle Farm barn lot, across the road from Belle Green. The sky had deepened to a darker blue in the east and the stars were beginning to glitter over Claife Heights, but the western sky was still streaked with sunset-tinged clouds and a silvery light filled the air around them, transforming the landscape into something not quite real, something out of a fairy tale. Beatrix glanced up as a dark shadow glided overhead, wings stretched out and motionless in the soundless, sweeping flight of a large tawny owl, the largest in the Lakes. It was rare to see one so near the village.
“Look, Margaret!” she exclaimed. “An owl! Perhaps it’s the one who lives in the beech at the top of Claife Heights.”
Margaret looked up, too, as the owl dipped his wings and dropped lower over the village rooftops. “Oh, how beautiful!” she breathed, and then added practically, “Let’s hope he has an appetite for rats.”
Beatrix chuckled, agreeing. “If we could count on that owl, we wouldn’t need those traps.”
She lifted the latch on the wooden gate and they went through, threading their way between piles of building materials and heaps of plaster and lathes and slates that had been removed from the house. The bare ground was slick and muddy from the evening rain, and Beatrix found herself wishing for her pattens—the wooden-soled shoes that she and other farm women wore when they went outdoors. She had worn her town shoes for the dinner party, and they were going to get unspeakably dirty.
Just as Beatrix was thinking that perhaps this wasn’t such a very good idea after all, she saw Rascal, her favorite village dog, trotting purposefully around the corner of the old stone barn. As she and Margaret approached the barn, he looked up and saw them, then ran forward.
“Miss Potter!” he barked loudly, planting himself firmly in front of the barn door, stiff-legged. “What are you doing here? And Mrs. Woodcock, too! Don’t you know how late it is? Why, it’s almost dark! Go home, both of you! Go right home, now! Shoo!”
“My goodness,” Margaret said mildly. “Why, look at him, Beatrix. He’s trying to chase us away.”
Surprised at the flurry of urgent barks, Beatrix went toward the little dog. She often wished she understood what the animals were saying—and sometimes she thought she almost did.
“Whatever in the world is the matter, Rascal?” she inquired.
“What’s the matter?” Rascal shouted, dancing up and down in front of them. “What’s the matter? The matter is that you’re not wanted here tonight, Miss Potter! Hostilities are about to get under way! A battle! A war! All animals must stay out of the barn—and that includes you!”
I am sure that Beatrix would have responded differently if she had truly understood what Rascal was trying to tell her. But she didn’t, I am sorry to say—which just goes to show that even our dear Miss Potter, who understands quite a lot about animals, does not know everything there is to know. She bent down and patted the little dog’s head gently. “But this is my barn, Rascal. And I am going inside. Right now.”
“No!” Rascal shrilled. “No, no—”
But Beatrix was grasping the door and pulling it open just wide enough for herself and Margaret to slip through. Over her shoulder, she said, “Hush, Rascal. We’ve had enough of your noise. Now, go away.”
But Rascal had already gone. He had seen a very large rat slinking around the corner of the barn, and he was off to do his duty, as a fierce, brave terrier-warrior should.
It was dim and dry and musty inside the old barn, with the scent of dust and musty hay in the air. Beatrix was aware of a faint rustling in the hay—rats, she assumed, and thought that it might be a good idea to set several rat traps right here in the barn. She looked up. Overhead, the barn roof rose into the shadowy twilight like a cathedral ceiling. A wooden ladder was propped against the edge of the open loft, about a dozen feet above the floor.
Beatrix touched Margaret’s sleeve. “Would you mind holding the ladder for me? I’m going to climb up to the loft and have a look. It should be empty. If it isn’t—”
“Are you sure, Bea?” Margaret asked, eyeing the ladder worriedly. “It looks a little unstable.”
“Let’s give it a go.” Beatrix went to the ladder. She positioned it firmly, and as Margaret held it, she began to climb, one rung at a time. A few moments later, she could see into the loft, an area about twenty feet by twenty feet—and stacked with lumber and other building materials. She puffed out her breath. “I’ve found it, Margaret!” she cried excite
dly. “I’ve found the materials that Mr. Maguire has stolen. Some of it, anyway.”
She turned to look down at Margaret. As she did so, she caught a glimpse, out of the corner of her eye, of something large and dark, about the size of a badger. And then, to her surprise, she saw—or thought she saw—a fox. And a—a weasel? And a stoat? She twisted around, shifting her weight, trying to see better. Was she imagining this? Was she—
“Beatrix!” Margaret called. “What’s the matter? What are you doing? You—” She broke off with a shrill scream. “Help! The ladder! It’s tilting! I can’t hold it!”
The next instant, the ladder was slipping sideways and Beatrix was falling, with Margaret’s scream loud in her ears. I am sure that she would have been badly injured if she hadn’t fallen into a pile of musty old hay that had been heaped up in the corner. The hay cushioned her fall, but the wind was knocked out of her, and for a moment, she was too stunned to move.
“Beatrix!” Margaret cried, rushing over to her. “Bea, are you all right? Speak to me, Bea! Say something.”
“Pfft,” Beatrix said, sitting up and spitting straw out of her mouth. “Pffoey!” And then she sneezed. “Achooo!”
“Oh, thank heavens,” Margaret gasped. “You’re all right!”
“More or less,” Beatrix said dizzily, rubbing her shoulder. “Did you see that badger? And the stoat? And the weasel?”
“Badger? Stoat? Weasel?” Margaret leant over, peering anxiously at her. “No, I didn’t see a thing. Are you . . . Are you sure you’re all right, dear Bea? You haven’t hurt your head, have you?”
“No, just my shoulder.” Beatrix struggled to stand up but fell back. “And I’m afraid I’ve turned my ankle.” She put her hand down to steady herself. Feeling something hard under the straw, she pulled it out. “What’s this?” she asked, holding it up.
Margaret stared. “Why . . . Why, it’s our wedding photograph—in the silver frame that Dimity and Christopher gave us as a wedding gift! What in the world is it doing here?”
The Tale of Castle Cottage Page 24
