The Tale of Castle Cottage

by Susan Wittig Albert

  But Beatrix was too busy digging in the hay to answer her. “Look at this!” she said in a wondering tone, holding up a silver cream jug. “And this!” She held up a monogrammed leather purse. “It has Sarah Barwick’s initials on it!” She fished through the straw again and pulled something else out. “What on earth—?”

  But I’m sure that you’ve already guessed.

  It is The Book of the Revelation of John, created many centuries ago by Eadfrith, bishop of Lindisfarne. It has been hidden under the hay by Rooker Rat, who planned to sell it on the underworld art market.

  And just where did Rooker get this precious book?

  Why, he stole it from Mr. Biddle, of course!

  And Mr. Biddle—where did he get it?

  Well, if you will recall, Sally Brandon stole the book from Lord Longford’s collection and brought it home with her to Castle Cottage. Her little brother Dickey hid it in his hidey-hole, along with three marbles and a broken knife-blade and the star-shaped brass decoration that had fallen off Captain Woodcock’s horse’s bridle. Mr. Biddle found it when he was surveying the tear-out work that needed to be done at Castle Cottage.

  Of course, he recognized at once that the book was of value, at least as far as the gold and silver and jewels were concerned, and knew that he should show it to Miss Potter, since he had found on her property and understood it to be hers by rights. You would have done that, wouldn’t you?

  But I am sad to say that Mr. Biddle’s greed overwhelmed his good sense, which happens all too often in this world—and not only that, he was not terribly fond of Miss Potter and knew that she had employed him only because she could find no one else. So he put the Revelation with his jacket and canvas lunch bag, intending to take it home with him and show it to a book dealer of his acquaintance named Depford Darnwell, who might give him as much as a hundred quid for it. (I am sure that Mr. Darnwell would have been delighted to do this, since he has already told Lady Longford that the book is worth a great deal more than a hundred quid.)

  And that is where Rooker Rat discovered the book, when he was rummaging through Mr. Biddle’s lunch bag, looking for an apple. Rooker, a clever rat with an eye for value, made off with both the apple and the book.

  And what happened when Mr. Biddle discovered that the book he had stolen had been stolen from him? Why, he blamed Mr. Adcock, naturally, because Mr. Adcock had been working in the same room where Mr. Biddle had put his jacket and lunch. And Mr. Adcock quite naturally refused to confess that he had stolen anything, because he hadn’t. And then Mr. Biddle sacked Mr. Adcock and they got into a fight at the pub and—

  But you know what happened after that.

  And now, here is our Miss Potter, who has fallen off the ladder in her barn and tumbled into the pile of hay where she has discovered all manner of stolen goods: Hannah Braithwaite’s cream jug, Margaret’s wedding photograph, Sarah Barwick’s monogrammed leather purse, and—

  And she is holding the Revelation in her hand, staring down at it wonderingly. She opens it, sees the decorated Latin lettering and the gorgeously illuminated pages and breathes, “The Lindisfarne Gospels!” For as a young girl, Beatrix had many times visited the British Museum, where she looked closely at Bishop Eadfrith’s gorgeous Gospels and admired (as a young artist naturally would) the lettering, the illuminations, and the brilliant colors. And because she is an artist, she recognizes this same lettering, illuminations, and coloring when she sees it again.

  “Beg pardon?” Margaret says, now thoroughly confused and convinced that Beatrix had indeed fallen on her head.

  Beatrix pulls in her breath, stammers, and finally manages to say quite breathlessly, “Margaret, I have no idea how this book got into the barn. But I have seen another, very like it, in the British Museum. It’s very, very old. And enormously valuable.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” Margaret replies in a matter-of-fact voice. “But I do know that you have just had a bad fall and you’ve likely hurt your head as well as your shoulder and your ankle.” (She thinks this, I am sure, because Beatrix believed that she had seen a badger, a stoat, and a weasel, when most people who fall on their heads simply see stars.) “I am taking you home right this minute for a cup of hot tea, some arnica liniment, and bed.” She holds out her hand and adds sweetly, in the tone she has so often used for her schoolchildren, “Don’t argue with me, dear. Just come along.”

  And Beatrix suddenly found that the idea of a cup of hot tea, arnica liniment, and bed sounded just about perfect. She went with Margaret without a word of complaint.

  Now, you and I know that Beatrix really did see a badger, a stoat, and a weasel. In fact, she might have seen a half-dozen weasels and stoats, if she’d had a moment longer to look—oh, and a cat, of course. The badger was Hyacinth, the cat was Crumpet, and they were hiding in Brown Billy’s stall where, after an hour’s surveillance, they suspected that Rooker’s gang was holed up.

  No, that’s wrong. It wasn’t a matter of suspecting any longer, for as they kept watch in the shadows, they had seen several rats—including an immense gray creature that they thought must be Rooker—emerging from a trapdoor in the floor under the manager. Their strategy discussion was interrupted when Miss Potter and Mrs. Woodcock entered the barn, and then Miss Potter climbed the ladder and fell off and Mrs. Woodcock rushed to her rescue and several moments later, the two women left, Miss Potter leaning on Mrs. Woodcock for support.

  Breathing a sigh of relief that Miss Potter was not terribly injured, they returned to their discussion of strategy.

  “I’m in favor of taking them on right now, here in the barn,” Hyacinth said grimly. “If some are still loose in the village, Rascal and the other animals can pick them off when they try to get back here to their headquarters. And the fewer there are down there in that hole, the easier it will be to destroy them.”

  Crumpet shook her head bleakly. “Destroy them? I don’t know how you’re going to do that, Hyacinth.” She gave the badger a measuring glance that took in her substantial girth. “I certainly can’t squeeze through that trapdoor, and you’re bigger than I am.”

  Hyacinth gave a wry chuckle. “Of course I am. And both of us are bigger than that weasel over there.” She nodded toward a dark corner, where a weasel was snuffling through the hay, looking for mice. “And that one there.” Another, in the other corner. “But while they may be smaller than we are, they are fierce. Believe me. And the stoats are just as fierce as the weasels. In fact, I think we’ll send the stoats down first. They love nothing better than a good fight. What do you say?”

  “I say YES!” Crumpet cried excitedly, thinking that she hadn’t heard such a good suggestion since the beginning of this horrible episode.

  So the stoats went first, slamming the trapdoor after themselves so that rats could not escape. Through the floor, Crumpet and Hyacinth could hear the satisfying sounds of terrified squeals and cries of “Mercy! Mercy, please!” and the sound of furniture being overturned and crockery broken and things flying around.

  And then there was silence.

  And then the trapdoor opened, and one after another, the weasels and stoats came out. One of them dragged up the limp body of Jumpin’ Jemmy, another the carcass of Firehouse Frank, and both dead rats were thrown on the floor for everyone to see. The stoats and weasels themselves were bloody, a few ears had been bitten and fur torn, but—to an animal—they were proud of their victory.

  “We rout-t-t-ed those rat-t-ts!” the weasel-in-charge announced, in his clicking, chattery voice.

  And the stoat-in-charge echoed him. “We rout-t-ted the rat-t-ts! Rout-t-t out-t-t rat-t-ts!”

  “Congratulations!” cried Hyacinth and Crumpet, with one voice. “Thank you for your help!”

  But of course it wasn’t over. Throughout the village that night, rats were spotted, attacked, and speedily slaughtered—by Rascal and the fox, by the Professor, by Bailey Badger, and of course by the weasels and stoats, who weren’t quite ready to go home and be p
eaceful. The dragon, too, did his part, with a little help from his friend Thackeray. Riding on Thorvaald’s broad shoulders, the guinea pig looked down and saw Rooker, who was trying to escape by sneaking west along the Kendal Road. He alerted Thorvaald, who dove down out of the sky, with Thackeray holding on for dear life, and incinerated the wretched rat on the spot.

  In this way, and in a matter of only a few hours, the Rooker gang was completely eliminated, and the animals could all go back to The Brockery and celebrate their victory—which they did, of course. They had a grand party that lasted well into the night.

  If the villagers had been out and about while all this carnage was going on, they would have been astonished by the battles that were waged, the blood that was spilled, and the anguish that was caused—anguish among Rooker’s rats, that is. But like quiet, well-behaved Big Folks, they kept indoors until the next morning, when a few of them were greatly surprised to find their stolen treasures (Mr. Dowling’s silver snuffbox, Mrs. Crook’s emerald-cut crystal pendant) on their stoops, returned with the compliments of the animals of The Brockery. They were also astonished when they saw the numerous carcasses of dead rats that littered their lanes and back gardens.

  “Whatever do you think?” young Mrs. Pemberton said in great wonderment to Lydia Dowling, as she carried three dead rats to her rubbish tip. “Do you suppose it was t’ cats did ’em in?”

  “Doan’t hardly see how our fat, lazy cats could’ve killt all these rats,” Lydia Dowling said, adding two more carcasses to her own tip. “But if they were t’ ones who done it, I’m glad to take back everything I said about ’em.”

  Mrs. Pemberton nodded. “Think I’ll put out an extra bowl of milk,” she remarked.

  Watching from the doorway of the shed at the foot of the Rose Cottage garden, Crumpet smiled.

  22

  An Astonishing Turn of Events

  By Sunday, Beatrix’s wrenched ankle was much better, but it had been an exhausting week, and she was glad for the chance to rest and relax. The sun was bright, the sky was a crystalline blue, and the air was deliciously scented with summer roses, so she spent an early hour in the garden before coming indoors and settling down to The Tale of Pigling Bland. The work went well, and she finished another drawing—Pig-wig and Pigling running across a bridge together—that she would insert into the galley proof at the end of the book, to illustrate the last paragraph: “They came to the river, they came to the bridge—they crossed it hand in hand—then over the hills and far away Pig-wig danced with Pigling Bland.”

  There were still three or four pen-and-ink drawings to complete and in a few weeks she would have the proofs to check and correct—that would take several days. But happily, she could finally see the end of the project, which had seemed to stretch out interminably. She could hope, now, that Pigling Bland would be published on schedule, in October.

  Would it be the last of her little books? If she had her way, she rather thought yes, all things considered. It was so hard to find time for sketching and painting, and her dealings with Harold Warne were almost always uncomfortable, one way or another. But the farms would certainly continue to need money—for drains, barn repairs, fences, livestock. It would be difficult to give up the books, if only because there were so many places to put her earnings. Now, if Mr. Warne would just pay what was owed her . . .

  She pushed that unfinished thought away. She would have to deal with it sooner or later, but the day was too lovely to spoil it with unpleasantness about money. It was time to clear the table for Sunday dinner.

  Will had fallen into the regular practice of riding his motorcycle to Hill Top Farm on Sundays, so that he and Beatrix could eat and take a quiet country walk together. Mrs. Jennings had cooked an especially nice dinner for today: roast lamb with mint sauce; new potatoes; spinach and marrow; a garden salad with onions, cucumbers, and tomatoes; sliced bread and butter; and an apple pie with wedges of yellow cheese.

  As Beatrix set the food on the table, she reflected with a warm contentment that every part of the meal came from Hill Top, from its sheep and cows, its garden, and its orchard. If war came, as Captain Woodcock seemed to think it might (or rather to hope that it would!), there would likely be plenty of food here at the farm and in the rest of the village. Of course, London was a different matter, because so much British food was imported now—lamb from New Zealand, beef from Australia, wheat and maize from Canada and the United States. It was frightening to think that an enemy blockade of ships or those terrible new U-boats might reduce the nation’s food supply. But surely Mr. Churchill would send out the Royal Navy and—

  It was another disquieting thought to be set aside. Beatrix picked up her shears and went out to the garden to cut some pink and white roses for the table. She was settling them into a bowl when she heard Will’s tap on the door and went happily to answer it. Pulled into his tweedy and tobacco-scented embrace, she could forget for a few moments about everything else. She could almost pretend that they had crossed the bridge to happiness together, hand in hand, and everything had been settled at last.

  But that was not going to happen, she knew. And in spite of all her resolution to push away unhappy thoughts, one hung like an ominous cloud over all her present happiness. Today was the day that Bertram intended to confess his secret marriage. And tomorrow afternoon, she would go back across the lake to Lindeth Howe, where she would be bombarded by her parents’ anger the minute she walked through the door. And worse, they would adamantly refuse to hear another word about her being married. She desperately wanted to confide in Will, but she knew it was better to wait until Bertram had done what he was going to do and the consequences were clear. Then she would tell him and release him from their engagement. By that time, even he would have to agree that their marriage would be entirely out of the question.

  Will pulled out her chair so she could sit down at the table, then took his place opposite. “There’s news, Bea, about Maguire. The Kendal police apprehended him at his brother’s home in Kendal late yesterday, thankfully without a fight. Tomorrow, he’ll be brought over to Hawkshead and arraigned.” He gave her a crooked grin. “Miles said to convey his thanks—he says that you’ve done it again, and he is grateful.”

  Beatrix let out her breath. Her fall from the ladder in the barn had put an end to her dinner-party evening, but Will and Captain Woodcock had been out for several more hours. They had returned empty-handed, for when Maguire heard them knocking at his door and realized who they were, he went out the back window. The constables and police authorities in the neighboring districts had been alerted, and this was the outcome. Maguire was in custody, without a fight.

  “I’m very glad,” Beatrix said, deeply relieved. “And glad that there was no more violence. Has he . . . Has he confessed to Mr. Adcock’s death?”

  “Yes, and to the theft of the construction materials, as well—which turns out to have been the motive for the killing. He told the police that Adcock had found him out and threatened to go to the constable with the information about the thefts. He went to Adcock’s workshop early that morning and waited for him, hoping to persuade him otherwise. When Adcock refused, Maguire picked up a piece of lumber and hit him. The rest—well, he said he panicked. All he could think of was trying to hide his crime.” He shook his head. “Such a pity.”

  “Poor Mr. Adcock,” Beatrix said softly. “And Mrs. Adcock, too. But perhaps she will take some comfort in the knowledge that her husband was doing the right thing.” She added, “Sarah Barwick told me that the villagers are asking for contributions to help with Mrs. Adcock’s bills.”

  That was one of the things she loved about Sawrey. The villagers might carry petty grudges and gossip unmercifully about their friends, but they genuinely cared for one another. When one was in want, the others were glad to pitch in, even when their own pockets were nearly empty. And while Mrs. Adcock’s loss was immeasurable, help from her friends and fellow villagers would go a long way toward easing it.

 
Will nodded. “Oh, and I ran into Vicar Sackett in Hawkshead, and we talked about the book you found in the barn at Castle Farm. He told me that he was the one who recommended to Lady Longford that she have her husband’s collection appraised.”

  “Yes,” Beatrix said. “That’s what he told me yesterday, when we talked.” By this time, Beatrix had discovered that the Revelation had belonged to Lord Longford, although she still did not have a clue as to how it might have come to be buried in that pile of hay in the barn. Even the remarkable Beatrix Potter doesn’t know everything.

  “He asked me to pass along a suggestion.” Will buttered a slice of bread. “He thought we ought to try to persuade Lady Longford to sell or perhaps even to give the Revelation to the British Museum, where it could rejoin the Lindisfarne Gospels.” He chuckled wryly. “Of course, it won’t be the easiest thing to do. Her ladyship is never inclined to be generous. But perhaps she can be convinced that the book really belongs to the British people, rather than hidden away in the library of a private collector.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that myself,” Beatrix said. “The book belongs in the museum. And she might be willing to donate it—especially if the museum would give a reception in her honor and the Times would publish an article about the find, with her photograph.” She chuckled. “Her ladyship can often be persuaded with the promise of a little public attention. I’ll be glad to help encourage her, Will.”

  They had finished the main part of their meal, and Beatrix was just cutting the pie when a shadow darkened the window and there was a knock at the door. When she opened it, she was surprised to see her brother.

  “Bertram!” she exclaimed. “What are you—” She bit it off and smiled. “How good to see you.”

  He set down the leather valise he was carrying and took off his hat. Looking over her shoulder, he glimpsed Will sitting at the table.

  “Ah, Bea,” he said, “I’m sorry—I’m intruding on your dinner.”