The Tale of Applebeck Orchard (35 page)

But by that time, I am sorry to say, the ancient timbers, rafters, and joists that supported the old slate roof had all burnt through. Whilst the stone walls still stood fairly firm, the roof caved in and the interior was completely gutted. The embers continued to smolder for long hours after the thundershower had wandered off into the western fells and everyone, exhausted with work and excitement and wet from head to toe, had gone home to indulge in a hot toddy, a good toweling, and bed. As they went, they speculated (naturally) about the cause of this second fire at Applebeck Farm within the space of a few weeks.

“ ’Twas t’ Ramblers!” cried Mr. Harmsworth, who had appeared at the fire in his trousers and muslin nightshirt, which he had not taken off when he was woken and told that the buttery was burning. “They set fire to t’ haystack, and they’re back again to burn me out!”

“Ridiculous,” snorted Major Ragsdale. He had heard the alarm and run over from Teapot Cottage. “Likely, your dairymaid left a candle burning. Happens all the time.” He shook his head reprovingly. “Careless dairymaids. Never look what they are doing.”

“Ask me, ’twas Bertha Stubbs,” whispered Agnes Llewellyn to Mathilda Crook, as they started up the path toward the village. “Her threatened to put a rock through his window, to get even fer closin’ t’ footpath. Reckon her figured a torch ’ud do a better job.”

Bertha Stubbs, too far behind them to hear what they were saying, had her own opinion. “ ’Twere t’ lightnin’,” she claimed loudly, although it was an indisputable fact that the storm had not arrived on the scene until the building was entirely engulfed in flames. “Reet dang’rous, that lightnin’.”

“ ’Twas Auld Beechie wot done it,” said Dick Llewellyn, confidentially, to Constable Braithwaite. “Who else has a reason fer wantin’ to cause Harmsworth grief? Had to be him.”

The constable, who agreed with Mr. Llewellyn’s assessment of the situation, left the scene of the crime and went directly to Mr. Beecham’s cottage on Cunsey Beck. He pounded on the door and called loudly, but nobody answered except an old yellow cat who screeched at him from the shed. Then, just as the constable was about give it up as a bad job and go home and dry off, Mr. Beecham came around the corner of the cottage, smelling of smoke and smudge and wet right through to the skin, like everyone else, and carrying a very nice wooden cheese ring under one arm and a wooden churn under the other. He had seen the fire from his cottage window, he explained, and hastened to fight it, as any good neighbor would.

The churn and the cheese ring? Oh, he had bagged—er, he had
found
them—just outside the burning building, and not wanting either to be damaged, had brought both along home with him, to be returned later. As for how the blaze began, it was his considered opinion that Mr. Harmsworth had set it, although he was at a loss to explain, now that the footpath was closed, why he would do such a thing, especially if (as Mr. Beecham claimed) the property was about to be sold.

And when Constable Braithwaite pointed out that Mr. Beecham himself had a jolly good reason for burning down the building, Mr. Beecham became indignant. He? Why, he had nothing to do with the fire! Nothing at all, and anybody who said anything else was either a liar or a bloody fool. He was only an innocent bystander who had done his very best to put out the flames and rescue valuable property, and had anybody thanked him for his strenuous efforts? No, of course they hadn’t. And with that, he told the constable to go on about his business, for it was getting on past midnight and he, Mr. Beecham, intended to pour himself a stout tot of rum and go to bed.

The constable was frustrated and out of temper. But there was little he could do, for it was as Captain Woodcock reminded us earlier: unless there is an eyewitness to an arson, or unless the arsonist stupidly leaves a piece of incriminating evidence behind, it is very difficult to gain a conviction. So the good John Braithwaite had to content himself with confiscating the churn and the cheese ring and telling Auld Beechie to keep well away from Applebeck. If there were any more fires, anywhere, he—the constable—would know where to look first, by Jove.

But in this case, there
was
an eyewitness, although this fact was not known until the following day.

 

 

Miss Potter spent the morning seeing to her various farm duties. She went out into the hay field to inspect the haystacks; went into the garden to pick three bunches of grapes and some plums; discussed the acquisition of a new tup for her flock of Herdwick sheep with Farmer Jennings; and reviewed Mrs. Jennings’ reports of the milk, butter, and eggs produced by the cows and hens, as well as the vegetables produced by the garden. These were pleasant tasks, and she always enjoyed them.

And since it was a day of blue skies and mild breezes, she saw no reason why the fire at Applebeck should keep her from meeting Gilly, as she and Mr. Harmsworth had agreed. So after the noon meal, she drove Winston the pony (with Rascal coming along for the ride) to Applebeck. When she arrived, Mr. and Mrs. Harmsworth were nowhere to be seen. But Gilly was waiting at the gate, wearing a patched white pinafore over a plain gray dress, her blond hair plaited into two braids. She had a book in her hand.

“Please climb in,” Miss Potter invited, after she had introduced herself.

Gilly, feeling deeply troubled, complied. “Is this what you’ve come for?” she asked, holding out the book. “It’s the one Miss Nash gave me for winning the spelling contest. I’ve loved reading it, but if you want it back—”

“Why, no,” Miss Potter said, smiling. “The book is yours to keep, of course. I am glad you won it, and very glad you like it.” She picked up the reins and clucked to the pony, who flicked his tail and tossed his head in a lively way, as though he was pleased to be out and about on such a pretty afternoon. “I have come just for
you
, my dear. I thought we might go for a drive. Should you like that?”

Gilly would like that very much. Other than her walks back and forth to school and to chapel on Sunday, she had been nowhere else but Applebeck, and she knew there was a great deal more to see. She felt rather shy as they drove off, but Rascal climbed into her lap and licked her face, and Miss Potter drew her out very quietly and skillfully, and before long Gilly found herself telling the story of her young life, where she had lived before she came to Applebeck, why she had come there, and what sort of work she did—keeping the buttery and making the cheeses, and doing the garden and the housework.

“It sounds quite a lot,” Miss Potter commented. “You must work very hard.”

“I enjoy most of it,” Gilly said truthfully. It wasn’t the work itself she minded, and the buttery had been a pleasant, quiet place—a place where she was usually left alone. “I don’t know what’s to be done now that the buttery has burnt, though,” she said sadly. She cast a sidelong look at Miss Potter. “Did you see the fire?”

“I did,” Miss Potter said. “It was quite a blaze.”

Gilly sighed. “It’s really too bad. I suppose all the dairy work will have to be done in the kitchen now.” Which meant that she would be under Mrs. Harmsworth’s thumb all day long. There would be no escape.

“Miss Nash has told me that you might be interested in finding another position,” Miss Potter said. “Is that still the case?”

“Another position?” Gilly turned to stare at her, not sure she had heard correctly. “Oh, yes,” she said, quite passionately. “I should love to leave Applebeck.” And then, thinking she might have gone too far, smoothed her pinafore and added, in a more careful, grown-up tone, “That is, I would like to consider another place, if there’s one available.”

“I wonder, then,” Miss Potter said, “whether you would like to drive up to Raven Hall.” She pointed with her pony whip. “It’s just up there, in Claife Heights, and not very far. Mrs. Kittredge tells me that her dairyman is looking for a helper. Perhaps the two of you might have a talk and see if it is a position that would suit you.”

Gilly was astonished. “Do you mean it?” she cried, clasping her hands and abandoning all pretense of being grown-up. “Oh, Miss Potter, that would be wonderful!”

So Gilly spent the next hour meeting Mrs. Kittredge and Mrs. Kittredge’s dairyman, and the dairyman’s cows, and the cows’ calves, and showing the dairyman how she churned butter, and answering his questions about how she made cheese, until everyone (even the cows, although their opinions were not solicited) professed themselves quite satisfied that Gilly Harmsworth was a good choice for the position of dairymaid. Miss Potter enjoyed a pleasant tea with Mrs. Kittredge, and Rascal discovered a satisfyingly meaty mutton bone in the kitchen waste, and Winston had a satisfying spot of very green grass to munch on while he was waiting.

Now, all that was left was to tell Mr. and Mrs. Harmsworth that their niece would be taking a place at Raven Hall, and that she would be leaving at the end of a fortnight. Miss Potter was not looking forward to this, because she was sure that there would be some sort of unpleasant confrontation. She also worried that it was not a good idea for Gilly to stay on at Applebeck for a whole fortnight. Still, the girl really ought to give notice, even though she was not a paid employee.

But that was not what happened. After they left Raven Hall, Gilly—who was now sure that she could trust Miss Potter to give good advice—opened her heart and confided what she had seen the night before. You remember, don’t you? Gilly was sitting at the window of her attic when she saw the ghost in the gray cloak and black bonnet going down the path, except that the figure didn’t exactly move in the way the ghost had moved—and she had seen the ghost before and was sure. So Gilly crept down the stairs and followed.

Only it wasn’t a ghost, of course. It was a real person, and Gilly had been so shocked when she saw who it was and what that person was up to that she was frozen for a few moments, watching. Then she ran back to Applebeck and raised the alarm, although by that time, of course, it was already too late, because the fire had been lighted in a box of rags and the entire interior of the buttery was in flames.

Miss Potter heard Gilly’s story with increasing alarm and acted decisively. Instead of turning Winston onto the Applebeck lane, she drove straight up the Kendal Road to Tower Bank House. There, she introduced Gilly to Captain Woodcock, who (in his capacity as justice of the peace) listened carefully to the girl’s story, asked her a number of questions, and wrote down all her answers.

“You realize, of course, that you may very well be called upon to swear to what you have seen in a court of law,” he told her when they had finished.

“Yes, sir,” she said quietly. “It’s all true, sir, every word of it.”

“We shall see,” he said. He looked at Miss Potter. “I think it would be best if you would go to Applebeck with us,” he said. “We will go in my motor car,” he added.

“Of course,” Miss Potter said, and sighed, for she was not fond of riding in Captain Woodcock’s motor car, which went very fast (a bone-rattling eight miles an hour!) and made so much racket that it frightened the village animals. But she knew that the captain wanted to make this an official visit, and of course, his motor car had a very official look.

That is why a short while later, the captain’s shiny teal blue Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of the Applebeck farmhouse, and four people—Captain Woodcock, Constable Braithwaite, Gilly, and Miss Potter—climbed out. When they arrived, Mr. Harmsworth was in the barn, milking. Mrs. Harmsworth was upstairs, packing her bags.

Yes, packing. She thought she might go to Liverpool, where she had a cousin. Returning to Manchester didn’t seem like a very good idea, for she was afraid that someone might recognize her. Anyway, she was very glad to have the little hoard of money that she had wrung out of the household accounts (and stolen from her husband’s pockets), which amounted to enough to set her up as a seamstress—at least until her customers discovered that she couldn’t so much as darn a sock.

As it turned out, however, Mrs. Harmsworth did not go Liverpool. Two hours later, Constable Braithwaite had installed her in the Hawkshead gaol, charged with two counts of the crime of arson. Confronted by Gilly’s low-voiced accusation, the stern countenance of Captain Woodcock, and the sullen acquiescence of her husband, who by this time knew very well what she had done, she had broken down and confessed. She had put on the gray cloak and black bonnet she’d found in the attic and had taken the old tin candle lantern she found in the barn, and had burnt down both the haystack and the buttery, out of pure spite against Mr. Harmsworth.

But that isn’t all. Perhaps it will come as no surprise to those of you who are careful readers, and suspicious, to learn that a week later, when Constable Braithwaite went to Manchester to investigate Mrs. Harmsworth’s background, he discovered that Miss Westgate (her name at the time) had been discharged from her haberdashery position just hours before a fire destroyed not only the haberdasher’s firm but a whole block of merchants’ firms as well. She had been suspected of this arson at the time, but had disappeared before the investigation was complete.

Well, now. This was a good piece of work, I must say, and Captain Woodcock can perhaps be forgiven for thinking that Miss Potter—who had brought him the necessary eyewitness—had pulled yet another rabbit out of her very capacious hat.

“I do not understand how she does it,” Miss Nash heard him mutter later that evening, as he was telling her about the capture of the village arsonist, and the mystery that Miss Potter had solved. “I simply do not understand.”

 

 

But Miss Potter was not quite finished.

The next morning, Vicar Sackett came to call. He had heard the news about Mrs. Harmsworth and wanted to congratulate Beatrix for her part in identifying the arsonist. Like many others, he felt that if she had not been caught, she might have gone on burning things down, just to give herself a sense of importance. He dithered for a few moments, and then finally voiced his other reason for coming. Captain Woodcock had suggested that there be a committee to oversee any other footpath controversies. The vicar wondered . . . That is, he hoped . . . He was very anxious for Beatrix to serve on the committee.