The Tale of Castle Cottage (14 page)

“You’re right,” Will said gloomily. “Yes, of course, that’s what should be done. We’re both adults and capable of making rational decisions about our lives—and we do, mostly. But I can’t put her into that kind of position, you see. She is simply not up to choosing between me and her parents.” He sighed heavily. “No, what I am asking is whether I should bow out of the picture myself, since it is our engagement that is causing her so much unhappiness. She—”

There was a loud rapping at the front door, followed by an urgent ringing of the doorbell.

“Excuse me,” Miles said. He got up and stepped out into the hall as Margaret hurried past him to answer the door. Looking over her shoulder, he saw Constable Braithwaite standing on the stoop.

“Ah, Constable,” he called. “Come in, come in. Margaret, could you possibly—”

“I’ll bring more tea,” she said, and went toward the kitchen. As she passed, she paused. “Oh, and Miles, Rose Sutton just stopped in with the nicest news! Jeremy and Deirdre have a baby boy, born early this morning. Mother and baby are both very well.”

“Splendid!” Miles said, beaming. Jeremy had taken Margaret’s place at the village school. An excellent young man, an admired teacher, off to a fine start in life. “We must think of a gift for them.” To the constable, he said, “Well, then, Braithwaite—is there something I can do for you?”

“Sorry to bother, Captain,” the constable apologized in his thick Lakeland accent. He was a short, stocky man with a florid complexion, his hair and eyebrows very blond. He wore a blue serge uniform with a shiny black belt and polished gold buttons, and a constable’s hat, which he hurriedly snatched off. “’Tis verra important, sir, or I wouldna interrupt.”

“Well, come into the library, man,” Miles said, “and tell me about it. Mr. Heelis is here,” he added. “I was telling him about that scuffle at the pub last night.”

“That’s why I’ve come, sir,” the constable said, following Miles into the room. His face was grim and set. “Sorry to say, but there’s been a death.”

“A death?” Miles turned, surprised.

“‘Tis Lewis Adcock,” the constable said. “I was sent for by his missus, who found him in t’ little shed behind their cottage.”

“Adcock?” Will got to his feet.

“Adcock’s dead!” Miles frowned, not understanding. “But I thought you said that he only sustained a fist in the eye last night. That you broke up the fight before either he and Biddle could injure one another.”

“True, sir,” the constable replied, shaking his head. “True, all true. But it wasn’t t’ fight that did him in, sir. He was found hangin’ from t rafters, wi’ a noose around his neck, shortly before eleven thirty this morning.” He glanced up at the clock on the wall. “About an hour and a half ago, sir.”

There was a moment’s shocked silence. Then: “A noose?” Miles asked blankly. “No chance of an accident, I don’t suppose.”

“Doan’t see how, sir,” the constable replied. “I took him down, for I felt that was right. Then I closed t’ door an’ left things as they was, thinkin’ you’d want to come straight along an’ have a look for yerself.” He paused. “Thought it best not to have the passin’ bell rung, either, sir. In t’ circumstance, that is.” Joseph Skead, the sexton at St. Peter’s, usually rang the bell for a death—nine strokes for a man, six for a woman, three for a child—so that everyone within earshot knew that someone had passed on. “I left young Jeremy Crosfield to guard t’ shed whilst I come to fetch you. He’s next door, at Slatestone Cottage.”

“I see,” said Miles. He went to the door and shouted, “Margaret, we’ve an emergency. I must be off. Forget about the tea.”

“Did Adcock leave a note?” Will asked the constable. He was hoping, of course, for some word that would settle the matter—and perhaps even account for the poor fellow’s motive.

“No sign of one, sir,” the constable said regretfully. “I gave it a good look all round. Nothin’ in his pockets or nearby. Missus said she found none in t’ house. She was out for the mornin’, y’see. Went to her sister’s house right after breakfast to get some veg‘tables her sister was givin’ her and stayed to work on a quilt they was makin’. Mr. Adcock was fine when she left him, she says. When she come back, he wasn’t in t’ house. He often worked in t’ shed—had a little workshop there—so when she’d made their lunch, she went out, thinkin’ to fetch him. That’s when . . .” He swallowed. “That’s when she found him.”

“Wretched, wretched business,” Miles said soberly. “Will, you’ll come with us to the Adcock place? Given what you’ve already uncovered, I’d like to have your eyes on this.”

“Of course,” Will said, all thought of his own uncertainties and tribulations forgotten. He was remembering that the Adcocks had two sons in the Army, and wondering how and when they would be notified. And wondering how Mrs. Adcock would get on by herself, now that her husband was gone. What would she do for money? Would she be able to keep her cottage? “A sad business,” he said. “Very sad.”

“Aye,” agreed the constable somberly, and Miles nodded.

In our own day and age, I am sorry to say, deaths like that of Mr. Adcock are hardly unique events. We encounter reports like the one the constable has just brought on nearly every television newscast and in all the newspapers, but since most of us live in one place and work in another, we seldom know the victim, even if he or she lives just at the other end of the block.

At the time and place of our story, however, such events were uncommon. One can read the
Westmorland Gazette
for those years and find almost no accounts of such deaths—and only rarely a report of a violent act, except in a moment of drunkenness or high passion. Of course, bad things happened there, just as they do everywhere else in this world. People fell from cliffs and ladders, motorcars and wagons went off the road, lightning struck a farmer or a farmer’s cow or a farmer’s barn, or a man accidentally shot himself or someone else. And when bad things happened, everyone knew the person or persons involved and felt pity for the family’s loss and worried for the survivors’ welfare and gathered round to ask how they might help.

But a hanging? Oh, my dears, no! Such a thing is a highly unusual and shocking event, and I daresay one could search the newspaper for a ten-year stretch and find not a single similar instance. The news will no doubt cause a great deal of consternation in both the Sawreys, Near and Far.

8

The Villagers Understand

As it did, of course—cause consternation, that is. News travels fast in a village, and bad news travels even faster. Word of the death of Mr. Lewis Adcock was on everyone’s lips in less time than it takes to brew a cup of tea and sit down and drink it. Of course, there was good news to celebrate, too, for all were delighted to hear that Deirdre Crosfield had given birth to a little boy, and that mother and babe were both well.

But in a village, bad news is far more interesting than good news, and it was all that the villagers could think of or talk about.

 

 

“Adcock, dead?” cried an open-mouthed Lester Barrow, behind the bar in his pub, when George Crook rushed in to tell the story that he had just heard from Major Ragsdale, of Teapot Cottage, next door but one to the Adcocks’. “Well, I nivver! He was just in here last night, drinkin’ his reg‘lar half-pint. Hung hisse’f, dust tha say, George? Who would’ve guessed t’ man would do such a thing! Went daft all of a sudden-like, did he, maybe?”

“I had a cousin onct,” George said, remembering. “Did t’ same thing. Mad as a March hare, he was.”

“Sad thing, goin’ mad,” said Lester.

Then he and George nodded. Madness was something they could understand.

 

 

“Mr. Adcock killt hisse‘f?” Bertha Stubbs repeated, astonished. She stood stock-still in the middle of the lane, frozen in her tracks where Agnes Llewellyn had given her the news. “Why, I jes’ this mornin’ met t’ man, comin’ along t’ Kendal Road. Right as rain he was, an’ fit as a fiddle. Lifted his hat an’ said good mornin’ to me purty as ye please. An’ to think he’s standin’ face-to-face wi’ his Maker reet this verra minute!” She shook her head in bewilderment. “Whatever made him do it, dust tha reckon, Agnes?”

“An’ wot’ll become of Mrs. Adcock?” Agnes wondered. “Sons in t’ Army and no girls to take care o’ her, poor thing. Mappen I’ll just go home an’ stir up a puddin’. She’ll be wantin’ somethin’ sweet to dish up for folk who drop in.”

“I’ll put on a tatie pot,” Bertha said decisively. “She’ll be needin’ somethin’ savory to go wi’ that puddin’.”

Their contributions determined, the two ladies went on to spread the news. I shouldn’t be surprised if every housewife in the two villages contributed a dish, so that the Widow Adcock did not have to cook for quite some time.

Food and consolation was something the women could understand.

“Lewis Adcock, dead?” exclaimed Vicar Samuel Sackett, when his new wife Grace brought the word from the butcher shop in Far Sawrey, where she had heard it from the butcher when she went to buy the week’s joint. “Why, he and his wife were sitting in their pew on Sunday, just as they always do. And now this? Dreadful! Appalling!”

The vicar stood up from his desk, where he had been poring over the fascinating list of books Lady Longford had sent him—books from her deceased husband’s antiquarian library that she was planning to sell. Of course, the prices she was asking were far too high for the vicar, who was not a wealthy man. But the list held some truly fascinating items, and he knew other book collectors who would be interested.

“Where is my hat, Grace?” the vicar asked helplessly. (He is a dear man, but in times of crisis, he is prone to forgetfulness.) “What have I done with my walking stick? Do I need to take an umbrella? I must go and see poor Mrs. Adcock straightaway. And perhaps you will come with me, my dear. She may need someone to stay with her.”

“Of course I’ll come with you, Samuel,” the vicar’s wife said in a comforting tone. “Just let me get my shawl. And your hat and walking stick. We won’t need an umbrella. Oh, and I’ll take some fresh scones. They’ll be wanted to serve with tea when people call.”

“You’re very understanding, my dear,” said the vicar.

 

 

Rascal had been on the scene when Constable Braithwaite brought the terrible news to Captain Woodcock, and since he was Top Dog, it fell to him to let the other animals know what had happened. The minute he left Tower Bank House, he went straight to search out Crumpet, who, as president of the Village Cat Council, ought to be informed first.

He found her in the Council shed at the foot of the garden behind Rose Cottage. She had a stub of a pencil in her paw and was staring at a piece of paper with a look of consternation. She glanced up when he came into the shed.

“Oh, there you are, Rascal,”
she said, relieved to see an animal she knew she could count on.
“I’m afraid I must ask you to recruit some of the village dogs for our police force. As far as cats are concerned, I’ve come up almost empty-pawed. What we need are several good terriers who—”

“Police force?”
Rascal was confused.
“But we have a constable. And anyway, I don’t think even our Constable Braithwaite could have prevented it. He can’t be everywhere at once, you know.”
And he told her what had happened.

Crumpet’s consternation changed to horror when she heard Rascal’s astonishing news. Mr. Adcock lived in Far Sawrey and hence was not well known in their village. But he had worked at Hill Top Farm and more recently at Castle Cottage, so the village animals knew him by sight. As for taking his own life—well, that was something that no right-thinking animal would ever do, for to animals, life is very precious. Animals kill, yes, but always with a reason and a purpose: as necessary food, or in defense of oneself or one’s family. An animal could never kill himself. It was unthinkable. Utterly unthinkable.

Neither Crumpet nor Rascal could understand how this might have happened.

 

 

And so it went, from one person to another and one household to another, throughout the two villages. And always, in every exchange of this terrible news, each person had his or her own idea about why Mr. Adcock had done this terrible thing. There had to be an explanation, you see, for such an unthinkable action couldn’t just happen. To be understood, it had to have a cause. And everyone could think of at least one.

 

 

“I’ll wager t‘was losin’ his place that drove t’ poor fellow to it,” George Crook said to Mr. Llewellyn, who had brought his big white horse to the smithy for new shoes all around. “Biddle sacked him yest’idday, ye know. Man his age, well up in years, Adcock might’ve figgered he’d not find other work, even though he were a reet good carpenter. Maybe t’ notion drove him to despair.”

Holding his horse as George Crook applied the new shoe, Mr. Llewellyn agreed. And Roger Dowling and Tom Tremblay, watching the shoeing operation, nodded their heads in sober agreement. All of these men, at some point in their lives, had known the awful emptiness of losing a place and remembered the frightening consequences that had befallen them and their families. Lewis Adcock had been past sixty and had worked as a carpenter for over forty years. If he had been driven to despair by the prospect of having no work, they understood why. Not a man amongst them could find it in his heart to cast blame upon him for doing what he did.