The Tale of Castle Cottage (33 page)

“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 peaceful. 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.”

“Not at all,” Beatrix said, stepping back. “Come in—you’re just in time for pie and coffee. And you can meet Mr. Heelis.” She smiled, teasing. “I think you already know something about him, don’t you? Will, this is my brother, Bertram.”

“Ah, Potter!” Will exclaimed, getting up and coming forward to shake hands. “Very good to meet you, at long last! Yes, do come in and have dessert with us, won’t you?”

Beatrix cut three pieces of pie and three wedges of cheese and put down another cup and saucer. Glancing at Bertram’s valise beside the door, she said with some surprise, “You’re going back to Scotland today? I thought it was to be tomorrow.”

“Yes, today,” Bertram replied, taking a chair. “To tell the truth, it was a bit uncomfortable around Lindeth.” He ducked his head. “I’ve told them, Bea. I couldn’t stand the suspense, so I did it yesterday, instead of waiting until today. And believe me, it wasn’t easy.”

Will turned curiously to Beatrix but said nothing.

Beatrix sighed. Confronted with it now, she had no choice but to explain. “Bertram has told Mama and Papa about his marriage,” she said to Will. She caught his suddenly sharp glance. He understood the implications without any further explanation. To Bertram, she added, “I’m sorry it was so difficult. I don’t need to ask about their reactions.”

Bertram picked up his fork. “Well, I could only do my best. As you can imagine, Mama flew into hysterics. Papa was absolutely apoplectic. Mama said she never wanted to see me again, and Papa vowed to disinherit me—not a shilling of his precious money will ever be wasted on me. It was hours before they were calm enough to discuss the matter rationally.” He forked a bite of pie.

Beatrix looked up in surprise. “Discuss it rationally? They were able to do that?”

“More or less,” Bertram replied. “Although not without continuing recriminations, of course,” he added ironically.

“Of course,” Beatrix replied. “Those can go on for weeks. And probably will.”

“Which is why I elected to go back to Scotland a day early.” Bertram put his fork down and looked from one to the other. “But I did want to come over and tell you that you and Heelis have their permission to marry.”

Permission to marry.
The words seemed to hang in the air over the table, shimmering.
Permission to marry . . . to marry . . .

Beatrix swallowed. She opened her mouth, tried to speak, and found that her throat was so dry and her tongue so thick that she could not utter a word.

But Will wasn’t speechless. “Say that again, Potter,” he commanded sharply.

Bertram pushed his empty plate back and put his hand over Beatrix’s. “You and Heelis have the parents’ permission to marry,” he repeated slowly and distinctly. “You may marry now, soon, or at a time of your choosing.” He laughed a little. “Although if I were you, I’d do it soon. Or at least make a public announcement, so they can’t somehow change their tune.”

“But why . . . how . . .” Beatrix managed.

“They were completely flummoxed by my announcement, that’s how,” Bertram replied. “They were so flummoxed that when I told them that they had to let you live your own life, they agreed.” He gave her a wry grin and released her hand. “Maybe they were afraid that if they denied you, you and Heelis would take a leaf from my book and marry in secret. So they chose the lesser of two evils.”