The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood (25 page)

 
 
At Tower Bank House, Miles Woodcock was lying in bed, unable to sleep. His hands clasped behind his head, he was staring at the ceiling and frowning. His conversation with Mr. Richardson had done nothing to ease his mind, and although he hadn’t been able to broach the matter with Major Kittredge, he had the feeling that the scheme to build the villas was all but signed and sealed.

This was a calamitous business. The western shore of Lake Windermere was pristine and beautiful. Villas would not only mar its scenic beauty, but bring in a great many more people, along with their horses and carriages and delivery lorries and even motor cars. The ferry was already taxed beyond its capacity, and one often had to wait for an hour or more to get to the other side of the lake. And the road—well, the road didn’t bear thinking about. The road would have to be widened and paved, and the parish rates would certainly have to be raised.

Miles sighed. If Kittredge himself was determined to build, there was little that could be done to dissuade the man. However, from what Miss Potter had told him of the conversation at the ferry landing, he guessed it was Mrs. Kittredge who was behind the scheme. And without any leverage, he doubted that she could be persuaded to drop her support—and of course, there was no leverage.

With a groan, Miles rolled onto his stomach. Better to think of something more pleasant. Think of Dimity and Will Heelis, who had seemed so congenial a couple that afternoon. Why, even old Lady Longford had observed that they made a delightful pair, although Miles had overheard her remark that she hoped Mr. Heelis was about to replace the major in “poor, dear Dimity’s affections”—a remark that Miles had found both surprising and offensive. He hadn’t been aware that anyone other than himself might know of Dimity’s attachment to Kittredge, or imagined her as having been jilted by the major, in favor of a red-haired actress who was clearly no lady. And if Lady Longford knew, so did the rest of the village, which meant that it was probably being discussed at this very moment, as people settled down in their beds.

But he refused to allow a little village gossip to tarnish his pleasure in the thought of his sister comfortably married to Will Heelis and established in a home of her own, not so far away that she could not continue to manage her bachelor brother’s household.

And with that happy image shimmering in his mind and a pleased smile spreading across his face, he fell asleep.

 
In the bedroom on the other side of the hall at Tower Bank House, Dimity Woodcock lay awake and restless. She was deeply troubled by the thought of Christopher Kittredge married to a woman who did not deserve him, who might even be capable of hurting him and making him unhappy. Poor Christopher had already suffered a great many misfortunes. It would be dreadful for him if he had married badly, for there was nothing he could do to change the situation.

And did Dimity give any thought at all to Will Heelis? Well, yes, it must be said that she did, in a rather muddled, foggy, sleepy way. She thought of the shy smile that quirked one corner of his mouth, and the light in his brown eyes and the warmth in his voice, and she could not help but feel a certain comforting gratitude to him for being the sort of friend one could count on when other friends (or a person one had considered a friend, but who had married a person so much prettier than one, and with the most amazingly unnatural red hair) let one down.

And borne upon that mazy and meandering reverie, Dimity drifted at last off to sleep.

 
 
At Hill Top Farm, Miss Potter blew out the candle—gas was available but she did not choose to have it installed—and settled into her bed. She was thinking of all the interesting things that had happened that day: the business with the cats that morning, the reception at Raven Hall and the queer affair of Mrs. Kittredge and Mr. Thexton, her promise to recommend a governess for Caroline, Deirdre’s strange tale about a fairy riddle, Queenie’s new lambs, and Mr. Heelis’s concern about Jeremy’s education.

She smiled to herself as she pulled the covers up close. If she were in London, she’d be troubling about the linen, the dinner menus, her mother’s cough, her father’s liver. And while an outsider might think this little village was a very peaceful place, it wasn’t, really. It was full of conflict and contradictions and secrets and, yes, riddles. It was full of life.

And that was why she loved being here, she thought happily, as she lay watching the stars through her bedroom window, too full of contentment to welcome sleep just yet. It was why she belonged. It was why she never wanted to leave.

At the vicarage, Vicar Sackett was not yet asleep, either. He was still at his desk in his study, having stayed up late to put the finishing touches on his Sunday morning sermon, the topic of which was “Thankfulness.” He had taken as his text Colossians 3:15: “And let the peace of God rule in your hearts, to the which also ye are called in one body; and be ye thankful.” It was an appropriate sentiment, he had decided, with which to see his Thexton cousins on their way. He, for one, was certainly thankful.

Reveling in the silence, the vicar believed that the rest of the house had gone to bed and so was greatly surprised when his study door opened without a knock and Mr. Thexton appeared, in slippers and a dark blue velvet dressing gown. He was carrying a largish plate of sandwiches and cake.

“I wonder if I might interrupt you, Cousin Samuel,” he said diffidently.

Remembering that this was the very last Saturday night he should have to suffer such unwelcome interruptions when he was writing his Sunday sermon, the vicar swallowed his annoyance and said with a small smile, “Yes? What can I do for you?” He glanced at the plate in some surprise. He had seen both Mr. and Mrs. Thexton helping themselves enthusiastically at the Raven Hall refreshment table and afterward, at the vicarage table, where Mrs. Thompson had left a cold supper. He had not thought it possible to be hungry after that.

Mr. Thexton followed his glance. “Mrs. Thexton gets a bit peckish at night,” he explained, adding, in an offhand way, “I thought perhaps I should mention that we shall be staying on a few more days—past Monday, I mean.”

The vicar felt as if he had taken a hard punch in his midsection. “A few more days!” he exclaimed.

“Perhaps a little longer,” said Mr. Thexton. “Oh, and Mrs. Thexton wanted me to tell you that she has asked Mrs. Thompson to remove cod from the menu for the coming week. She is sure that you must be growing exceedingly weary of cod.” His smile became ingratiating. “If I may be allowed to say so, dear Mrs. Thexton is always more concerned for the tastes and welfare of others than for her own. Cod suits her perfectly, of course, but she realizes that it must be trying for you.”

The vicar attempted to gain control of himself. “A few more days?” he repeated, in a strangled voice. “But I thought we agreed—”

“Oh, yes, we did. Indeed, we did, Cousin Samuel,” said Mr. Thexton quickly. “And it was my full intention to bring our visit to an end on Monday morning, with regret, of course, for we are mindful of—and most grateful for—your hospitality. But I am sure you must recognize the extent to which the situation has changed.”

“Changed?” asked the vicar feebly.

“Of course.” Mr. Thexton seemed surprised that his cousin did not appear to understand. “I had only a brief opportunity to view the Luck before it was so disastrously destroyed. But my glimpse was sufficient to point me to several more areas of research which require investigation. I’m sure you’ll agree that this is of vital importance, and will extend your hospitality through Monday week, at which time we can discuss the matter again.”

Monday week! “But the Luck is broken!” the vicar protested. “Surely you can’t—”

“I have an appointment to interview Mrs. Kittredge early next week,” Mr. Thexton went on in a businesslike tone. “She had quite an affinity for the piece, you see, and was of course the last person to have it actually in her hands. I am hopeful that she will be able to give me a few more particulars about it.” He glanced down at the plate in his hand. “I’d love to visit with you longer, but I really must take this up to Mrs. Thexton. She often feels quite faint if she is not able to have a little something at night. I wish you very pleasant dreams, dear Cousin Samuel.”

The wretched fellow left, and the vicar buried his head in his hands. He sat in that manner for nearly a quarter of an hour, trying to think whether there was anything—anything at all—that might be done to persuade his horrid guests to leave. But he could think of nothing.

Well, not quite. He reached for his sermon and made a notation at the top of the page. Tomorrow’s Scripture reading would begin with 1 Samuel, 28:38: “And Jonathan cried after the lad, Make speed, haste, stay not.”

And with that, the vicar, filled with an enormous frustration, took himself off to bed.

24

Nocturnal Affairs

By midnight, all the lamps and candles in the village—even the gaslights in the Tower Bank Arms, where the men had been drinking their Saturday night half-pints and tossing their Saturday night darts—had been extinguished, and all the residents of the Land between the Lakes were fast asleep.

The humans, that is. The animal inhabitants of Sawrey—the cats and dogs, rats and field mice, garden voles and hedgehogs and shrews and bats—were mostly wide awake, for a great deal of their business was transacted after the sun went down and the Big Folk put out their lights and retired. (Horses, cows, pigs, sheep, and chickens, of course, mostly kept the same hours as humans did, since they were often wanted for something or another in the middle of the day and saw no point in staying up half the night, as well.)

On this particular Saturday night, Tabitha Twitchit, Crumpet, and Rascal were gathered in the tool shed at the bottom of the Anvil Cottage garden, where they often met to talk things over. They began by trading notes on what they had learnt from various humans about the events at Raven Hall that afternoon. Big Folk being the vague and imprecise and inventive creatures they are, each animal had heard a slightly different version of how the Luck came to be smashed.

Tabitha had heard it from Lucy Skead, who had discussed it with Elsa Grape when she dropped in at Tower Bank House to return the gloves she had borrowed from Elsa. Lucy reported that it was Mr. Thexton who had dropped the Luck, and that Major Kittredge had been so angry that he refused to accept poor Mr. Thexton’s apology.

Crumpet had heard the tale from Bertha Stubbs, who was so full of the story that she had run next door to tell it to old Mrs. Abbey, whose bad chest had kept her in bed and away from the festivities. In Bertha’s version, someone had bumped into Mrs. Kittredge, forcing her to drop the Luck. She had then fainted and had to be revived with champagne.

Rascal had more to tell than either of the cats, since he had heard Miss Potter tell Mr. Heelis what Mr. Thexton had said and what had happened after that, which seemed to suggest that Mr. Thexton had some sort of knowledge about the mysterious Mrs. Kittredge which she did not want him to share.

“Who is she, then?”
Crumpet asked, feeling confused.
“Is she Irene, or is she Diana?”

“Does it matter?”
Tabitha replied with a shrug.
“Humans often have more than one name, anyway.”

“It seemed to Miss Potter that it mattered,”
Rascal replied seriously,
“and I’m inclined to take her word for it. She’s jolly observant, you know. She sees things other people don’t. And things that other people don’t want her to see.”

The cats certainly agreed with Rascal’s statement, but since they could make neither heads nor tails of the matter, they went on to a topic that all three of them definitely knew something about. Rats, and how to deal with them.

“It looks as if the recruitment project has gone very well,”
Tabitha said with satisfaction.
“There are now four experienced ratters assigned to the Hill Top barns and outbuildings. They are working eighteen hours each, with six off to sleep. Claw and Fang came over from Hawkshead, where they were formerly employed in Mrs. Goforth’s grocery. Tiger is from the barn at the Sawrey Hotel. And Lion’s previous employment was in the brewery at Ambleside, where he was responsible for keeping rats out of the grain. The four of them tell me that they should have the situation under control shortly.”

“Don’t forget Max,”
put in Rascal, loyal to his friend.
“He’s doing a rum job, too.”

Tabitha frowned.
“Max is an amateur. He kills for his dinner, and when he’s not hungry, he doesn’t. The others are professionals. Killing rats is their business. They kill round the clock, whether they’re hungry or not.”

Rascal felt that the term “amateur” belittled Max, but he had to own that Tabitha was describing him accurately—and the others, too. They were professional killers, mercenaries.

“Who’s doing the Hill Top attic?”
Crumpet wondered.
“Isn’t that where the rats actually live?”

“I have good news to report there, too,”
Tabitha replied, with the pleased smugness of a cat who has everything under control.
“I don’t know his name or where he came from, but a very large, very masterful cat is now patrolling the attic—an amazingly efficient rat-killer, according to Fang.”

“I’m not half surprised that Miss Potter’s gone and let a strange cat into the house,”
Rascal remarked.
“I know she doesn’t mind you lot, but I thought all the new cats were supposed to work in the barn.”

“According to Fang, this is a cat who does not take no for an answer. He prefers to work in the attic.”
Tabitha smiled, taking personal credit for this splendid outcome.
“With him on the job, I’m sure we have nothing to worry about.”

Crumpet frowned. Tabitha was always too quick to declare everything settled, when there were often loose ends that wanted tying up.
“P’rhaps we’d better put out the word. If there are a great many rats in the attic and this phenomenal cat of yours allows some to escape into the village, we could be in for trouble.”