The Tale of Hill Top Farm (17 page)

“And now it sounds as if the other two fear for her state of mind,”
Crumpet commented
.

“As well they might,”
Max said ominously
. “As well they
might. You have no idea what it’s like around here, Crumpet.”

Inside, the conversation was continuing. “The worst of it is,” Miss Viola said with a dramatic gesture, “that these episodes are no longer confined within the family. Myrtle accused Bertha Stubbs of taking her attendance book, and involved Margaret Nash in the disagreement as well. And there was her unfortunate quarrel with Abigail Tolliver over the letter. And now this business about the Roof Fund.” She shook her head despairingly. “Two pounds! I suppose there will have to be an investigation of some sort.”

Beatrix frowned. Beside her, Grace Lythecoe stiffened. “A quarrel with Abigail?”

Miss Pansy’s ample bosom rose and fell in a heavy sigh. “Myrtle decided to have a change of scene for herself, Grace. A warmer climate, where there are not so many annoyances, including her sisters.” She pushed back a lock of yellow hair that had fallen across her cheek. “I rather think she would be glad to be rid of us, actually. She planned to make application to a school near Bournemouth, and went so far as to inquire of the school council there. But—”

“But Miss Tolliver apparently refused to sign the reference letter after Myrtle had prepared it for her,” Miss Viola said, cutting the story short. She put her cup down and straightened, her expression dark. “Miss Tolliver said that she did not feel that Myrtle’s health was up to it. Myrtle has been . . . quite upset about the matter.”

“What you’re telling us,” Mrs. Lythecoe said quietly, “is that what happened with Miss Potter this morning is not an isolated affair.”

“Yes,” Miss Viola replied, with theatrical huskiness. “That’s exactly what we’re saying, Grace. Things are progressing from bad to worse, and very quickly, too.”

“We’re at our wits’ end,” Miss Pansy said desperately. “We’ve tried reasoning with her—”

“—appealing to her better nature—”

“—reminding her of her position at the school and in the village—”

“But none of it seems to help,” Miss Viola concluded, with a dramatic sigh. Her hands fluttered into her black silk lap. “We have tried to be gentle and considerate, but when we raise even the smallest question, she complains that we are undermining her authority. As Pansy has said, we’re at our wits’ end. She pays no attention to us at all.”

“That’s because she knows they’re afraid of her,”
Max said sourly
. “She’s the eldest, and she’s always had the upper hand. Can you imagine three spinster sisters living together in one house their whole lives, their mother gone mad, and now their sister, mad herself and driving them mad?”
He gave a bitter, sardonic laugh
. “Driving me mad, too, come to that. I tell you, Crumpet, it’s all going to the very devil.”

“This is getting serious,”
Crumpet said
. “Somebody needs to do something before everything goes to wrack and ruin. But what should we do?”

“What indeed?”
Max raised his voice querulously
. “You’re welcome to make all the suggestions you like, but personally, I think we’d be wasting our time. It has not been my experience that—”

“Max!” Miss Viola said sharply, getting up to shut the window. “Our dear old Manx is a delightful companion,” she said, returning to her chair, “but it’s always distracting when he decides to join the conversation.” She went back to the subject. “Pansy and I will speak to Myrtle as soon as she comes home from school this evening. But we cannot promise that we will be able to keep her from going to Constable Braithwaite, if that’s what she intends to do.”

“Perhaps,” Beatrix suggested, “Mrs. Lythecoe and I should speak with the constable first. Then he would at least be . . . well, prepared.”

“That is an exceedingly sensible idea, Miss Potter,” Miss Viola said, inclining her head. “By all means, do speak to the constable. And we’ll do what we can here, of course.”

Mrs. Lythecoe rose. “I think, Miss Potter, it is time for us to be going.”

“Thank you for the tea,” Beatrix said, standing. She held out her hand. “I enjoyed meeting you both, very much.”

“And we enjoyed meeting you,” Miss Pansy cried, fluttering her sleeves so that she looked for all the world, Beatrix thought, like an oversize green moth. “Perhaps next time, you’ll bring one or two of your books.”

“Oh, do, please do!” trilled Miss Viola. “I could give a reading from them for the children!”

Beatrix smiled and nodded, but she was thinking that Miss Viola’s black kimono and snugged-back hair were scarcely appropriate to a reading of
Peter Rabbit.

As they walked down the lane to Market Street, Mrs. Lythecoe said to Beatrix, “My dear Miss Potter, I must compliment you. You handled that situation splendidly.”

“Thank you,” Beatrix said. “I found it . . . difficult.” She shook her head, remembering her earlier idea that the village was quiet and peaceful, which now struck her as naive. The three Misses Crabbe, hidden behind the gray walls of their Castle Cottage, certainly appeared to lead dramatic lives. There was also a mystery about Miss Tolliver and her connection to Miss Barwick. And the missing painting, and the lost Parish Register, not to mention the Roof Fund. Mysteries upon mysteries. “I suppose,” she added, “we should go and find the constable now, before Miss Crabbe finishes with school for the day.”

Mrs. Lythecoe took her arm. “We won’t have far to look,” she said. “Here he comes, with Captain Woodcock. The captain is our Justice of the Peace, you know—Dimity Woodcock’s brother, and entirely dependable. We can talk about this matter in front of him.”

The captain, Beatrix noticed with some curiosity, was a slender, brown-haired man in his forties, dressed in gray tweeds of an admirable cut and wearing a jaunty gray fedora with a cockade of red feathers. His hazel eyes were sharp and penetrating and Beatrix imagined that they might be cold, under the right circumstances. But his voice was soft and his pleasant smile warmly reminiscent of his sister’s. She felt immediately comfortable with him.

Constable Braithwaite was short and stocky, with a florid complexion and hair and eyebrows so blond they were nearly white. He wore a blue serge uniform with polished brass buttons and a tall constable’s hat fastened with a chin-strap. There was no one else about, so the four of them stood in the lane as Mrs. Lythecoe introduced Beatrix and outlined their problem. Beatrix then explained, in as economical and nonjudgmental fashion as possible, what had happened at Willow Cottage that morning.

Captain Woodcock was the first to speak. “You say she offered no evidence that the boy was involved in the theft, Miss Potter?”

“If Miss Crabbe’s accusation was based on anything other than opportunity,” Beatrix replied carefully, “she did not say what it was.”

“I see,” said the captain, his appraising glance resting on Beatrix in a way that made her color.

“This comes on the heels,” Mrs. Lythecoe said, “of several other . . . difficulties. One would prefer not to go into the details, of course, but Miss Crabbe seems not to be quite . . . well, quite herself lately.”

The captain nodded sympathetically and, Beatrix thought, as if he were already aware of the situation. “I think, Constable,” he said, “that you should take these things into consideration. If Miss Crabbe comes to speak to you about it, that is. Otherwise, p’rhaps it’s just as well to leave it alone. She may think better of the accusation.”

“I take thi meanin’, sir,” said the constable.

“And I think,” the captain added, “that I shall drop in at the school and have a bit of a chat with Miss Nash. Some sort of effort must be made toward recovering the money, of course.”

“Exactly, sir,” said the constable. He glanced at Beatrix, and a smile crinkled at the corners of his eyes. “And doan’t fash thasel, Miss. If I speak to t’ boy, I’ll deal gently with him.” He paused, looking from one to the other. “Tha’rt t’ ladies who discovered t’ painting missin’?”

“So Mr. Heelis and Miss Barwick found you,” Mrs. Lythecoe said.

“Aye, and reported that a val’able painting is gone out of Anvil Cottage.” The constable shook his head. “Doan’t know what t’ world’s comin’ to,” he muttered darkly. “Two quid nipped from the school, a painting gone from Anvil Cottage, and talk of poison.”

“And there’s also the missing Parish Register,” Beatrix remarked thoughtfully.

Captain Woodcock gave her a sharp look. “The Register? Missing from the church?”

Mrs. Lythecoe explained. “It’s a minor puzzle, of course,” she added, “compared to the others. And I doubt it’s connected.”

“I don’t think we can be sure of that,” Beatrix heard herself say, rather to her own surprise. She was not accustomed to disagreeing. At the captain’s “Yes?” and Mrs. Lythecoe’s inquiring glance, she added, apologetically, “I only mean that the idea of a connection should perhaps not be quickly discarded. The village is so small, and everything and everyone in it all seem related. Perhaps it’s best not to leave out a piece of the puzzle, however insignificant.”

“I daresay you’re right, Miss Potter,” the captain said thoughtfully. “I’ll speak to the vicar about it.”

Mrs. Lythecoe turned back to the constable. “You mentioned poison. That
is
only idle talk, isn’t it? There’s nothing at all to it, I hope.”

The constable glanced at the captain, who nodded shortly, almost as if, Beatrix thought, he were giving permission.

“O’ course it’s only talk,” the constable said in a comforting tone. “Dr. Butters says she died of nobbut her heart. His word is good enough for me, and for most folk. But tha’s lived in this village long enough to know that for some, when a thing is said, it’s as good as
did
.”

“And the worst thing about talk,” Captain Woodcock said quietly, “is that there’s no way to lay it to rest. Every fresh breeze brings a new speculation.”

“Yes, that’s the pity,” Mrs. Lythecoe said, and sighed. “So we’ll just have to wait it out.”

“So it seems,” said the captain, and lifted his hat courteously. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

A moment later, Beatrix and Mrs. Lythecoe had reached Belle Green. “I’ll leave you here,” Beatrix said. “Mrs. Crook must be wondering what’s become of me. I left early this morning, with a promise to be back for lunch, and now it’s nearly time for tea.”

“Thank you for all your help, my dear.” Mrs. Lythecoe leaned forward and gave Beatrix an unexpected kiss on the cheek. “You have a very sound head on your shoulders, as my dear husband would have said. I have the suspicion that you’re going to make an important contribution to life here in Sawrey.”

“Thank you,” Beatrix said, surprised and deeply touched. “It’s very kind of you to say so. I hope I shall be able to—”

“Miss Potter!” a woman called. Beatrix looked up to see Lucy Skead, the postmistress, hurrying toward them. “Oh, Miss Potter,” she cried again, “I’m so glad I’ve caught you.” She held up a yellow envelope. “It’s a telegram. From London!”

With a sinking heart, Beatrix thanked Lucy and took the telegram. She didn’t have to open it to guess what was in it.

17

Miss Nash Shares a Problem

Margaret Nash had been a teacher at Sawrey School for nearly ten years, and in all that long time, she could not remember a more trying day. With Bertha Stubbs gone, she’d had to add sweeping and carrying water and coal to her morning duties, but those were minor difficulties in comparison to her dealings with Miss Crabbe.

After the anguished discovery of the missing money and the noisy departure of Bertha Stubbs, the two teachers had taken their morning classes as usual. It had not been “as usual,” of course, where Margaret was concerned, for she had carried out her tasks with an ear to what was going on in Miss Crabbe’s room—not at all hard to do, since the wall between the two classrooms was thinner than one would like, and it took an effort
not
to listen. To judge from the impatience of Miss Crabbe’s commands and the tentative, half-frightened responses of the children, it was not a usual day for the junior class, either.

At the beginning of the lunch period, Miss Crabbe had disappeared without explanation, and when she returned almost an hour later, she was in such a state—certainly in no condition to face the children—that Margaret had taken pity on her. She had led her into the tiny teachers’ pantry, fetched a wet cloth for her face and a comb for her hair, and heated the kettle on the gas ring. With a mug of hot tea in her hand, Miss Crabbe began to regain her composure, and the story came out in bits and pieces. Not a pleasant story, either, Margaret thought, as she listened in growing dismay.

Miss Crabbe had gone to Willow Cottage to confront Jeremy Crosfield and demand that he return the money. But the boy had denied taking it and Miss Potter had unexpectedly taken his part.

“Miss Potter?” Margaret asked in surprise. “What was she doing there?”

“What indeed?” Miss Crabbe asked, her outraged tone implying that Miss Potter was part of a dangerous conspiracy. “There was some sort of nonsense about a drawing lesson, and frogs.
Frogs,
mind you! She spoke quite disrespectfully to me, and when I tried to compel the boy to confess, she pushed me out of the cottage.”

“Pushed?” Margaret stared incredulously, trying to reconcile this version of Miss Potter with the shy, mild person she had met the afternoon before, who had seemed rather easily intimidated. There must be something very sturdy hidden deep inside the lady, to enable her to stand up to the formidable Miss Crabbe.

“Yes,
pushed,
” Miss Crabbe said, and banged her mug on the table. “I told the both of them that I should have to go straight to the constable and report the boy’s theft. And I would have done, too, had Constable Braithwaite not been out on his rounds. I shall have to see him this evening.”

Margaret summoned her courage. “I wonder,” she suggested bravely, “if perhaps we shouldn’t wait. Before we speak to the constable, that is. We could give both classrooms a good turning-out. The money may have been merely mislaid or—”

“Fiddle-faddle!” Miss Crabbe exclaimed. “That boy took it, and that’s the long and short of it. And I don’t need you, Miss Nash, to go to see the constable with me. You would just confuse the issue by making excuses for the child. You are entirely too soft-hearted, as I have told you time and again.” She stood up, straightened her blouse, and consulted the watch pinned to her lapel. “Let’s get on with our work, shall we? We are already five minutes late to class.”

The long day over at last, Margaret pinned the children’s art work to the wall, tidied her desk, swept the floors, and damped the coal fires with peat. She would have liked to take the time to search for the missing money, but her errand, she felt, had a higher priority. So she put on her green felt hat and kid gloves and, with determination and more than a little anxiety, walked to the Vicarage. She could no longer bear the burden of Miss Crabbe’s eccentric behavior entirely alone. It was time to confer with a higher authority.

Sawrey School had long been a church school, although with the recent educational reforms, control of the Westmoreland schools had been handed over to an elected board. Regardless, Margaret knew that Vicar Samuel Sackett’s long connection with the school, as well as his position as spiritual adviser to his flock, made him the right person with whom to share her worries. He had been vicar at Sawrey since Vicar Lythecoe died ten years before, and although Margaret might wish that he would exercise his authority with a little less dithering, he was a kindly man with a good heart who knew his parishioners well. She would lay the matter out before him and he would tell her what to do.

But when Mrs. Thompson (who kept house for the vicar) showed her into the vicar’s study, Margaret found that Reverend Sackett was not alone. Captain Woodcock was there, seated in an overstuffed chair, his legs crossed, his pipe in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. He put down his cup and stood when he saw her.

The vicar straightened up from the fire holding the poker, his face reddened by his attention to the coals. He was wearing a gray woolen sweater with the elbows worn through; Mrs. Thompson’s duties did not, apparently, extend to darning.

“Ah, Miss Nash!” he exclaimed, putting the poker aside. “Captain Woodcock and I were just talking about you.”

Margaret glanced at the captain. He was handsome enough to make her wish that she was not so very plain, and she could feel the color come suddenly, vividly, to her face. “Talking about me?” she asked, with a light, self-deprecating laugh. I know I haven’t done anything very immoral. I certainly hope I’ve done nothing illegal.”

“Actually, we were talking about the School Roof Fund,” Captain Woodcock said, in a half-apologetic tone. “You’ll have a cup of tea, won’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, he went to the tea table, picked up the china pot and poured a cup, and brought it to her as she sat down.

“Yes, yes, the School Fund.” The vicar rubbed his hands together, wearing a worried frown. “We understand that it’s gone missing.”

Margaret took the cup. “Actually, that’s what I came to discuss,” she said. “Miss Crabbe spoke to you about it, then?” Another thought struck her, and she added, “Or perhaps Bertha Stubbs?” She had cautioned Bertha strictly against telling others what had happened, but she didn’t really believe that her warning would have any effect. Bertha’s tongue was a law unto itself. Half the village probably had the news, or some variant of it, by now. The other half would have it by sundown.

“No,” Captain Woodcock said, “we didn’t hear it from Miss Crabbe. Miss Potter told me, and I told the vicar. He and I were just remarking that we should like to talk to you, when you appeared.” He grinned, and one eyebrow went up. “Fortuitous, I should say.”

“Miss Potter told you!” Margaret exclaimed, her breathing more affected by that raised eyebrow than she cared to admit.

“She and Miss Crabbe apparently had some sort of altercation regarding the money,” the captain said, “in the presence of the boy. Miss Potter feared that Miss Crabbe’s accusation—which seemed to her unfounded—might harm the child. She discussed her concern with Mrs. Lythecoe, and the two of them spoke to me and the constable.”

“Oh, well, that’s all right, then,” Margaret said, feeling immensely relieved that she did not have to rehearse the whole unseemly affair. “Miss Crabbe did tell me that she and Miss Potter talked. Of course, I have only Miss Crabbe’s version of the episode.” With a small smile, she added, “It sounded . . . well, rather unpleasant.”

“To say the least,” remarked the captain dryly. “I shouldn’t have thought that meek little Miss Potter had it in her to stand up to a wrathful Miss Crabbe, who is enough to strike terror into the staunchest soul.” He smiled. “But there seems to be an obstinate side to Miss Potter’s personality—or perhaps I should say, a side that refuses to yield to bullies.” He shot a glance at the vicar. “Forgive me if I seem unchristian, Reverend, but that’s how it strikes me. Miss Crabbe may be a pillar of our little community, but she has it in her to behave like a bully.”

The vicar sighed. “I’m sorry to say so, but I’m afraid you’re right.” He turned to Margaret. “We were hoping, Miss Nash, that you might be able to give us some additional insight.” He poured himself another cup of tea and sat down. “How likely do you think it that the boy took the money?”

“I don’t think it at all likely,” Margaret said, almost fiercely. “Jeremy is a very good boy, the best in that class. And even if he weren’t, I doubt that he was alone with the money long enough to take it. Or that he even knew it was there.”

“What actually happened?” the captain asked. “My sister Dimity took the money to the school, as I understand it.”

“That’s right. She brought it in an envelope yesterday morning, whilst the children were out playing. Miss Crabbe told me that she recalled putting it into the drawer of her desk, but when she went to look for it this morning, it wasn’t there. She decided then that she must have left it on the desk and that Jeremy had taken it when we were both out of the room.”

“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” the vicar murmured, in a dithering sort of way. “Has the school been searched?”

Margaret shook her head. “I suggested it, but Miss Crabbe didn’t feel it necessary.” She was placing herself in a terribly awkward position, of course, tittle-tattling (or so Miss Crabbe would certainly call it) on her superior. But if she took no action, the situation would almost certainly worsen. And of everyone in the village, these were the men in whom she should confide. The vicar was not only connected with the school, he was also Miss Crabbe’s spiritual adviser, while Captain Woodcock was Justice of the Peace and served on the Council School Board. Everything of importance that went on at the school eventually came before him.

The captain drew on his pipe and blew out a stream of aromatic blue smoke. “I see,” he said. “Well, then, perhaps you and I should conduct a search, Miss Nash.”

“Yes, of course, we can do that.” Margaret took a deep breath and forged ahead. “But while the missing money is bad enough, I’m afraid it’s not the only problem. One doesn’t like to criticize or carry tales, and one is certainly grateful to Miss Crabbe for all she’s done. But—”

She bit her lip, feeling almost overwhelmed by her disloyalty. Whatever Miss Crabbe’s faults, the two of them had taught together for nearly ten years. The vicar was so kind that he wouldn’t attribute any ulterior motives to her, but mightn’t the captain (who was much more a man of the world) think that she was deliberately undermining Miss Crabbe’s authority, or, far worse, angling for Miss Crabbe’s position?

“But what?” prompted the captain gently. “Come, come, Miss Nash. If you have anxieties, this is the time and place to be frank about them. Whatever you say will go no further. Both Reverend Sackett and I have a stake in our little school, you know, and a responsibility to make sure that things work as they should. And if you’re worrying about being disloyal, don’t. Your duty is to the school, not to any individual.”

Thus reassured, Margaret felt herself relax. “The thing is, you see, that Miss Crabbe has become . . . well, rather forgetful. Small things, mostly, such as losing her glasses and forgetting that she was supposed to be somewhere or do something. And when she feels she’s not entirely in control, she tends to blame others. She misplaced her attendance book a few weeks ago, and accused Mrs. Stubbs, who gave notice straight off, of course. It took a bit of talking to get her to agree to stay on.” She sighed. “Mrs. Stubbs gave notice again this morning, I’m afraid, when she overheard Miss Crabbe talking about Jeremy. And this time, I think she means it. Of course, she’ll let everyone in the village have her opinion on the matter, which will make it difficult to find a replacement. No one will want to work at the school.”

“Because of Miss Crabbe, you mean?”

Margaret nodded wordlessly.

The eyebrow went up again. “Any thoughts, Vicar?” the captain inquired.

The vicar stood, clasped his hands behind his back, and took a turn in front of the fireplace, looking troubled. “I don’t like to break a confidence,” he said at last, “but there is something I suppose I should mention. Miss Crabbe herself has acknowledged to me that she’s not entirely happy here in Sawrey. She is seeking another position.”

Margaret stared at him, startled. Miss Crabbe was thinking of going somewhere else? “But what of her sisters?” she blurted. “Would they go, too?” It seemed unthinkable, really. The three Misses Crabbe had lived at Castle Cottage for decades. And Miss Crabbe must be close to sixty—too old to easily find a teaching position somewhere else.

“I don’t know about her sisters,” the vicar said. “I must confess that it struck me as . . . well, rather odd.” He glanced at Margaret. “I, too, have been concerned about her frame of mind.”

“Well,” the captain said. “Is it likely that anything will come of her idea to relocate?”

“I don’t believe so,” the vicar said slowly. “She thought she had found a place in a school near Bournemouth. But she told me yesterday afternoon—after tea at your house, Captain, where we all gathered to welcome Miss Potter—that she had abandoned the plan. She was not able to get the letter of recommendation she needed from Miss Tolliver.”

“From Miss Tolliver,” the captain said thoughtfully. “I should like to know the details of that.”

“I believe that Miss Tolliver knew someone at Bournemouth—someone who might be expected to intervene on Miss Crabbe’s behalf,” the vicar replied. “She is rather older and more senior than most teachers who change schools,” he added, as if in explanation. “I suppose that Miss Tolliver died before Miss Crabbe could ask for the letter, and without it, she did not feel confident in applying for the position. She did not ask me to write, and I did not offer. I . . . well, I shouldn’t have known what to say, I’m afraid.”

“I really think, Vicar,” Captain Woodcock said pushing himself out of his chair, “that things have come to the point where you and I should have a word with Miss Crabbe. Tonight, if possible. Shall we drop in at Castle Cottage, say, around seven or so?”

“I suppose we must,” said the vicar unhappily. “Yes, seven will be fine. I’ll come to Tower Bank House, and we can walk up together.”