The Tale of Oat Cake Crag (5 page)

Grace twisted her handkerchief. “I know I can count on you not to speak of this to anyone else,” she said. Her voice was now so low that Beatrix could almost not hear her words. “I haven’t even told the vicar about ...” She pulled in her breath. “I’ve only told him that I think it might be prudent to delay our wedding a little. He would be devastated if he knew the truth.”

“Uh-oh,”
Tabitha said, her eyes very dark.

Crumpet looked up.
“Uh-oh what?”

Tabitha shook her head. Her tail twitched from side to side.
“I knew that Mrs. Lythecoe was very upset when she got those letters,”
she said in a low voice,
“and now I know why. It’s blackmail.”

“If he knew about what?” Beatrix asked. She leaned forward and took her friend’s hand. “My dear Grace, surely there is nothing that would keep you and the vicar from—”

“Letters.” Grace turned her face away. “Anonymous letters, unsigned. Saying . . . hateful things.”

“Anonymous letters?”
Crumpet was staring at Tabitha.
“You knew this? You knew about these letters and you didn’t tell me?”

“I don’t have to tell you everything, do I?”
Tabitha retorted.

“But you
knew!” Crumpet wailed disconsolately.
“Why, you probably even know who’s writing those letters! And you didn’t say a word!”

Tabitha gave her a cross look.
“If I told you what I know, the story would be all over the village in no time. You’d never be able to keep quiet about something this important.”

Now, you might be wondering just what Tabitha knows and how she found it out, and so (I confess) am I. But I must remind us that whilst she may be getting on in years, she is still a highly competitive cat who takes every opportunity to gain the upper paw over Crumpet—and all the other village cats, as well. I am really very sorry, but I can’t tell you whether what Tabitha said just now—what she implied, actually—remotely resembles the truth. She might know something important. In fact, she might even know who is writing those letters. But then again, she might not. Tabitha is not above telling a very large fib just to make herself look and feel important.

Crumpet, however, took Tabitha at her word. Stung, she sat up on her haunches.
“That’s stuff and nonsense,”
she spit.
“I can keep a secret as well as the next cat!”

“Oh, really?”
Tabitha snarled.
“Then how did Rascal find out about what happened in the kitchen at Tower Bank House last week? I told you in the strictest confidence. You promised not to tell a soul! And the next thing I knew, all the animals were talking about it. Why, even Max the Manx had heard the story, all the way over in Far Sawrey.”

Crumpet shrilled a laugh.
“What makes you think I’m the one who told? It could have been anybody. It could have been—”

“Hush!” Beatrix commanded sternly. “If you cats can’t be quiet, you’re going outdoors.” To Grace, she said, “I am so sorry to hear about this, Grace. It must be perfectly dreadful for you. But surely you ought to just ignore the letters and go on about the business of making yourself and the vicar very happy—as I’m sure you will.”

“Ignore them?” Grace cried. “How can I ignore them, Beatrix? Anyway, it’s not as if I actually believed anything the writer says—although there’s nothing very definite, just ugly hints. And of course, there’s not a shred of truth in any of it. But that’s worse, don’t you see? Whoever is writing these things, he’s making them up. And if he isn’t stopped, he might do something worse. He might spread a rumor, or tell a tale. And you know what villages are like. Once somebody hears a whisper of scandal, it’s all over the place in no time. Something like that would hurt the vicar’s reputation. Could damage it irretrievably.”

Beatrix considered that for a moment. “I suppose you might be right,” she said reluctantly. “Although it’s hard to believe that anyone who knows you and the vicar could do something like this.”

Grace nodded miserably, twisting her handkerchief in her fingers. “That’s almost the worst of it, you know. Walking through the village, wondering who it is. Wondering what will come next.” She stopped, and her voice became firmer. “That’s what I want you to do for me, Beatrix. Find out who’s writing these letters and make them stop. Please. You must.”

“Now, that’s a good idea,”
Crumpet said approvingly.
“After all, Miss Potter has solved more than one of our local mysteries.”

Tabitha could not disagree with this, for it was true. Miss Potter seemed to have some sort of sixth sense where secrets were concerned.

Beatrix frowned. “Have you discussed this with Captain Woodcock? I’m sure there must be some sort of law against—”

“But I can’t, don’t you see?” Grace interrupted. “The captain would insist on conducting an investigation, and he couldn’t do it privately. Word of it would be sure to get out. I can’t take that risk.”

“Well, then,” Beatrix asked reasonably, “how about talking it over with the vicar? He might have an idea about—”

“Oh, dear, no!” Grace’s eyes widened and she gave her head a hard shake. “I could never do that. You know him, Beatrix. Samuel . . . Reverend Sackett is such a gentleman, so tenderhearted. He would be terribly hurt to think that someone—one of his parishioners, most likely—was writing such poisonous letters. He mustn’t know, ever.”

“But what if—” Beatrix was about to ask what would happen if something the letter writer had said turned out to be true, but Grace put up a hand, stopping her.

“I’m sorry, Beatrix,” she said miserably. “I know this is very difficult, and I am so sorry to impose on you in this way. But I can’t think of anyone else who can help me—anyone I can trust. Will you?”

“Poor Miss Potter,”
Crumpet said.
“It sounds like an unsolvable mystery. Where will she even begin?”

Beatrix sighed. Anonymous letters, poisonous messages, unhappy secrets, a furtive investigation into something ugly and nasty. It wasn’t the sort of thing she wanted to be involved in. But Grace Lythecoe had been kind to her when she needed a friend. Vicar Sackett was a very good man. And of course, Grace was right. Someone who would write poisoned pen letters might be driven to do something that would cause real and lasting harm. That shouldn’t be allowed to happen, Beatrix thought bleakly. And if the situation were reversed, if she were in this sort of trouble—in any trouble, really—she knew that Grace would do whatever she could to help.

“Well, I suppose,” she said slowly. “Yes, of course, Grace. I’ll help.”

“Very good!”
Crumpet exclaimed.
“So brave of you, Miss Potter!”

“Our Miss Potter,”
Tabitha said.
“On the case.”

“But I’ll need to see the letters,” Beatrix went on. “How many are there? Did you bring them with you?”

Grace shook her head numbly. “There are three. The most recent came just last week. But I didn’t think it was wise to carry them around. They’re at my house. I’ve hidden them in a safe place.”

“I see,” Beatrix said. She straightened her shoulders and added briskly, “Well, then, I suppose I ought to go to Rose Cottage with you and read them, don’t you think?”

“Oh, would you?” Grace asked eagerly. “Beatrix, I don’t know how I can ever thank you.”

“You mustn’t expect too much, Grace,” Beatrix replied in a cautionary tone. “I may not be able to help at all. And in the end—” She stopped.

“In the end what?”
Tabitha asked.

“Yes, what?”
Crumpet demanded.

But Beatrix didn’t finish the sentence. She had been about to say that in the end, even if she was able to find out who was writing the letters and why, Grace might not have cause to thank her.

Where secrets of the heart were concerned, Beatrix had learnt that the truth—even when it could be uncovered—was not always welcome. Sometimes, it was better not to know.

Professor Owl did not shilly-shally. Perplexed and uneasy in his mind, he flew straightaway to find his friend Bosworth Badger XVII. Bosworth resided at The Brockery, a very large badger sett at the top of Holly How. He served as the chief badger historian, maintaining the official
History of the Badgers of the Land Between the Lakes
and its companion project, the
Holly How Badger Genealogy
. The badger had always taken his duties as a historian very seriously, recording in detail the various events, episodes, accidents, adventures, misadventures, and other happenstances that occurred throughout the area. The Professor was confident that Bosworth would be able to tell him everything that was known (if indeed anything at all
was
known!) about the rude, impertinent winged creature that had accosted him at Oat Cake Crag.

So upon his arrival at The Brockery’s front door, the owl rang the bell as loudly as he could, and shifted from one foot to the other whilst he waited impatiently for someone to open the door and let him in. No one did, at least not right away, so the Professor took a moment to study the Badger Coat of Arms, which was painted on a wooden sign over the door pull. (He was thinking, if you must know, that he himself could do with a coat of arms, and was wondering how he might go about getting it.)

This one, which was quite attractive, bore twin badgers rampant on an azure field, with a shield inscribed in Latin with the badger family motto:

Which, translated into English, proclaims:
From small things, there will grow a mighty heap
, or, as the local folk put it,
Many littles make a mickle, Many mickles make a mile.
This referred, as the Professor knew, to the badgers’ habit of excavating their extensive burrows, each generation adding to the work of preceding generations until there was a mile or more of labyrinthine underground tunnels, with great heaps of dirt piled outside the various entrances and exits. As a result, most badger setts were much too large for individual badgers, and were often used as convenient temporary refuges by animals in search of shelter.

But The Brockery was exceptionally large, even by badger standards, and over the years had gained a wide reputation as an animal hostelry. On any given day, you might go down a hall and discover a fox and a pair of hedgehogs in residence, or a trio of traveling mice and an interesting assortment of spiders, or several squirrels and a variety of voles, or even an itinerant badger from another district, stopping in to catch up on the news. Of course, all animals (including the foxes and stoats who might have an appetite for the mice and voles) had to behave in a civil way toward one another, even—or especially—at the table. Bosworth would not tolerate any animosity or ill-will. “If you can’t behave,” he had been heard to say, “you can go somewhere else to eat.”

The owl rang again, frowning. It was taking longer than usual for someone to open the door, for the simple reason that there was nobody at hand to answer the bell. Flotsam and Jetsam, the twin rabbit housemaids who usually welcomed the guests, had both been sent down to the garden behind the hotel in Far Sawrey to collect a few carrots and turnips for tomorrow’s dinner. Parsley, who cooked The Brockery’s meals, was visiting her sister near Wilfin Beck. Primrose, the housekeeper, had gone with her, and they hadn’t yet returned. Hyacinth (she had recently taken Bosworth’s place as the holder of the Badger Badge of Authority and the manager of the hostelry) had gone over to Briar Bank, to invite Bailey Badger and his guinea-pig roommate, Thackeray, to a birthday party. It was Bosworth’s birthday and the party was supposed to be a surprise, but the old badger had overheard Hyacinth whispering to Parsley and Primrose about it. He had immediately stopped listening and felt pleased and honored that they would plan such a thing. Now he had something very special to look forward to.

Since everyone else was gone, Bosworth was the only animal left minding the shop, as it were. Glad to be alone for the afternoon, he had spent it in the library, which he had always considered quite the nicest room in The Brockery. The cheery fire cast intriguing shadows on the familiar gilt-framed family portraits that hung on the walls. The comfortable leather chair, spread with Primrose’s green-and-brown crocheted afghan, was waiting with open arms beside the fireplace, and the heavy oak table cordially invited him to sit and write. It served as a desk, with his pencils laid out in a neat row, his knife ready to sharpen the pencils, and his inkpot and pen and blotting paper at hand, all very nice for a badger who especially fancied his work as a historian. For whilst Hyacinth had assumed the physically demanding work of managing The Brockery, Bosworth—who was getting on in years and glad to put that part of his life behind him—still maintained the
History
and the
Genealogy.

In fact, just a few moments ago, the badger had completed a current-events entry in the
History
and had returned the leather-bound volume to its place on the shelf. The place was so quiet (underground houses are very quiet indeed, with a way of swallowing up any loud noises) and the leather chair beside the fire so perfectly inviting, and the fire itself such a lovely sort of warm. So he settled into the chair, pulled the afghan close around him, put his feet on the fender to warm his toes, and dozed off. And why not? There were no animals around to hinder him, nothing he was required to do (he was, after all, semiretired), and a nap before tea was the very nicest thing he could think of.