The Tale of Castle Cottage (27 page)

And then he stops, struck dumb with astonishment. That wasn’t what he meant to say, not at all! What happened to his stalwart and ungentlemanly determination to plead for release from his promise, for her dear sake? What happened to his worry for her health? He still feels it, oh, yes, he
feels
it. And gentleman or no, he certainly had every intention of breaking off their engagement.

But while intentions are all well and good, they sometimes falter when it comes time to put them into action, as I’m sure you understand. How many times have you fully intended to do one thing—you’ve thought it all through, planned out each move very carefully—and then found yourself doing something entirely different, if not entirely opposite ? You were surprised by what happened, I am willing to wager. It wasn’t what you intended at all.

Or rather, that is not what you intended with your
head.
Your heart had a different plan all along and only waited to reveal it until the moment when you opened your mouth and said what you really meant to say. And personally, I suspect that your heart waited because it didn’t want your head to get in its way.

Thus it is with our Will, who is not only surprised but completely confounded by what has just happened—and is of course stuck with it, now that the words are out there, hanging in the air between them, alive with significance. He can’t very well bow his head and say, “Oh, dear, that’s not what I meant at all, Beatrix. What I meant to say was ‘Our engagement is obviously a terrible mistake that is making you desperately sick and making me feel wretchedly sad and guilty, so if you don’t mind very much, dear girl, let’s just call the whole thing off.’”

And Beatrix? She is entirely prepared to say—well, you know. But now that Will has offered his spontaneous and heartfelt pledge, she can hardly say, “Well, of course that’s entirely wonderful, Will, and I appreciate it very much, but I’ve already made up my mind that you must not wait for me. Our engagement is hopeless and our marriage will never happen and I’m breaking it off.”

That would be mean and churlish of her, and Beatrix (who often accuses herself of impatience and ill temper) is never mean and churlish.

So even though Beatrix knows very well that she and her dearest love will never in this world be able to marry, she can only take his hand and raise it to her lips and say, with the utmost simplicity and sincerity, “Thank you, my dear, from the bottom of my heart. I love you and I will always be as true to you as I am able.”

“Well,” Will says, and smiles. “That’s good. I’m glad.” Then, remembering what he had come to do and suddenly seeing the funny side of this ridiculous business, he begins to chuckle. And then to laugh.

Beatrix, not quite seeing it yet, is not amused. “What’s so funny?” she asks stiffly.

“I am,” Will says, grinning crookedly. “Sometimes I am just downright silly. I’m amazed that you haven’t laughed at me, too, dear heart.” He puts his hands on her shoulders and bends over and kisses the tip of her nose, then holds her close against him.

“There,” he says softly, his cheek against her hair. “That’s better. Much better.”

And of course it is. He has been utterly foolish to think that he could ever give this woman up, no matter what obstacles might be thrown across their path. Somehow, in some way, they will muddle through together. Her parents won’t live forever. And in the meantime, they have each other, and their time together, and it is enough. Almost enough, anyway—although he is fully aware that even if he were granted the privilege of spending the rest of his life with this remarkable woman, it wouldn’t be long enough.

And Beatrix—who knows that she can’t tell Will what she had meant to say, and what she had rehearsed until the words had made her cry—finds herself pulling back a little and glancing at the clock and saying, in a surprisingly calm voice, “We still have some time before we have to go to the Woodcocks’. Would you like a cup of tea, Will? There’s something I want to show you.”

Will glanced at the unfinished pictures and the stacks of papers on the table where Beatrix had been working. “It looks like you’ve been busy,” he says. He finds it very odd that he can speak in an ordinary, everyday tone after the emotional hurricane he has just weathered. “Working on the book?”

“I should be,” she replied ruefully. “But I was working on something else.” She pulled out a chair and put a sheaf of papers in front of him. “Sit down, please, and I’ll get the tea.” Over her shoulder, she adds, “Look at the items and the amounts and tell me what you think.”

Five minutes later, he was scowling at her penciled figures. “You’re sure about this, Beatrix?”

“I’ve double-checked it, and then checked it again. The invoices aren’t exact duplicates, but there’s enough overlap so that I can see that I’ve been double-billed for nearly half of the materials at Castle Cottage.” She sat down on the other side of the table. “And it’s not just the numbers—that’s circumstantial. There’s evidence. Sarah Barwick says that Henry Stubbs bought a pair of brass-plated door handles that were meant for Castle Cottage.” She took one of the invoices off the stack and pointed to an item. “Probably these.”

“That wretched Biddle!” Will exclaimed, looking at the invoice. “I took a quick look at his materials list, and I didn’t think he’d doctored it.” He picked up his teacup and drank. “I thought he was too smart to try his little game with you, but it looks like I was wrong.”

“Biddle?” Beatrix asked, frowning. “His little game?”

“Yes, Biddle,” Will said, putting his cup down. “He cheated Captain Woodcock and three of my clients. Harold Grimes, Mrs. Moore, and Mr. Kirkby, at the Grange.” His voice hardened. “It’s this very same swindle, Beatrix. Materials double-billed, half of them not delivered—or delivered and stolen. It’s hard to tell.”

“So I’m not the only one,” Beatrix said mildly.

“Right. But in this case—” Will gave her a grin. “To tell the truth, I am delighted to hear that Henry Stubbs bought your door handles. If that turns out to be true, it’s all the evidence we need to nail Biddle.”

“But I don’t think it’s Mr. Biddle,” Beatrix said, frowning. “I’ve had my problems with him over the years, and I know that he is not the best and most attentive manager in the world—especially these days, when he has other fish to fry. But I don’t think he’s a swindler.”

Will pulled his brows together. “Not Biddle? Then who the devil is doing it, Bea? And what’s this about ‘other fish to fry’?”

Beatrix picked up one of the invoices and pointed to a very small initial in one corner. The initial
M
. “These bills are initialed by Mr. Maguire, Will. And Sarah said that Bertha Stubbs told her that it was Mr. Maguire who sold the door handles to Henry Stubbs. Sarah wondered whether he might have stolen them from Castle Cottage and thought to warn me about it. But looking at these invoices, I’d say that the problem is bigger than a pair of brass door handles.”

“Maguire?” Will sat back in his chair and blew out his breath. “Maguire!”

“Don’t you think that makes sense?” Beatrix asked. “He’s in charge of ordering materials and supplies on Castle Cottage. Mr. Biddle has several crews at work on various projects and divides his time among them. So it would be easy for Mr. Maguire to take whatever he wants and simply put in a duplicate order. I’m sure he’s counting on people being too busy to check their invoices. And he’s probably counting on Mr. Biddle to be too . . . distracted.”

“Yes, that makes sense,” Will replied thoughtfully. “Maguire, eh?”

Beatrix took a sip of tea. “It was imprudent of him to sell those handles here in the village—and especially to Henry Stubbs. Henry’s wife, Bertha, is the biggest gossip in town. Henry hadn’t had those handles for half a day before Bertha was telling all her friends that both her front door
and
her back door were about to have new brass handles, which her husband had bought at a very good price. Two for the price of one, she said.” She chuckled wryly. “But Mr. Maguire isn’t from Sawrey. He probably had no idea that Bertha’s door handles—
my
door handles!—would soon be the talk of the village. It was a reckless mistake.”

“I see,” Will said quietly, thinking about everything that Beatrix had said and what he had learnt from his clients—and several other things as well. A picture, and not a pretty one, was beginning to emerge.

“Yes, I do see.” He narrowed his eyes. “What’s this about Biddle having other fish to fry, Beatrix?”

“Other fish?” Beatrix laughed. “Why, haven’t you heard? Mr. Biddle is sweet on Ruth Safford, the new barmaid at the Tower Bank Arms. In fact, he’s spending most of his time at the pub, just to be near her.” She leant closer and lowered her voice theatrically. “I know, because Mrs. Rosier told me so.”

Will laughed helplessly. “Gossip,” he said, and threw up his hands.

But he knew very well that there was almost always more truth in gossip than anyone suspected, and that the wisest man in any village was the man who kept his ear to the ground.

18

Mrs. Woodcock Goes Mushroom Hunting

I’m sure that you have hosted many dinner parties and will readily understand what has been on Margaret Woodcock’s mind for most of the day. She had to make sure that every minute trace of dust was removed from every flat surface in the library, the drawing room, and the dining room. She had to oversee Elsa Grape’s sometimes erratic cookery. She had to make sure that the table was correctly laid with the wedding china, crystal, and silver. And she had to cut and arrange the flowers for the table and the other rooms. It had been a very busy day—especially when she considered how much time those mushrooms had cost her.

And then there was the question of what to wear. Margaret knew that Miss Potter would likely wear a blouse and skirt, that her sister-in-law Dimity always wore something very sweet and simple, and that the hostess must never be dressier than her guests. So she finally decided—for sentimental reasons—on the same pink-and-white crepe de chine blouse that she had worn on the day that the captain proposed marriage to her, with a flounced gray skirt, and a lovely pink-and-white cameo on a gold chain around her neck, a Christmas gift from her husband. In my personal opinion, this was a happy choice, for the pink of the blouse reflected the pink in Margaret’s cheeks and complemented the rich brown sheen of her hair.

Finally, it was time to fuss at her husband, who (still wearing his smoking jacket) was standing in the library doorway, reading a message that had just been delivered by Constable Braithwaite, who had ridden his bicycle over from Hawkshead and was now on his way home to his supper.

“Miles,” Margaret said sternly, “you really must get dressed, my dear. Our guests will be here in another half hour.”

There was no answer. Frowning intently, the captain was engrossed in what he was reading. Margaret tried again.

“Miles,
please.
I’ve laid out your fresh shirt and tie and jacket. Whatever it is you’re reading, it can surely wait until after our guests have gone.”

Miles looked up at her, his forehead creased. “It was murder,” he said in a hard voice.

Margaret blinked. “Murder?” Her hand went to her mouth. “Who? What? What in the world are you talking about?”

Miles held up the paper in his hand. “The constable just brought this from Dr. Butters. It’s his autopsy report. Adcock was struck above the right ear, hard enough to render him unconscious. And then the poor fellow was strung up like a dead fish, in an effort to make it look as if he had committed suicide.” He pulled in his breath. “Damn!” he exclaimed. “Damn and blast!”

“Oh, dear,” Margaret said faintly, and the captain recollected himself.

“I’m sorry, Margaret,” he said apologetically. “I ought not to swear. And I oughtn’t to have upset you with this.” While the captain kept his office in the library, he always tried to separate his professional work as justice of the peace from his family life. He wasn’t always successful, however, for his wife was an active participant in village life and often knew as much as he did about what was going on.

“I was just thinking of poor Mrs. Adcock,” Margaret said sadly. “Her boys attended Sawrey School, you know, when I first taught there, years ago. She was always most conscientious, wanting to be sure that they behaved properly and always did their lessons. This will be so hard for her. But no more difficult than the alternative, I suspect. Suicide is an ugly thing.” She took a deep breath and let it out again. “Murder! Who could have possibly—”

“Biddle,” the captain muttered, half to himself. “It was Biddle, that’s who it was. That’s the only answer.”

“The man who renovated our stable?” Margaret cried, clasping her hands. “That’s terrible! Why would Mr. Biddle do such a horrible thing? Why would
anybody
do it?”

“Adcock must have got on to Biddle’s swindle with the building supplies and threatened to tell the constable,” her husband said. “Maybe Adcock even tried to blackmail him.”

“Mr. Biddle, a swindler?” Margaret asked breathlessly, her eyes growing large.

“A swindler and a murderer.” The captain shook his head. “Fishing,” he said with a snort of disgust. “Well, he’s going to find out that fishing is no alibi at all, when I get through with him. I know how to make people talk.” Which is true, for (as we noted earlier) the captain had been in Military Intelligence, and he prides himself on his interrogation skills. We should probably not inquire too narrowly into details of means and methods, but I have no doubt that, given enough time with Mr. Biddle—or anyone else, for that matter—the captain could wring out a confession.

“Fishing?” Margaret asked. “That’s his explanation—his . . . alibi—for where he was when Mr. Adcock died?”

“Yes. Would you believe it, my dear? Adcock was killed sometime between ten this morning, when his wife last saw him, and eleven thirty, when she found him dead. When I questioned Biddle this afternoon about his whereabouts for that hour and a half, the man had the temerity to claim that he was fishing at Moss Eccles Tarn. Fishing!” Captain Woodcock exclaimed, and smashed his fist into his palm. “All alone, he said. Ha! If that fellow was fishing, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”