The Tale of Castle Cottage (32 page)

By this time, they had reached the gate that opened into the Castle Farm barn lot, across the road from Belle Green. The sky had deepened to a darker blue in the east and the stars were beginning to glitter over Claife Heights, but the western sky was still streaked with sunset-tinged clouds and a silvery light filled the air around them, transforming the landscape into something not quite real, something out of a fairy tale. Beatrix glanced up as a dark shadow glided overhead, wings stretched out and motionless in the soundless, sweeping flight of a large tawny owl, the largest in the Lakes. It was rare to see one so near the village.

“Look, Margaret!” she exclaimed. “An owl! Perhaps it’s the one who lives in the beech at the top of Claife Heights.”

Margaret looked up, too, as the owl dipped his wings and dropped lower over the village rooftops. “Oh, how beautiful!” she breathed, and then added practically, “Let’s hope he has an appetite for rats.”

Beatrix chuckled, agreeing. “If we could count on that owl, we wouldn’t need those traps.”

She lifted the latch on the wooden gate and they went through, threading their way between piles of building materials and heaps of plaster and lathes and slates that had been removed from the house. The bare ground was slick and muddy from the evening rain, and Beatrix found herself wishing for her pattens—the wooden-soled shoes that she and other farm women wore when they went outdoors. She had worn her town shoes for the dinner party, and they were going to get unspeakably dirty.

Just as Beatrix was thinking that perhaps this wasn’t such a very good idea after all, she saw Rascal, her favorite village dog, trotting purposefully around the corner of the old stone barn. As she and Margaret approached the barn, he looked up and saw them, then ran forward.

“Miss Potter!”
he barked loudly, planting himself firmly in front of the barn door, stiff-legged.
“What are you doing here? And Mrs. Woodcock, too! Don’t you know how late it is? Why, it’s almost dark! Go home, both of you! Go right home, now! Shoo!”

“My goodness,” Margaret said mildly. “Why, look at him, Beatrix. He’s trying to chase us away.”

Surprised at the flurry of urgent barks, Beatrix went toward the little dog. She often wished she understood what the animals were saying—and sometimes she thought she almost did.

“Whatever in the world is the matter, Rascal?” she inquired.

“What’s the matter?”
Rascal shouted, dancing up and down in front of them.
“What’s the matter? The matter is that you’re not wanted here tonight, Miss Potter! Hostilities are about to get under way! A battle! A war! All animals must stay out of the barn—and that includes you!”

I am sure that Beatrix would have responded differently if she had truly understood what Rascal was trying to tell her. But she didn’t, I am sorry to say—which just goes to show that even our dear Miss Potter, who understands quite a lot about animals, does not know everything there is to know. She bent down and patted the little dog’s head gently. “But this is
my
barn, Rascal. And I am going inside. Right now.”

“No!”
Rascal shrilled.
“No, no—”

But Beatrix was grasping the door and pulling it open just wide enough for herself and Margaret to slip through. Over her shoulder, she said, “Hush, Rascal. We’ve had enough of your noise. Now, go away.”

But Rascal had already gone. He had seen a very large rat slinking around the corner of the barn, and he was off to do his duty, as a fierce, brave terrier-warrior should.

It was dim and dry and musty inside the old barn, with the scent of dust and musty hay in the air. Beatrix was aware of a faint rustling in the hay—rats, she assumed, and thought that it might be a good idea to set several rat traps right here in the barn. She looked up. Overhead, the barn roof rose into the shadowy twilight like a cathedral ceiling. A wooden ladder was propped against the edge of the open loft, about a dozen feet above the floor.

Beatrix touched Margaret’s sleeve. “Would you mind holding the ladder for me? I’m going to climb up to the loft and have a look. It should be empty. If it isn’t—”

“Are you sure, Bea?” Margaret asked, eyeing the ladder worriedly. “It looks a little unstable.”

“Let’s give it a go.” Beatrix went to the ladder. She positioned it firmly, and as Margaret held it, she began to climb, one rung at a time. A few moments later, she could see into the loft, an area about twenty feet by twenty feet—and stacked with lumber and other building materials. She puffed out her breath. “I’ve found it, Margaret!” she cried excitedly. “I’ve found the materials that Mr. Maguire has stolen. Some of it, anyway.”

She turned to look down at Margaret. As she did so, she caught a glimpse, out of the corner of her eye, of something large and dark, about the size of a badger. And then, to her surprise, she saw—or thought she saw—a fox. And a—a weasel? And a stoat? She twisted around, shifting her weight, trying to see better. Was she imagining this? Was she—

“Beatrix!” Margaret called. “What’s the matter? What are you doing? You—” She broke off with a shrill scream. “Help! The ladder! It’s tilting! I can’t hold it!”

The next instant, the ladder was slipping sideways and Beatrix was falling, with Margaret’s scream loud in her ears. I am sure that she would have been badly injured if she hadn’t fallen into a pile of musty old hay that had been heaped up in the corner. The hay cushioned her fall, but the wind was knocked out of her, and for a moment, she was too stunned to move.

“Beatrix!” Margaret cried, rushing over to her. “Bea, are you all right? Speak to me, Bea! Say something.”

“Pfft,” Beatrix said, sitting up and spitting straw out of her mouth. “Pffoey!” And then she sneezed. “Achooo!”

“Oh, thank heavens,” Margaret gasped. “You’re all right!”

“More or less,” Beatrix said dizzily, rubbing her shoulder. “Did you see that badger? And the stoat? And the weasel?”

“Badger? Stoat? Weasel?” Margaret leant over, peering anxiously at her. “No, I didn’t see a thing. Are you . . . Are you sure you’re all right, dear Bea? You haven’t hurt your head, have you?”

“No, just my shoulder.” Beatrix struggled to stand up but fell back. “And I’m afraid I’ve turned my ankle.” She put her hand down to steady herself. Feeling something hard under the straw, she pulled it out. “What’s this?” she asked, holding it up.

Margaret stared. “Why . . . Why, it’s our wedding photograph—in the silver frame that Dimity and Christopher gave us as a wedding gift! What in the world is it doing here?”

But Beatrix was too busy digging in the hay to answer her. “Look at this!” she said in a wondering tone, holding up a silver cream jug. “And this!” She held up a monogrammed leather purse. “It has Sarah Barwick’s initials on it!” She fished through the straw again and pulled something else out. “What on earth—?”

But I’m sure that you’ve already guessed.

It is
The Book of the Revelation of John
, created many centuries ago by Eadfrith, bishop of Lindisfarne. It has been hidden under the hay by Rooker Rat, who planned to sell it on the underworld art market.

And just where did Rooker get this precious book?

Why, he stole it from Mr. Biddle, of course!

And Mr. Biddle—where did he get it?

Well, if you will recall, Sally Brandon stole the book from Lord Longford’s collection and brought it home with her to Castle Cottage. Her little brother Dickey hid it in his hidey-hole, along with three marbles and a broken knife-blade and the star-shaped brass decoration that had fallen off Captain Woodcock’s horse’s bridle. Mr. Biddle found it when he was surveying the tear-out work that needed to be done at Castle Cottage.

Of course, he recognized at once that the book was of value, at least as far as the gold and silver and jewels were concerned, and knew that he should show it to Miss Potter, since he had found on her property and understood it to be hers by rights. You would have done that, wouldn’t you?

But I am sad to say that Mr. Biddle’s greed overwhelmed his good sense, which happens all too often in this world—and not only that, he was not terribly fond of Miss Potter and knew that she had employed him only because she could find no one else. So he put the
Revelation
with his jacket and canvas lunch bag, intending to take it home with him and show it to a book dealer of his acquaintance named Depford Darnwell, who might give him as much as a hundred quid for it. (I am sure that Mr. Darnwell would have been delighted to do this, since he has already told Lady Longford that the book is worth a great deal more than a hundred quid.)

And that is where Rooker Rat discovered the book, when he was rummaging through Mr. Biddle’s lunch bag, looking for an apple. Rooker, a clever rat with an eye for value, made off with both the apple
and
the book.

And what happened when Mr. Biddle discovered that the book he had stolen had been stolen from him? Why, he blamed Mr. Adcock, naturally, because Mr. Adcock had been working in the same room where Mr. Biddle had put his jacket and lunch. And Mr. Adcock quite naturally refused to confess that he had stolen anything, because he hadn’t. And then Mr. Biddle sacked Mr. Adcock and they got into a fight at the pub and—

But you know what happened after that.

And now, here is our Miss Potter, who has fallen off the ladder in her barn and tumbled into the pile of hay where she has discovered all manner of stolen goods: Hannah Braithwaite’s cream jug, Margaret’s wedding photograph, Sarah Barwick’s monogrammed leather purse, and—

And she is holding the
Revelation
in her hand, staring down at it wonderingly. She opens it, sees the decorated Latin lettering and the gorgeously illuminated pages and breathes, “The Lindisfarne Gospels!” For as a young girl, Beatrix had many times visited the British Museum, where she looked closely at Bishop Eadfrith’s gorgeous Gospels and admired (as a young artist naturally would) the lettering, the illuminations, and the brilliant colors. And because she is an artist, she recognizes this same lettering, illuminations, and coloring when she sees it again.

“Beg pardon?” Margaret says, now thoroughly confused and convinced that Beatrix had indeed fallen on her head.

Beatrix pulls in her breath, stammers, and finally manages to say quite breathlessly, “Margaret, I have no idea how this book got into the barn. But I have seen another, very like it, in the British Museum. It’s very, very old. And enormously valuable.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Margaret replies in a matter-of-fact voice. “But I do know that you have just had a bad fall and you’ve likely hurt your head as well as your shoulder and your ankle.” (She thinks this, I am sure, because Beatrix believed that she had seen a badger, a stoat, and a weasel, when most people who fall on their heads simply see stars.) “I am taking you home right this minute for a cup of hot tea, some arnica liniment, and bed.” She holds out her hand and adds sweetly, in the tone she has so often used for her schoolchildren, “Don’t argue with me, dear. Just come along.”

And Beatrix suddenly found that the idea of a cup of hot tea, arnica liniment, and bed sounded just about perfect. She went with Margaret without a word of complaint.

 

 

Now, you and I know that Beatrix really
did
see a badger, a stoat, and a weasel. In fact, she might have seen a half-dozen weasels and stoats, if she’d had a moment longer to look—oh, and a cat, of course. The badger was Hyacinth, the cat was Crumpet, and they were hiding in Brown Billy’s stall where, after an hour’s surveillance, they suspected that Rooker’s gang was holed up.

No, that’s wrong. It wasn’t a matter of suspecting any longer, for as they kept watch in the shadows, they had seen several rats—including an immense gray creature that they thought must be Rooker—emerging from a trapdoor in the floor under the manager. Their strategy discussion was interrupted when Miss Potter and Mrs. Woodcock entered the barn, and then Miss Potter climbed the ladder and fell off and Mrs. Woodcock rushed to her rescue and several moments later, the two women left, Miss Potter leaning on Mrs. Woodcock for support.

Breathing a sigh of relief that Miss Potter was not terribly injured, they returned to their discussion of strategy.

“I’m in favor of taking them on right now, here in the barn,”
Hyacinth said grimly.
“If some are still loose in the village, Rascal and the other animals can pick them off when they try to get back here to their headquarters. And the fewer there are down there in that hole, the easier it will be to destroy them.”

Crumpet shook her head bleakly.
“Destroy them? I don’t know how you’re going to do that, Hyacinth.”
She gave the badger a measuring glance that took in her substantial girth.
“I certainly can’t squeeze through that trapdoor, and you’re bigger than I am.”

Hyacinth gave a wry chuckle.
“Of course I am. And both of us are bigger than that weasel over there.”
She nodded toward a dark corner, where a weasel was snuffling through the hay, looking for mice.
“And that one there.”
Another, in the other corner.
“But while they may be smaller than we are, they are
fierce
. Believe me. And the stoats are just as fierce as the weasels. In fact, I think we’ll send the stoats down first. They love nothing better than a good fight. What do you say?”

“I say YES!”
Crumpet cried excitedly, thinking that she hadn’t heard such a good suggestion since the beginning of this horrible episode.

So the stoats went first, slamming the trapdoor after themselves so that rats could not escape. Through the floor, Crumpet and Hyacinth could hear the satisfying sounds of terrified squeals and cries of
“Mercy! Mercy, please!”
and the sound of furniture being overturned and crockery broken and things flying around.

And then there was silence.

And then the trapdoor opened, and one after another, the weasels and stoats came out. One of them dragged up the limp body of Jumpin’ Jemmy, another the carcass of Firehouse Frank, and both dead rats were thrown on the floor for everyone to see. The stoats and weasels themselves were bloody, a few ears had been bitten and fur torn, but—to an animal—they were proud of their victory.