The Tale of Oat Cake Crag (32 page)

She then recopied the letter, omitting the lined-through words. She read it once more, then put it down and took up her pen again. This time, she wrote to her brother.

Feeling as triumphant as if she had just signed her own emancipation declaration, Beatrix folded both letters carefully, one inside the other, and put them into an envelope, which she addressed to Bertram, at Number Two Bolton Gardens. The envelope would go into tomorrow’s post and arrive the day after that. Even if her parents wrote back immediately (as they probably would, a long letter, full of angry recriminations), it would take another day for their letter to arrive. It would be four days, most likely, before she heard. Four days before she had to deal with the problem again.

So for now, she would simply put the matter away on a dark shelf in the farthest corner of her mind, where she wouldn’t stumble over it inadvertently, and fill the intervening hours and days with something pleasant—garden work, and a walk around the farm. She hoped Will would have time to come by, so she could tell him what she had done. He had been kind enough not to urge her to tell them, but he would certainly be pleased to have it out in the open at last. He would—

Her thoughts were interrupted by a light rap at the door. Her heart leapt. Had thinking of Will conjured him up? But when she opened it, she saw Jeremy Crosfield, standing outside in the darkness. At his heels was Grace Lythecoe’s cat, Tabitha Twitchit.

“Oh, hello, Jeremy,” she said, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

“Do you have a moment, Miss Potter?” Jeremy asked soberly. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“And there’s something I need to say to
you
,
”
Beatrix replied as he stepped inside. Tabitha came with him. “I had a visit from Deirdre this afternoon. She tells me that you and she will be married in June. So I must say congratulations, my very dear boy. I am happy for you both.”

That brought a wide smile to Jeremy’s face. “Thank you. I know that we have some hard times ahead, but we care for each other and we’re willing to work.”

“Of course you are,” Beatrix said, taking his coat. “And of course, you know that I hope very much that you won’t neglect your art.”

He brightened still more. “Oh, I won’t, Miss Potter!” he exclaimed. “I won’t!” And he told her about the sale of his painting of the Dark-red Helleborine.

“Why, Jeremy, that’s wonderful!” Beatrix replied happily. “There are a great many rare plants and fungi tucked away among the rocks and fells, and all begging to be painted. The land is changing and they may not always be there. I know you will be busy with teaching and your new home, but I hope you will make time for your art.”

But even as she said this, she found herself smiling ruefully. In years past, she had always made time for her art, finding it a great solace and an escape from the demands of her parents. But as time went on, she found more creative delight in the work she did on the farm than in the drawings for her little books. Indeed, if she were truthful with herself, she would have to say that it was becoming a chore to settle down to drawing fictional animals, although it was never a chore to pay attention to the real ones. And her publisher’s calls for more books and more books had begun to weigh on her almost like a physical burden.

But Jeremy was just at the beginning of his artistic work, she reminded herself, while she had been drawing and painting for many years. It was right that he should make time to pursue his art, and it was good that he would have the support of a wife who had his interests at heart.

“Have you had your tea?” she asked as she hung his coat on the peg behind the door. “I have fresh bread and butter and some new-made cheese.” When Jeremy said “yes, please” to the offer of bread, cheese, and tea, she went to pour a cup, and then thought of something else he would like. “Oh, and Mrs. Jennings has left a large apple pudding, made with our own Hill Top apples.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Jeremy said, smiling. “I usually have tea at the Llewellyns’, but they’re both out this evening.” He sat down at the table, sober-faced again. “I’m afraid that I’m on a serious errand, though. I need to ask your advice about something. Something very important.”

“Tea first,” Beatrix counseled, thinking that perhaps he wanted to ask her about his upcoming marriage or his art. “Then we’ll tackle your serious errand.” She looked down at the cat. “And I suppose you would like something too, Tabitha.”

“If you please, Miss Potter,”
Tabitha mewed politely, and happily bent to the saucer of milk that Beatrix put down.

A little later, Jeremy sat back with a sigh. “Thank you,” he said, pushing his plate away. “That was a fine tea. Mrs. Jennings’ cheese is outstanding.”

“It’s Kitchen’s cheese, too,” Beatrix said firmly. “The cheese can never be any better than the milk it begins with, no matter the talents of the cheesemaker.”

“And Kitchen’s milk is tip-top,”
Tabitha purred.
“I’ve sampled the milk of every cow in the village, and I know.”

Beatrix rested her forearms on the table. “Now, are you ready to tell me about your errand?”

“I wish I didn’t have to,” Jeremy said, shaking his head. “Really, Miss Potter, I don’t know what to make of it.”

“I do,”
Tabitha said, getting up from the hearth and pushing her face against Jeremy’s ankle.
“I know exactly what to make of it. And so will Miss Potter, when you show it to her. Please do.”

“Make of what?” Beatrix asked curiously.

“This,” Jeremy said, and pushed a piece of paper across the table to her. On the paper was written, in Jeremy’s hand: “Dear Mrs. Lythecoe, If you don’t cancel the wedding by next Monday, you will be very sorry.”

Beatrix stared at it, a shiver of apprehension crossing her shoulders. “Where did you get this?” she asked.

“I copied it,” Jeremy said. He bit his lip. “I know it was wrong to read the letter, but it was lying right out in plain sight on the table. I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t help seeing it.”

“He couldn’t help seeing it because I told him to look at it,”
Tabitha said proudly.
“He wouldn’t be here showing it to you, if it weren’t for me.”

“After I read it, I didn’t know what to do,” Jeremy confessed. “I shouldn’t have read it—I know that. But once I had, I had to do something. I couldn’t just go away and pretend I hadn’t seen it, but I couldn’t tear it up, either. So I copied it and left the original where I found it.”

Beatrix took a deep breath. “And where was that, Jeremy?”

“At High Green Gate,” Jeremy said miserably. “On the table in the Llewellyns’ parlor.”

The minute he said that, Beatrix understood. Everything fell into place.

“I see,” she said softly. “I understand.”

“Good,”
Tabitha said.
“I’d like a little credit, please.”

Jeremy was still staring at the paper. “Can you think of what should be done?” he asked at last.

“I believe so,” Beatrix said. “And I’m very glad you’ve brought this to me, Jeremy. It was wise.” She sighed, not wanting to think about what had to come next. “But it’s too late this evening to do anything about it. I think you should go back to High Green Gate and pretend that nothing at all has happened. Can you do that?”

He nodded. “I can try, anyway.”

“Meee-ow,”
Tabitha said.

“Good.” Beatrix smiled. “And thank you, Jeremy, more than I can say. You’ve solved a very unhappy mystery that has been troubling Mrs. Lythecoe for some time.”

“Me!”
Tabitha cried petulantly.
“What about me? Don’t I get any credit?”

“I’m sorry about that,” Jeremy said. “I’m glad I could help.” He looked down at Tabitha, who was curling around his ankles. “We ought to thank Tabitha as well, though. If it hadn’t been for her, I wouldn’t have looked at the letter.”

“Indeed.” Miss Potter bent and stroked the cat. “Thank you, Tabitha.”

“It’s about time,”
Tabitha said tartly.

When the news of the Water Bird’s crash got around the village (which of course it did, and quicker than a dog can wag its tail), everyone was delighted. It was human nature to be glad that the nuisance noise was gone. It was also human nature to speculate about how Mr. Baum had come to take such a tumble from the top of Oat Cake Crag, the night before his aeroplane fell out of the sky. And it was human nature—at least in the village of Near Sawrey—to talk about it, and talk, and talk, and talk.

So early the next afternoon, Bertha Stubbs put on her everyday blue hat with the purple ribbon and a heavy shawl and went up the hill to Tower Bank House, where she sat down for a cup of tea and a fresh-baked raisin scone with her friend, Elsa Grape, the Tower Bank cook-housekeeper. Bertha had heard about the aeroplane crash from her husband, Henry, who had heard about it from his cousin Tommy, who worked on the aeroplane. What’s more, Tommy had told Henry that the engine failure occurred because water had got into the petrol barrel. Tommy thought he knew how that happened, but he wouldn’t say.

“Dust Henry know who dunnit?” Elsa demanded. “If he does, he ought to tell Captain Woodcock.”

“Henry says t’ aeroplane hangar is on t’ other side of t’ lake and not in t’ captain’s district,” Bertha replied. “Anyway, he says Tommy prob’ly done it hisself, an’ he’s tryin’ to cast asparagus on sumbody else.”

Elsa shook her head. “Aspersions,” she said. “Cast aspersions on sumbody else.” Bertha was known for her abuse of the English language.

Bertha sniffed, but rephrased. “Henry says Tommy prob’ly left t’ lid off t’ petrol barrel an’ he’s afeard he’ll be incinerated.”

Elsa looked alarmed. Then she sighed. “I think tha meant to say ‘incriminated,’ Bertha.”

Bertha and Elsa were discussing the meaning of “incinerate” when Hannah Braithwaite dropped in. As the wife of the village constable, Hannah was a valued member of any group of gossipers, because she had a direct route, so to speak, to important village information and generally knew what was going on for miles around.

Hannah had plenty to tell today. Her avid listeners heard that Constable Braithwaite had had a long conversation with Paddy Pratt, Mr. Baum’s odd-jobs man—his
former
odd-jobs man, that is, since Mr. Baum had discharged him and the rest of the Lakeshore Manor servants the previous week. Amongst the topics of discussion was a sack of tools taken from the manor barn and discovered by Constable Braithwaite behind a barrel in Paddy Pratt’s shed. The tools bore a distinctive mark, identifying them as Lakeshore Manor tools. Paddy was due to explain himself to Captain Woodcock, the justice of the peace, that afternoon. However, as far as Mr. Baum’s fall from Oat Cake Crag was concerned, Paddy claimed to have no knowledge of it, and the constable was inclined to believe him, since Paddy was far too fat and lazy to climb to the top of the crag.

Having delivered this news in a breathless sort of way, Hannah remembered that she had promised to drop in and see how Rose Sutton was coming along. Rose was expecting another baby (“Good heavens,” said Elsa, “does that make
nine?
However will they all fit into Courier Cottage?”) and would soon be losing Deirdre.

“Losin’ Deirdre?” Bertha demanded. “Why, where’s she goin’?”

“Why, dustna know?” Hannah asked. “Deirdre’s marryin’ Jeremy Crosfield in June and movin’ to Slatestone Cottage. Mr. Braithwaite told me so this mornin’.”

Hannah couldn’t just drop this bit of tantalizing information into the conversation and then leave, so it was another ten minutes before she walked out the door—ten minutes filled with such ordinary gossip that it does not bear repeating here. When Hannah was gone, Bertha looked up at the clock and remarked that if she didn’t go home and put the sausage and taties into the kettle straightaway, Henry wouldn’t have any supper and she would be in for it (which isn’t true, since it is Bertha who wears the pants in that family).