The Tale of Applebeck Orchard (31 page)

Beatrix took the proffered paw, frowning at the little terrier, who seemed to have a skeptical expression on his face. But was it true? Did she? Love Norman, that is.

Yes, yes, of course she still loved him. But the urgent, unruly passion that had once been a burning flame seemed so long ago, so far away. It was now only a gentle warmth. Was it right to lead Mr. Heelis to believe that she could not care for him because her heart was still too full of someone else? And of course, there were other reasons—or rather, another reason.

“My very dear Mr. Heelis,” she said, still holding the little dog’s paw, “I must tell you that—though I have come to care for you deeply—our friendship must remain a friendship. It’s my parents, you see.” Yes, that was truthful. “My parents expect me to remain with them for their lifetimes. They have no one else, and I feel I owe it to them to—”

She stopped again. But it wasn’t just that, was it? There was more to it than that, of course, and she would just have to be blunt about it. “I am sorry, Mr. Heelis,” she said, “but my parents would no more approve my marrying a country solicitor than they approved my marrying a London book publisher. That’s dreadful, I know. But it’s a fact, and I have to face it.”

Rascal retrieved his paw.
“Bully for you, Miss Potter,”
he said softly.
“We’ve come to the heart of it at last, haven’t we?”

“Yes,” she said, and sighed. “Now we have come to the heart of it. I can lie to him and let him think I don’t care. Or I can let him know that I care, but that my parents are . . . bigots.” She chuckled sadly. “It’s a quandary. A conundrum.”

“But you do care for him, don’t you?”
Rascal reminded her.
“I mean, all these ‘dear’ and ‘very dear’ Mr. Heelises—sounds to me as though you care rather a lot.”

Beatrix was silent for a moment. “I suppose,” she said at last, “that if I were brutally frank with myself, I should have to admit that I do care for him. Deeply.” It was true. He was the most admirable man she knew, always courteous, kind, and generous. A man that any woman might love—and choose to marry.

Rascal eyed her thoughtfully.
“And if you could have your way, you would marry him, Miss Potter?”

She sighed, feeling that she was now in very dangerous territory, indeed. “I suppose I should also have to say that, if I could choose freely in the matter, I would choose . . . him.” She got to her feet, speaking with determination. “But I cannot choose freely. And so I must choose between telling him an untruth and telling him that my parents are bigoted and intolerant.”

“I’d go with the truth, on both counts,”
Rascal said.
“If it were me.”
Of course, he had never been in this kind of situation. He was just a dog, and love was very much simpler for dogs. And cats and birds and—

Beatrix sighed again, more despondently this time. “I suppose I shall have to—” She broke off, turning. “Isn’t that Mr. Beecham, just getting out of that rowboat?” The fisherman had pushed his rowboat onto the shore and was looping the painter around the trunk of a willow tree.

Rascal gave a startled yip.
“Yes, that’s Auld Beechie.”
He moved closer, pressing himself against her skirt.
“You want to be careful, Miss Potter. It doesn’t do to provoke this fellow. If you ask me, he’s the one who put a torch to Harmsworth’s haystack.”

But Beatrix ignored the warning. “Good evening, Mr. Beecham,” she called. “Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

Thomas Beecham was nearing seventy, gray-haired and gray-bearded. He was missing most of his front teeth and the ones that were left were stained with tobacco, but he was nonetheless stocky and strong-shouldered. Squinty but shrewd gray eyes that missed nothing brightened his wrinkled face. He was dressed in a patched jacket, green corduroy trousers held up with a leather belt, a battered felt hat, and worn leather shoes. He carried a string of a half-dozen silvery fish in one hand and a fishing pole in the other.

“Hullo, Missus,” he growled in a gravelly voice. He had come from the south of England years before, and had little of the local speech. “Didn’t know ye’d come down from London.”

“I’m over from Helm Farm, actually,” Beatrix said. “That’s where my parents are staying for their holiday.” She smiled. “I was thinking of you today, and wondering when we should dig the potatoes you helped me plant.”

“Another fortnight, or more,” Mr. Beecham said. He did not return the smile. “Nights needs to git a mite cooler.” He held out his string of fish. “Want some fresh trout, do ye, Missus? I’ll sell it cheap. Thruppence a fish.”

Beatrix cast an approving glance at the lake trout, which were plump and silvery and so fresh they were still wriggling. “I’d like that, indeed, Mr. Beecham,” she said enthusiastically. “I’ll take one—just the thing for tomorrow’s dinner. Walk up to Hill Top with me and I’ll get your money.”

“Nah,” he said. “I live right over there.” He nodded in the direction of a cottage not far away, the small place, a stone hut, really, where the Crosfields—Jeremy and his aunt—had dwelled for a time. “Not near as nice as t’ other cottage I had, but ’tis all I kin git for wot lit’le I kin pay.” He did nothing to disguise the bitterness in his voice. He picked up a slender green willow stick, pulled a fish off the stringer, and thrust the stick through the gills. “Carry it like this,” he said. “I’ll stop fer my money tomorrow.”

“Why, thank you,” Beatrix said, and took the fish. She paused. “I wonder . . . I know this is a delicate matter, but I heard something today that troubled me very much.”

“No!”
Rascal yipped.
“Let’s just go, Miss Potter. You don’t want to offend this old rascal.”

Beatrix took a deep breath. “I don’t mean to be offensive, but—”

“This man,”
Rascal said urgently,
“he flies off the handle. You never know what he might—”

“Has t’ do wi’ that haystack o’ Harmsworth’s, don’t it?” Mr. Beecham demanded sharply. He raised the fishing pole in a threatening gesture.

“You see?”
Rascal barked, inserting himself protectively between Miss Potter and Mr. Beecham. He growled low in his throat.

“That’s quite enough, Rascal,” Beatrix said sternly. “Yes, it does have to do with the haystack,” she said. “I shouldn’t like to think—” She stopped, half-wishing she hadn’t begun. The haystack was a police matter.

“Then don’t,” Mr. Beecham said roughly. He pulled his fierce gray brows together and thrust his head forward. “No biz’ness o’ yours, Missus.”

“I’ll defend you, Miss Potter!”
Rascal cried.
“This fellow won’t lay a hand on you. Not so much as a finger!”
He planted his forelegs on the ground, baring his teeth and snarling fiercely.

“Rascal!” Beatrix exclaimed, irritated. She stepped in front of him. “If you don’t stop, I shall send you home. Do you hear, sir?”

Rascal put his ears back, intimidated by Miss Potter’s stern tone.

Beatrix returned to the subject. Since she had broached it, she ought to go on and not leave the matter hanging. “I was sorry to hear,” she said quietly, “that some think you might have been involved.”

Mr. Beecham clenched his fist. Rascal stiffened warily but was silent.

“I had nothin’ to do wi’ it, Missus,” the old man growled. “Harmsworth’s a fool and a cheat, and if somebody burned him out, I fer one wudn’t shed no tears. I wuz fishin’ that night, with a gent’lman from over acrost the lake, a charcoal burner. We wuz out here on the water when it happened. He’ll testify to that hisself, he will. And that’s wot I told the constable, when he asked me.” He grinned bleakly, showing broken yellow teeth. “So ye kin jes’ put the biz’ness right out o’ yer mind, Missus. Yer haystacks is safe wit’ me.”

“Don’t believe him, Miss Potter,”
Rascal urged.
“Everyone knows that this man is a liar!”

Now, Beatrix was an avid reader of newspapers and understood very well that people sometimes fabricated an alibi, even going to the trouble of bribing a friend to testify on their behalf. She knew better than to place much confidence in an alibi. Mr. Beecham’s angry, artless response seemed to ring with deep sincerity, but the old man had lied to her once before. What’s more, he had stolen those seed potatoes.

“I see,” she said cautiously. “Well, then, I shall rest easy about my haystacks. But I am told there were no storms that night, and no lightning. It seems that someone must have set that fire. Do you have any guesses as to who might have done it?”

“Guesses?” Mr. Beecham gave a sour chuckle. “Well, yes, I reckon I do, Missus. I’m guessin’ it was Harmsworth hisself, the scallywag.”

“Harmsworth?”
Rascal yipped incredulously.
“Burnt his own haystack? That’s nonsense!”

“Mr. Harmsworth?” Beatrix asked in some surprise. “What reason would he have?”

“Wants to close that footpath, don’t he?” The old man snorted. “What better excuse fer closin’ the path than somebody puttin’ a torch to his haystack? The fool prob’ly figgered he could get away with it.” He grinned wisely. “He don’t know Bertha Stubbs, though. She’s mad enough to put a rock right through his window—or put a match to his barn.” He gave Beatrix a significant look. “Anything else burns down at Applebeck, my money’s on Bertha Stubbs.”

Beatrix frowned, not liking the way Mr. Beecham was trying to shift responsibility. Bertha Stubbs made plenty of noise, but she was more bluster than bite. And anyway, Captain Woodcock had said that the footpath was being reopened, so Bertha would have no cause. But there was another question in her mind.

“Why would Mr. Harmsworth want to close the footpath, though?” she persisted. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“You ain’t heard, Missus?” Mr. Beecham cackled. His breath smelled richly of garlic and beer, and Beatrix stepped back.

“Heard what?” she asked.

“Oh, forget it, Miss Potter,”
Rascal said.
“There’s nothing to hear.”

“Noisy lit’le feller, ain’t he?” the old man said, scowling down at Rascal. “Well, maybe the news ain’t got round the village yet.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Harmsworth’s got an offer to buy that orchard, y’ see. But only if he closes that path first. The person who’s after buyin’ it told him there ain’t no deal ’less’n the path’s closed. The buyer aims to put in some new trees and don’t want people treadin’ back and forth crost the orchard.”

So that’s it! Beatrix thought. She should have guessed. Footpath closures always seemed to come when a property changed hands, or was about to. “And who wants to buy it?” she asked.

Mr. Beecham gave her a shrewd look. “Aha. Happen
you’d
like to have it fer yerself, eh, Missus?”

“Yes, of course, I’d like to have it,” Beatrix said, being quite candid. “But I don’t want the upkeep of an orchard, and anyway, I can’t afford it. I purchased Castle Farm last year, and I have my hands full with new fences and drains and a barn roof.”

“Aye.” Mr. Beecham hitched up his trousers. “Ye’re known here’bouts as a canny farmer, Missus. Somebody who takes good care o’ her proppity. Ye’re a careful mistress but fair to yer workers, as I know very well fer meself.”

More than fair, Beatrix thought, remembering those potatoes. Anybody else would’ve made him turn out his pockets. “Thank you, Mr. Beecham,” she said. “I do my best.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Who wants to buy it?”

Mr. Beecham laughed rudely. “Why, who else in t’ world but her right royal ladyship, Missus?”

Beatrix stared at him disbelievingly. “Lady Longford?”

“Lady Longford!”
Rascal barked.
“What would she want with an apple orchard?”

“T’ very same,” Mr. Beecham said. “Offered to pay cash fer it, an’ a right purty price, too—long as t’ path is closed. Says she means to go into t’ apple biz’ness.”

Beatrix was silent for a moment, thinking about the claim that Lady Longford had made that very morning, as an excuse for not being able to send Caroline to study at the Royal Academy. She had maintained that she was nearly penniless, so destitute that she might be forced to sell some property in order to survive. But that had been a lie. She couldn’t be so very destitute if she could afford to buy Applebeck Farm—with cash.

“How do you know all this?” Beatrix asked, at last.

“’Cause Beever is my cousin,” Mr. Beecham said promptly. “Ye know Beever, d’ye?”

Beatrix nodded. She knew the Beevers very well. Mr. Beever was Lady Longford’s gardener and coachman. His wife was her cook-housekeeper.

“Tells me all sorts of things ’bout Tidmarsh Manor, Beever does.” Mr. Beecham shook his head disapprovingly. “Now, there’s a place I’d nivver work. Her ladyship pushes old Beever hard as a mule and don’t pay him near ’nough for all he does.”

Privately, Beatrix agreed, for Lady Longford was known far and wide as a demanding employer. But she did not want to say so out loud. “Thank you for telling me about the offer to buy the orchard,” she said instead. “I’m glad to have the information.”

But what should she do with it, now that she had it? she wondered, as she walked back up the hill to her farmhouse. Could Mr. Beecham be right? Was it possible that Mr. Harmsworth had burnt his own haystack to give himself an excuse for closing the footpath through the orchard, which Lady Longford wanted to buy? Or was this a clever ruse on Mr. Beecham’s part, designed to throw her—or anybody else who asked the question—off the track?

At Hill Top, she took the trout to the buttery at the back of the house, wrapped it in a damp towel, and put it on the cooling shelf. She glanced at the clock. It was only half-past eight and still light outdoors. This conversation with Mr. Beecham—perhaps it would be a good idea to discuss it with Captain Woodcock. She tidied her hair, put on the hat with the blue velvet ribbon, and set out down the hill behind the Tower Bank Arms—alone, this time, for Rascal had gone back to Belle Green to see whether dinner was ready. She had crossed the Kendal Road in front of Buckle Yeat Cottage when she saw Margaret Nash coming out of Captain Woodcock’s front door. Her cheeks were the same pink as her blouse, her hair was in slight disarray, and she was smiling dreamily to herself.