The Tale of Castle Cottage (15 page)

They understood.

 

 

But Lydia Dowling, behind the counter at the village shop, held a much darker view of Mr. Adcock’s motive.

“Person‘ly, I think he done it to keep from bein’ accused outright of thievin’,” she remarked to her niece, Gladys, who helped in the shop on Tuesdays and Thursdays. “I heard from Hannah Braithwaite that Mr. Biddle had Mr. Adcock dead to rights. He threatened to call in t’ constable if Mr. Adcock didn’t return wot he stole. But mappen he had already sold it an’ couldna give it back.”

Gladys, who was winding loose ribbons onto little cards and pinning the ends, was shocked by this news. “What did he steal?” she wanted to know.

“Who’d he steal it from?” Rose Sutton asked from the other side of the counter. Rose, the wife of the village veterinary surgeon, had come into the shop to buy a sausage, a quart of paraffin for the lamps, a package of tea, and some penny candies for the many Sutton children. She was also buying a skein of soft, hand-spun wool yarn, blue, to knit a cap for Deirdre Crosfield’s new baby.

Regrettably, Lydia was unable to answer either of these questions, since Hannah Braithwaite hadn’t told her. Still, the three women understood the seriousness of the situation. An accusation of this kind was a terrible thing. The stigma might linger for a lifetime and infect not only the thief, but the thief’s wife and children, as well. Mr. Adcock might not have been able to endure the thought of what his friends and neighbors would say if Mr. Biddle reported his theft and charges were brought. It would have been an inescapable disgrace.

They understood.

 

 

The vicar’s wife, however, had heard an entirely different story, and it had nothing to do with the loss of a job or an accusation of theft. It had to do with money, or the lack thereof, and with illness.

“The butcher says that the Adcocks have been in financial difficulties for some time,” Grace Sackett told her husband, as they left the Vicarage and walked along the lane that led in the direction of Far Sawrey. The summer flowers bloomed on either side, and the skylark flew high in the blue air, saying his matins. It was too beautiful a day to be undertaking such a sad errand.

“Financial difficulties?” the vicar asked, taking his wife’s arm and wondering how he had managed without her for so many years.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. Mrs. Adcock has been ill this past year, and there have been a great many doctor bills. They haven’t been able to pay the butcher for over a month. He is a patient man and tries to work with people, but he’s got his own family to think of. He finally had to tell her that he could no longer supply them with meat. He said she cried and begged him not to do it—she was simply desperate, for apparently they owe the greengrocer, as well.” She paused, sighing. “Do you suppose that’s why Mr. Adcock did what he did, Samuel?”

“I hope not, my dear,” said the vicar. “I should think it a terrible thing if a man ended his life because of money. If we had only known that the Adcocks were in such dire straits, we might have been able to help.”

“I don’t see how,” his wife replied sensibly. “We could hardly have paid their meat bill. But p’rhaps we might have found some other way to help.”

“Well, we can certainly ask if Mrs. Adcock needs assistance with the funeral expenses,” the vicar said. “I am sure our congregation will rally round.” And then he was stricken, for he had suddenly realized that Mr. Adcock, having taken his own life, could not be buried with the full service of the Church. In the old days, the body was not permitted to be buried within the church yard, but that was no longer the case. Still, the thought of omitting the sacred service chilled him to the bone.

“I fear,” he said, “that we shall not be able to perform the full rite.”

His wife, however, felt quite differently. “I am very sure,” she said, in her most positive tone, “that our congregation will want Mr. Adcock to be buried with the same rites granted to every deceased. It would be quite wrong to do otherwise, Samuel.”

“I must consult with the deacons,” the vicar muttered.

“Do that,” his wife said crisply. “I am sure they will agree.” She fell silent for a moment, then added in a softer voice, “The Adcocks were married for over forty years. It will be so hard for her without him.” She laid her gloved hand over his, and the vicar clutched her arm a little more tightly.

They understood.

 

 

It wasn’t long before everyone had heard the news. Lydia Dowling discussed her understanding of Mr. Adcock’s motive (that he had killed himself rather than face an accusation of theft) with every customer who came into the village shop, whilst Rose Sutton took this news back to her husband’s surgery and shared it with every client who came in that afternoon, all of whom took it home to their families. Gladys told the same story to Lucy Skead at the post office when she went to drop off the post, and Lucy told it to each one who came in for the post the rest of the afternoon and the entire next day as well.

In the smithy, George Crook told everyone who dropped in that he thought Mr. Adcock had ended his life because he had lost his place, whilst next door at the joinery, Roger Dowling offered the same opinion to his customers.

And down in Far Sawrey, the butcher was heard to say as he handed the white-wrapped packages of meat over his counter that it was a great pity that the Adcocks had fallen on such hard times that Mr. Adcock had lost heart and done himself in.

By teatime, every single person in the two villages knew exactly what had happened that day.

They all were sure that they knew exactly why.

And they all understood.

9

Miss Potter Learns the News

When we last saw Miss Potter, she had just left Castle Cottage (without looking into the barn, I am glad to say). She was feeling low and dispirited, so very low that she had entirely given up the idea of talking to Mr. Biddle about her concerns. In fact, she was feeling so very dejected that she decided that she would take a long walk, instead of going straight home. It had always been her experience that walking cured a great many ills and ailments, so in that frame of mind, she went through the pasture to Wilfin Beck, a willowbordered stream that ran along the eastern edge of Castle Farm. When she reached the stream, she loitered along, allowing the lulling music of the little brook and the gentle melodies of the birds to wash over her, raising her spirits and lightening her mood.

It had been a dry summer so far, which was good news for the farmers who wanted to cut their hay but not such good news for Wilfin Beck, which had shrunk down to a dawdling silver trickle instead of rushing joyfully along in a highspirited hurry down to Windermere and then on to Newby Bridge. There it would become the River Leven and flow for a short eight miles past Backbarrow, where it foamed and frolicked in a delighted dance over a rocky falls. And thence to Greenodd, where wooden sailing ships used to be built, and after that into the quiet waters of Morecambe Bay, where it is said that the tides come in as fast as a horse can run, and finally into the rolling, tumbling Irish Sea. But there was still enough water in the beck to refresh the thirsty water ouzles and the little gray dippers happily splashing in the shallows, as well as offer a drink to Miss Potter’s Herdwick ewes, Tibbie and Queenie, who brought their March lambs to play along the green banks.

These ewes—the senior sheep in Miss Potter’s flock—had enjoyed living at Hill Top, but now that they had moved to the Castle Farm pasture, they loved it just as well. They were “heafed” to it, as it is said in the Lakes: that is, the pasture had become their natural home. In the old days, when there were far fewer stone fences than there are now, the Herdwick sheep had been given free range upon the fell-sides and allowed to come and go as they liked, for they had an unerring sense of direction and required neither shepherd nor bellwether to bring them home again.

On their travels, Herdwicks were always encountering other Herdwicks from places as far away as Borrowdale or Dungeon Gyll or even Seathwaite Tarn, and they were in the habit of trading the latest news. The other animals always said that Herdwicks were better for the local news than newspapers, for they could tell you the name of the sheep who had produced the prizewinning fleece at the Appleby Fair, or the state of the grazing on the other side of Coniston Water, or the names of the lambs that were born to this or that ewe—information that the newspapers never carried.

Today, the ewes were all atwitter about a local birth, a local death, and a gang of thieves. They had learnt about these events from Fritz the Ferret, who lived in a bankside burrow (very nicely appointed, for Fritz was a ferret with an artistic bent) not far away. Fritz had heard the news from his friend Max the Manx, the black cat who lived with Major Ragsdale in Teapot Cottage, which is next door to Slatestone Cottage (where Jeremy and Deirdre Crosfield’s new baby entered this world early that same day) and next door but one to the Adcocks’ (where poor Mr. Adcock left it). About the thieves, Fritz could tell the sheep little, except to say that he had heard that they managed to break into quite a few cottages and barns and hen coops in Near Sawrey.

The sheep were overjoyed with the announcement of the baby’s arrival.

“’Tis a joy to hear thaaat Jeremy aaand Deirdre haaave a boy,”
bleated Tibbie to Queenie. The two of them were acquainted with both young parents. Jeremy was a talented artist (according to Miss Potter), and as a lad, he had often sketched the Herdwicks. And Deirdre, who worked for Mr. and Mrs. Sutton, always brought the large flock of Sutton children to Hill Top Farm to admire the new spring lambs, which of course endeared her to the lambs’ mamas.

“But a calaaamity for the Aaadocks,”
baaed Queenie in reply. She lowered her head and butted a little lamb who was playing too rough with his sister.
“Why? Why would he do such a saaad thing?”
Like Crumpet and Rascal, the sheep could not comprehend the idea of suicide.

“I don’t suppose we’ll ever know,”
Queenie said sadly.
“Humaaans behave in baaaffling ways.”
She glanced up.
“Oh, look, Tibbie—it’s Miss Potter, come to see us!”

And so it was. Miss Potter, walking along the footpath beside the beck, wearing a sad and pensive look. But when she saw the Herdwicks, a smile lightened her face.

“Why, hello there, ladies!” she said, as her two favorite ewes came eagerly forward to greet her. She loved these remarkably sturdy little creatures, whose ancestors had arrived in the north of England with the Viking settlers many centuries before. It didn’t matter to Beatrix that their fleece was coarse and scratchy, for it could be spun into a long-wearing yarn that was perfectly suited to wool carpets and nearly weatherproof tweeds. What she liked best, though, was the Herdwicks’ gentle, sweet personalities. They always made her feel better—as they did today, licking her hands with their raspy tongues, pushing playfully against her, bleating inquisitively.

Wishing she could understand what her friends were saying and answer them back in their own language, Beatrix stroked the soft ears, pulled a few raspy burrs out of their fleece, and touched their dear, sheepish faces. But even though she couldn’t make out what they wanted to tell her, the sweet sound of their voices made her feel immeasurably better, as if someone had just given her a large spoonful of feel-good medicine and a comforting there-there-my-dear kiss on the forehead. And I daresay that you and I would feel exactly the same way, for a world that has woolly sheep in it, and joyful white lambs and a wide sweep of sweet green grass and a clear, happy brook with splashing water ouzels and cheerful dippers—well, a world like that couldn’t be so very bad, now, could it?

A woman’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Miss Potter! Oh, Miss Potter, such good news—I have wonderful news!”

Beatrix looked up to see a familiar figure in a homespun brown dress and white apron, waving her blue bonnet as she hurried along the path, almost at a run. It was Jane Crosfield, Jeremy’s aunt, an expert spinner and weaver who had produced the woolen cloth for Beatrix’s new tweed suit. Jane lived at Holly How Farm, just along the path a little way.

“Hello, Jane,” Beatrix said, and guessed at the news from the look on her friend’s face. “Has the baby arrived?”

“It’s a boy, Miss Potter! Jeremy and Deirdre have a fine, healthy baby boy, born this mornin’ quite early. I’ve just left’em—mother and baby are both well,” she added breathlessly. “He has his mum’s red hair an’ he’s ever so sweet an’ fat an’ round—a perfect little lamb.”

“A perfect little laaamb,”
bleated Tibbie, beaming.
“Naaaturally.”

“I think he should be called Laaambie-Pie,”
replied Queenie, for that was the name she had given to her lamb this spring.

“Oh, Jane, how wonderful!” Beatrix breathed. She was thrilled, although if she were quite, quite honest, she would have to admit to an uncomfortably sharp twist of envy somewhere deep down inside. Deirdre, just a schoolgirl when Beatrix had first met her, was happily married and a mother now, while she herself was still—

But this was a selfish and ungenerous thought, and Beatrix shoved it aside. “I’m walking in that direction,” she said. “Would it be too soon for me to drop in?” She didn’t have a gift to take—that would have to come later—but she could pick some flowers.

“I’m sure they’d be pleased to see you an’ to show off their new babe,” Jane said. She paused, and her face grew serious. “You’ve heard about Mr. Adcock, now, have you?”

“Yes, I’ve heard,” Beatrix said, “and I think it a great shame. Truly, I can’t imagine why Mr. Biddle would do such a thing, Jane. Mr. Adcock worked for me last year, and I have found him to be—”