The Tale of Castle Cottage (31 page)

“Ah,” Will said, and cast a laughing look at Beatrix. “It is as you said, Bea. Biddle had other fish to fry.”

“Three of them,” the captain said thoughtfully. “Three brown trout.”

“Beg pardon?” Beatrix asked.

“After I finished interviewing Biddle, I went round to his kitchen,” the captain explained, “and there they were. Three fresh brown trout. Evidence, I now suppose, of his morning’s fishing.”

“But not the only evidence, surely,” Beatrix replied. “I imagine that Miss Safford will be glad to testify to Mr. Biddle’s whereabouts, even if he prefers to play the gentleman.”

“No doubt,” Miles replied. “Which leaves us—”

“With Mr. Maguire,” Beatrix said.

“I suppose it does,” Will said thoughtfully.

Beatrix shivered. “And to think that I spoke with the man this afternoon!”

“I don’t quite see—” Margaret began.

But Elsa came in at that point to remove the soup and convey the golden-brown roast duck, stuffed with sage and onions, as well as a dish of braised ham and spinach. She was followed by the tweeny carrying the vegetables: new potatoes and peas in a cream sauce, vegetable marrows, baked tomatoes (a rather bold recipe from
Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management
), and salad. When the food was served round and the two servants had left, Miles looked at his wife.

“Mrs. Grape doesn’t wait until the bell is rung?” he asked plaintively.

“Mrs. Grape is a law until herself,” Margaret replied, which was entirely true. She put a fork into her tomato to see if it was baked through, and was glad to see that it was. Baked tomatoes were new to her, but if Mrs. Beeton thought they would do, she was sure they would.

“As you were saying, Margaret,” Beatrix prompted. “You don’t quite see—”

“I don’t quite see what Mr. Maguire has to do with Mr. Adcock’s death,” Margaret said.

“It’s possible that Adcock found out that
Maguire
was the one who was stealing construction supplies,” Miles explained. “Which would give Maguire a motive for wanting Adcock dead.”

“Don’t forget about Gilly Harmsworth,” Beatrix said to Will.

“Gilly Harmsworth?” Margaret asked, puzzled. “Who is she?”

“She’s a friend of Deirdre and Jeremy,” Beatrix replied. “She was helping with the birth of Deirdre’s baby early this morning. She looked out the window and saw a strange man in the Adcock garden.”

“Ah, yes.” The captain was thoughtful. “If Miss Harmsworth could identify the man she saw—” He did not have to finish his sentence. Everyone knew what he meant.

“But this doesn’t explain why Mr. Biddle sacked Mr. Adcock,” Beatrix said thoughtfully. “He told Constable Braithwaite that the man couldn’t be trusted. And there was a fight, too.”

“I asked Biddle about that,” the captain said, working on his roast duck. “He said Adcock stole a tool—a carpenter’s level, which struck me as fishy.”

“Three brown trout,” cautioned Margaret.

“Well, yes,” Miles replied. “But doesn’t it seem odd that an experienced carpenter should steal a common tool that he must already possess?”

“He must have taken something else, then,” Margaret mused. “I wonder what it was.”

“Or Mr. Biddle thought he did,” Beatrix said thoughtfully, “which is not quite the same thing.” She tasted the stuffing. “Margaret, whatever Mrs. Grape’s shortcomings, she certainly makes a fine onion and sage stuffing. Do you suppose she would give me her recipe?”

“I’ll ask, but I’m sure it’s Mrs. Beeton’s,” Margaret said. “Elsa and I live and die by Mrs. Beeton. Do you have the book?”

“I’m afraid not,” Beatrix said ruefully. “Mama’s cook keeps one in the kitchen at Bolton Gardens, of course, and I’ve looked at it for menu ideas. But I don’t have a copy of my own.”

Margaret leaned toward her guest with a teasing smile. “Perhaps you ought to have one for a wedding present.”

Beatrix laughed a little and slanted a look at Will, who was now engaged in a deeply serious conversation with the captain, speculating about what might or might not have been stolen. “I’m sure I should,” she said. “I certainly haven’t had much practice as a cook. And I’m definitely not up to stuffing a duck.” She looked down at her plate and added ruefully, “Or even tomatoes. Perhaps I won’t need it, though. I’m afraid the wedding will never take place, Margaret.”

“Oh, dear,” Margaret said with sincere compassion. Beatrix was the first person she had told when she and Miles became engaged, and she had been among the first in the village to hear about Beatrix’s engagement to Will. She knew that the Potters stubbornly opposed this match, just as they had opposed Beatrix’s earlier engagement, and she knew how painful this whole episode had been for Beatrix. “Has something happened?” she ventured sympathetically.

Beatrix put down her fork. “Bertram has decided to tell our parents about his marriage to Mary,” she said, very low.

Margaret—who knew that Beatrix’s brother had been secretly married for a decade—understood the implications of this at once. “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, this time more fervently. “That’s going to upset the applecart, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid it will,” Beatrix said with a sigh. She leaned toward Margaret. “I just learnt about this today, from Bertram himself. I haven’t told Will about it yet. I thought . . . well, I thought I would wait until it has happened and then let him know the outcome. My parents are going to be in a terrible state, of course. I dread what’s to come.” She sighed, her eyes dark and troubled. “I hope you won’t mention it to anyone, not even the captain. He might feel obliged to tell Will.”

“Of course,” Margaret said. “Not a soul.”

At the end of the table, the captain broke off his conversation with Will and raised his voice. His eyebrows were pulled together, and he wore a serious look. “Will and I are agreed that we must speak to Maguire tonight, Margaret. We shall leave directly after dessert. Will tells me that the fellow lives on this side of Hawkshead, so it’s only a few miles.”

“Oh, dear!” Margaret exclaimed, for the third time in just a few moments. “Are you very sure, Miles? It’s getting late. And it’s raining!”

“We’re sure,” the captain said. “And a little rain isn’t going to hurt us. I daresay we won’t melt.”

“And it’s only going nine now,” Will added, glancing toward the dining room windows. “The sun won’t set for another fifteen minutes, and the sky will be light for several hours.”

Margaret sighed. That was true. At this time of year, twilight lingered long past sunset. On a clear evening, one could sit outside in the garden and read the newspaper until bedtime, if the gnats didn’t drive one indoors. “Well, if you must, then of course you must,” she replied bravely. “But I hope you’ll be very careful.”

“Perhaps,” Beatrix suggested, “you might take the constable with you.”

“We shall do that,” the captain replied. With a grim satisfaction, he added, “We may be able to make an arrest, you know. I should certainly like to get this dreadful business wrapped up.”

Will cast an apologetic look at Beatrix. “I’m sorry. I hope you don’t mind, Bea. It’s rather an unusual situation, and it seems that I should be involved, since I managed the investigation into the theft of the construction materials.”

“Of course I don’t mind,” Beatrix said resolutely. “I don’t like the idea any more than you do, Will, but the man must be confronted. And the sooner the better.”

“Well, then,” Margaret said, “now that you have decided what you are going to do, shall we set the subject aside and talk about something else? Something a little less . . . well, worrisome? More nicely suited to the dinner table?”

“Of course, my dear,” her husband replied in a reassuring tone. He turned to Will. “I read in the Sunday
Times
that the Kaiserliche Marine has just commissioned the first German U-boat powered with a diesel engine. There are plans for several more just like it, apparently. Kaiser Wilhelm and his gang are spoiling for war.” He raised his fork, brandishing it in the air like a weapon. “I tell you, Heelis, if I were Churchill, I wouldn’t waste a minute. I’d send the Royal Navy over there to clean up that nest of filthy rats!”

“Miles!” Margaret exclaimed, nettled.

“What?” the captain asked, looking up. “What did I say?”

Margaret looked at Beatrix and rolled her eyes. Beatrix shook her head, and both women began to laugh.

21

The Lost Is Found, or
Revelation
Revealed

The men excused themselves immediately after finishing Mrs. Grape’s damson tart, not even staying for the customary coffee, port, and cigars. Beatrix and Margaret walked with them to the porch and watched them drive off in Miles’ Rolls, on their way to pick up the constable. It had stopped raining, the air was fresh and cool and deliciously rain-scented, and the sky was beginning to clear. To the west, the sun had already slipped below the horizon, and the clouds over the fells were tinged with orange and lemon. The sky itself had a pearly quality, the promise of a lingering summer twilight.

After the men were gone, Beatrix followed Margaret into the sitting room where they sat with their after-dinner coffee and a few sweets, talking in a desultory way about community matters—Jeremy and Deirdre’s new baby, the fête that was coming up in a few weeks, the plan to renovate the schoolhouse, and the possibility of hiring a village nurse, a project that Beatrix had long had in mind. Dr. Butters was wonderful, but he was just one person, and the people he cared for were scattered across a dauntingly large district. A nurse would be an enormous help to him—and to the villagers.

But neither Beatrix nor Margaret spoke of the thing that was on both their minds: what might be happening with Miles, Will, and the constable. Would they be able to find Mr. Maguire? What would they learn? Would their interview end in an arrest?

After a while, the conversation grew more and more haphazard, punctuated by longer and longer silences. Finally, Beatrix glanced toward the window and said, “I wonder—would you like to go for a walk, Margaret? It’s not that late, and there’s plenty of light left.”

Margaret jumped to her feet. “What a splendid idea, Beatrix! I’m longing for a breath of fresh air.”

Beatrix smiled as they went to the door, thinking how very different village people were from Londoners. In the city, two women would not venture out in the evening unless they were going somewhere specific—to the theater, to a party—and even then, they would have to take a cab or the family coach and would feel much better if a man accompanied them. They would never just go walking, especially not after the sun had set. That could be dangerous, even in the best neighborhoods, and of course, people might talk. Here in the village, there was no danger. No one thought anything of two women going out for a walk in the twilight.

A few moments later, Beatrix and Margaret were walking slowly along the Kendal Road in the direction of the village. When they reached Sarah Barwick’s bakery, they turned left and went along the main lane, past the village shop, the blacksmith, and the joinery. They were enjoying the quiet sounds of the evening—a dog barking urgently in the distance, a baby crying nearby, small scurryings here and there in the shrubbery, the soft swish of a tree branch against a wall, the quiet drip-drip of a gutter. The lane was deserted. People were indoors, finishing their dinners and gathering around their fires.

“You know, I haven’t been up to Castle Cottage for quite a little time,” Margaret remarked, as they walked slowly up the street. “Shall we walk there? I would very much like to see what you’ve been doing to the house and to hear more about your plan for it.”

“Of course, if you would like,” Beatrix said. “As a matter of fact, after I mentioned the barn at dinner tonight, I’ve been thinking about it. I suppose it’s possible that at least some of the ‘extra’ material I’ve been charged for might be stored in the loft. Mr. Maguire would never imagine that I would look there.” She sighed a little, thinking once again that she had been foolish to try to renovate the old house. “As to my plan, well, perhaps the least said about that, the better. I’ve learnt that plans don’t always work out the way we hope.”

Suddenly something scurried across their path, a large, furry creature with a very long tail. Startled, Margaret gave a breathless shriek and stepped back. Then she laughed, embarrassed. “Just a rat,” she said. “Sorry, Beatrix. I’m not one of those women who faint at the sight of a mouse. But I do think it takes a bit of cheek for a rat to be out and about in the lane before full dark, don’t you?”

“I do, indeed,” Beatrix said. “I’m glad that the village hasn’t had a rat problem since that awful time we had to clear them out of the attics at Hill Top. I—”

She stopped. Another rat, even larger than the first, had just flashed past them, its lips pulled back from yellow teeth in what looked like a taunting grin.

“Just look at the size of that fellow!” Margaret exclaimed, turning to watch the rat as it skipped into the shadows. She added, “You know, Elsa Grape was complaining this afternoon that something—she thought it must have been a rat—made off with a half-dozen carrots she had put by for tonight’s dinner and a couple of crumpets from her bakery box. We must be—”

A third rat careered around the corner of Croft End Cottage, darted across the front stoop, and disappeared through a hole in the fence.

Beatrix finished Margaret’s sentence. “We must be in the middle of an invasion. What a pesky nuisance. We shall have to get the cats to do something about it.”

“Oh, those cats!” Margaret exclaimed with scornful disdain. “I have never in my life seen such a lazy lot as these village cats, Bea. I doubt that there’s more than one or two who are capable of dealing with a plague of rats.” She shuddered. “I daresay traps are in order, but from the size of those beasts, I’m not sure that what we have will do the job. We’ll have to get bigger traps!”

They were walking up Stony Lane now, toward Castle Cottage, which rose like a gray ghost at the top of the village. As they walked, a delicious scent wafted from the roses along the lane, and Beatrix pulled in her breath appreciatively, already feeling somewhat better, under the spell of the quiet evening. She was still apprehensive about Will, of course. If Maguire had been responsible for poor Mr. Adcock’s death, he was clearly dangerous. But three strong men—Will, the captain, and Constable Braithwaite—ought to be able to deal with him.