The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood (30 page)

St. Peter’s Church, built of local stone in the same Gothic style as Raven Hall, crowned a green hill to the south of the village, surrounded by the gray granite headstones of the parish cemetery. Beatrix was not a regular church-goer, for while she had a deep inner awareness of her own relationship to the Supreme Being, she was a skeptic as far as most religious practices were concerned. She thought they caused many unhappy divisions amongst people. “Believe there is a great power silently working all things for good,” she had written once in her journal, “behave yourself and never mind the rest.”

Still, she occasionally attended church, and Evensong was the service she liked best, since it was mostly choral, except for Scripture reading and prayer. There was no choir at St. Peter’s Evensong, so the congregation sang the responses and the canticles as Miss Annie Nash played the organ, which was quite a fine instrument. As Beatrix sat in the pew and looked up at the stained glass windows, lit by the western sun so that they glowed like splendid jewels, she listened to the
Magnificat
and the
Nunc Dimitis
and remembered St. Augustine’s words: “Anyone who sings, prays twice.”

There was need for prayer tonight, Beatrix thought, and reflecting on what she had to tell the vicar, did not find the service as comforting as she usually did. When it was over, she stayed behind as everyone else filed out, lingering until the vicar, in his robe and surplice, had said goodnight to all the other parishioners. She was not sure how her news would be received, for the vicar was a gentle, scholarly man, rather vague and dithery. He was inclined to placate difficult people, rather than confront them. Still, there were things that had to be done to resolve the dreadful situation, and she couldn’t do them without his cooperation. So she crossed her fingers and hoped for the best.

Vicar Sackett had just closed and locked the heavy oaken church doors when he was startled to see the square, solid figure of Miss Potter step out of the shadows and around the baptismal font, wearing her usual tweed suit and small gray hat.

“Oh, good evening, Miss Potter,” he exclaimed with some surprise. He had noticed her in the congregation and expected to say goodnight to her, but when she did not appear, thought she must have left by the side door. He reached for the key where it hung on a wooden peg. “I’m so sorry, dear lady. I didn’t mean to lock you in. Come, and I’ll open—”

“I waited to see you,” Miss Potter said quietly. “It’s rather important, I’m afraid. May we take a moment?”

“Of course, oh, of course,” the vicar said heartily. He admired Miss Potter and wished that she were able to spend more time in the village. Of course, he also wished that she would attend services, but he wasn’t the sort of vicar who would make a point of asking her. She would come as the Spirit moved her or not at all. “Why don’t we walk back to the vicarage and have a cup of tea in front of the fire in my study?”

“I don’t think that would be a good plan,” Miss Potter said gravely. “What I have to say is for your ears alone.” She hesitated, lowered her voice, and added, “I should particularly
not
like your guests to hear.”

The vicar felt a moment of acute misgiving. Miss Potter could only be referring to the Thextons, and judging from her somber expression, the subject must be unpleasant. The vicar, who had got on rather comfortably in life by avoiding as much unpleasantness as possible, was suddenly uneasy.

“Well, then,” he said, with a false heartiness, “I suppose we should go to the vestry. It may be chilly, but—”

“Thank you,” Miss Potter said.

Hearing her tone, the vicar sighed, feeling even more uneasy. He led the way up the side aisle, and a few moments later, they were seated on wooden chairs in the small room that was used for occasional meetings.

“Now, my dear Miss Potter,” the vicar said, trying to keep the apprehension out of his voice, “what is it you would like to discuss?”

“I shall begin at the beginning,” Miss Potter said. Looking troubled but composed, she crossed her ankles and folded her hands in her lap. “I overheard an intimate conversation today and felt that you should know about it. It took place between Mr. Thexton and Major Kittredge’s wife.”

“An intimate conversation!” The vicar stared at her. Of all things Miss Potter might have said, this was the most unexpected.

“Yes.” Miss Potter cleared her throat. “It was not my intention to listen, I assure you, but I was caught unawares and could not escape without revealing my presence and embarrassing both them and myself. Then, when I realized the nature of their discussion, it was much too late.” She paused. “If what I heard had been only trivial, I would certainly keep it to myself. But it was incriminating, and so I fear I must trouble you with it.”

“Incriminating?” the vicar asked weakly. “Oh, yes, Miss Potter, do go on.”

Miss Potter nodded. “I had walked up to Fern Vale Tarn, you see, through Cuckoo Brow Wood. I did not realize that the lake was adjacent to the Raven Hall garden, and was certainly not expecting to encounter anyone there. I was seated on a bank and had just started to eat my lunch when I heard the voices of Mr. Thexton and Mrs. Kittredge, who were apparently out for a walk together. My seat was hidden from their view, and since they didn’t know they were overheard, they spoke freely.” She met his eyes steadfastly, and then, in precise sentences and a matter-of-fact tone, told him what they had said.

The vicar listened, at first with an almost involuntary incredulity and then with growing shock and dismay. If the woman making such preposterous statements had been anyone but Miss Beatrix Potter, he would have thought her deluded, or even an out-and-out liar. But Miss Potter was entirely trustworthy and a very astute observer, and he had to confess to having his own private reasons for believing her. Even before she had finished her story, he was convinced of the truthfulness of it.

The question now was not one of belief, but of action, and the vicar, although he was a man of good heart and deep compassion, had never found it easy to act. In fact, when he was confronted with a dilemma, he often found himself feeling quite helpless. That was how he felt now.

“Oh, dear,” he said softly, shaking his head and thinking that things were so much worse than he could have imagined. “Oh dear oh dear oh dear.”

“I am truly sorry,” Miss Potter said sympathetically. “I know that Mr. Thexton is your relative and your guest. This must weigh heavily upon you.”

Indeed. The vicar felt as if the entire weight of St. Peter’s Church rested on his shoulders. But it was much worse than Miss Potter could know. “My guest, yes,” he said sadly. “It seems, however, that he is not a relative.”

“I must confess that I am not surprised,” Miss Potter murmured. “Of course, there is no law that requires that relatives be exactly like one, but there is usually some resemblance, however faint. You and Mr. Thexton are not at all like.”

“I’m afraid I must agree,” the vicar said ruefully. “In fact, several weeks ago, I wrote to a cousin on the Lessiter side of the family, a genealogist who has spent a great deal of effort in reconstructing our family tree in great detail, down to the last branch and twig. I received his reply in yesterday’s post, but did not read it until this afternoon. He is not able to find Mr. Thexton anywhere on our tree.” He sighed, thinking of the hospitality he had naively extended for the past four months. “It appears that the man is sailing under false colors.”

“I see,” Miss Potter said thoughtfully. “Of course, such deception is unforgivable. One must regret it, but in a way, it makes things easier.”

“Yes, I suppose it does.” The vicar peered hopefully at her over his glasses. “There is no doubt about what you heard? No chance that you . . .” He sighed. “No, of course not.”

“No,” Miss Potter said. “Mr. Thexton’s demand was clearly blackmail, and Mrs. Kittredge understood it as such. Her responses made it unmistakably clear that his charges struck home. We have two crimes here, both of them very serious.”

“Oh, dear,” the vicar muttered, beginning to fear that he was in for a disagreeable confrontation with Mr. Thexton. But perhaps Miss Potter had thought of other options. “Can you suggest a way to approach him?” he asked, in a diffident tone.

Miss Potter coughed. “It is a matter for the authorities, wouldn’t you say?”

The vicar bit his lip. Mr. Thexton might not be a relative, but he had, after all, been a guest at the vicarage. “I don’t suppose,” he suggested tentatively, “that there is a way of dealing privately with this—without bringing in the law, that is?”

“I fear not,” Miss Potter said firmly. “If Mr. Thexton were threatened with exposure, he might well simply withdraw his blackmail threat and leave the area. But the lady’s previous marriage cannot be so simply handled. In my opinion, it is better to deal with the two crimes together. What Mr. Thexton proposes is very nearly as reprehensible as Mrs. Kittredge’s actions.”

“Yes,” the vicar said. The room had begun to seem uncomfortably warm, and he took out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “Yes, of course,” he said despairingly. “I suppose I must go and see Constable Braithwaite this evening.”

“If you don’t mind,” Miss Potter said, “I should like to make a different proposal.”

“Oh, by all means,” said the vicar eagerly, looking at her with new hope. Miss Potter seemed to have such a clear, un-muddled understanding of situations, even the most complex.

“I propose that you and I go to see Captain Woodcock, early tomorrow morning. I would suggest going tonight, but the captain and his sister are visiting friends in Hawkshead and do not plan to be back until very late. In any event, nothing will be gained by acting sooner. Mr. Thexton has given Mrs. Kittredge until Friday to sell the jewelry and hand over the money. It might even be good if she were allowed an opportunity to move in that direction, which would be as clear an indication of guilt as we are likely to get, barring a confession—although I am sure that the prior marriage can be easily verified.”

The vicar shuddered, but he had to agree. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, indeed. Let us meet at Tower Bank house in the morning. Shall we say nine?”

“Yes, nine,” Miss Potter said. She stood, smiling slightly. “I don’t think it will be necessary to speak of this to Mr. Thexton, should you see him when you return to the vicarage this evening. It would be better to consult with the captain first.”

The vicar felt a sense of relief. “Yes, you’re right, of course. I really shouldn’t like to see Mr. Thexton at all, under the circumstances.” He gave a rueful laugh. “I must confess that I am not very good at dissembling. He would no doubt be able to tell from my expression that something is seriously amiss. And he might even get the story out of me.”

“I hope you will put a lock on your tongue, then,” Miss Potter remarked with a little frown, though her light tone took most of the sting out of her words.

“I shall endeavor to do my best,” the vicar said humbly, thinking that he would go up to his bedroom by the back stair. And if he were inclined to say anything at all to Mr. Thexton, the thought of Miss Potter’s frown would certainly dissuade him.

30

The Cat Who Went for a Ride

On Sunday night, just about the time Miss Potter was returning from Evensong, Ridley Rattail was preparing to explain the rest of his astonishing plan to the two dozen surviving rats, who could still not quite believe what they were seeing.

It had been just about noon when Mrs. Jennings’s laudanum did its work and the Cat fell sound asleep onto the attic floor. Ridley Rattail had been waiting, the ball of string at the ready. But he could not do the work alone, so he turned to Rosabelle, who was standing beside him, speechless, staring at the Cat, who seemed even larger, stretched out flat on the floor.

“Rosabelle,”
Ridley said humbly,
“I need your help. We are going to roll up the Cat and tie him with string.”

Rosabelle’s eyes were as big as ha’penny pieces.
“Tie up the cat?”
she gulped.
“But he’s as big as a house!”

“Tie him,”
Ridley repeated patiently.
“With very hard knots.”

“But . . . but what shall we do if he wakes up?”
she cried, her eyes fixed on the dreadful claws.
“He’ll murder us!”

“He’s not going to wake,”
Ridley reassured her.
“Not for a very long time. And he can’t murder anybody if he’s completely tied up. Now, start by tying your end of the string around his right paw, then pass it over to me.”

And so, with much twisting and turning and tying and tightening, the two rats used all of Mr. Jennings’s string to truss up the Cat. When they were finished, the animal was so completely immobilized that he could not have twitched a whisker. Even when he wakened from his drugged state, he wouldn’t be able to move.

Rosabelle cast an admiring look at the Cat, who was now reduced to a tightly wrapped bundle, and then back at Ridley.
“I never would have thought you’d manage it, Ridley, not in a million years. You’ve captured the Cat!”

“Yes, Ridley,”
Bluebell said,
“I have to confess that I didn’t believe it could be done.”
She gazed in admiration at the sleeping cat.
“Such a novel approach. Where in the world did you get the idea?”

“From Miss Potter’s story,”
replied Ridley.
“The rats tie up the kitten with string, you see. And then they roll him up in a blanket of dough, with the idea of making him into a roly-poly pudding.”

“A pudding?”
Rosabelle said, regarding the huge cat doubtfully.
“But we don’t have a pot that’s large enough to steam him. And I don’t think I should care for steamed cat. I am not opposed to experimental cookery, but it doesn’t strike me as a tasty dish.”

“We’re not going to steam him, dear Rosabelle. I have another plan. We have to wait until after dark to carry it out, however.”
He looked around.
“And I’ll need some help.”