The Tale of Hill Top Farm (14 page)

Beatrix closed her sketchbook and stood. “I should like to see your pictures, but we’ll have to save the tea for another time. I’m sure it is already past lunchtime. I’m staying with Mrs. Crook, at Belle Green, and she will wonder what’s become of me.”

Back at the cottage, Jeremy spread several pictures on the kitchen table and Beatrix admired them for a few moments, then reminded him that she had to go. She was saying good-bye when they heard an angry rapping at the door.

“Jeremy Crosfield!” a woman’s irate voice shouted. “This is Miss Crabbe. I know you’re in there, you horrid boy! Open the door and let me in!”

Jeremy’s eyes grew large and the sandy freckles stood out on his pale face. “It’s the headmistress,” he whispered, frightened. “She’s come to make me go back to school. Oh, please, Miss Potter. Tell her I’m not here!”

“I can’t do that,” Beatrix said and added, putting a comforting hand on Jeremy’s shoulder, “But I’m sure she’ll understand when we explain why you didn’t go to school today.” She went to the door and opened it. “Hello, Miss Crabbe,” she said politely. “Miss Crosfield is not here just now, but perhaps I can help.”

Miss Crabbe’s eyes narrowed. She seemed to have put her hat on back-to-front, with the feathers hanging down over her nose, and her jacket was buttoned crookedly. “I want to speak to Jeremy Crosfield. Where is he?”

“Right here,” Beatrix said pleasantly. “We’ve been having a drawing lesson—drawing frogs, actually. After his unpleasant encounter with Harold yesterday, he felt he would not be able to—”

Miss Crabbe came into the room, shutting the door behind her. “I know all about what happened after yesterday’s encounter with Harold,” she said ominously. “All right, young man, hand it over.”

Jeremy’s gulp was audible. “Hand . . . hand what over, please, Miss Crabbe?”

“The money you stole from my desk when you were alone in the classroom, that’s what!” Miss Crabbe blazed. “One sovereign, two half-crowns, three florins, and nine shillings. The money that was collected to repair the school roof.”

Beatrix gasped, scarcely believing her ears.

“But I didn’t steal any money!” Jeremy cried desperately. He turned to Beatrix, imploring. “Please believe me, Miss Potter. I didn’t!”

Beatrix put her hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. She was quaking inside, but she tried not to show it. “Miss Crabbe,” she began, “I am sure that Jeremy—”

“Miss Potter,” Miss Crabbe said, in a biting, bitter voice that was remarkably like Beatrix’s mother’s, “this affair is none of your business. You political females are all alike. You defend the ones you call the ‘down-trodden,’ whilst they steal and cheat and cause trouble for honest, upstanding folk. I don’t want to hear another word out of you. If this child won’t hand over the money he stole, I shall drag him off to Constable Braithwaite. And the constable, young man, will see that you’re put in jail!”

Helplessly, Jeremy began to cry.

Afterward, Beatrix would wonder what in the world came over her. She didn’t know whether it was the fact that Miss Crabbe sounded so infuriatingly like her mother, or whether she felt a natural sympathy for Jeremy and a strong inclination to take his word over Miss Crabbe’s. She only knew that she did not for a single instant doubt the boy’s complete innocence, or imagine that, no matter how much in need he and his grandmother might be, he would stoop to theft. And while she had been brought up to be respectful to her elders and never to answer back, regardless of the circumstances, she could not stand silently by and allow Miss Crabbe to wrongfully accuse him.

She put a protective arm around Jeremy’s shaking shoulders, drew herself up to her full height, lifted her chin, and spoke quite loudly and firmly. “Miss Crabbe, I will not allow you to bully this child. If you cannot keep a civil tongue in your head, I must ask you to leave.”

“But he stole the money!” Miss Crabbe cried angrily, reaching out as if to seize Jeremy. “He’s a thief! I demand that you hand him over.”

“Demand all you like,” Beatrix said distinctly, putting the boy behind her, “you are
not
taking Jeremy. If you have proof of your claim, you should lay it before the constable. He will see that the matter is handled correctly. All you’ve done is shout accusations without offering a shred of proof. As a teacher, you should be ashamed.”

“Ashamed!” Miss Crabbe cried shrilly. Her face had grown quite red and she was panting. “You dare to tell me that I should be
ashamed
!”

“I do indeed,” Beatrix said. “As a teacher, you know better than to make unsubstantiated accusations against a helpless child. You should be truly ashamed of yourself.” Marveling at her calm, she stepped forward and opened the door. “And now you must leave.”

Miss Crabbe raised her hand as if she meant to slap Beatrix. Her heart thudding in her chest, Beatrix stood quite still, fixing her eyes steadily on Miss Crabbe’s face, until the other woman’s eyes wavered and her hand dropped. Miss Crabbe, still furious but clearly defeated, took a step backward, and then another, and then she was gone.

And in the next moment, Beatrix was on her knees and holding the sobbing Jeremy in her arms, his tears wet against her face. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “It’s all right, Jeremy. She’s not going to hurt you.”

“You’re so brave,” Jeremy said, between sobs, “and I’m such a coward. I wish I could be brave like you.”

As Beatrix held him closer, she could feel herself shaking. She had resisted her parents when it came to Norman’s proposal and to her purchase of Hill Top, but her resistance had been quietly passive. She had never before spoken out so vehemently in the face of opposition, and with such a strong conviction of being in the right.

It gave her an entirely new view of herself.

14

The Mystery of Miss Barwick

Grace Lythecoe, accompanied by Crumpet, was just returning from the post office when she looked up to see Miss Potter hurrying up Market Street. Her sketch book was tucked under her arm and her round, cheerful face wore a troubled look.

When Miss Potter saw Grace, she lifted her hand in greeting. “I’m so glad to have caught you,” she said breathlessly. “If you have a moment, I should very much like to have your advice.”

“By all means,” Grace said, and opened the front door of her cottage. Crumpet, feeling that it must be time for lunch, stepped daintily over the threshold. Strictly speaking, Crumpet belonged to Bertha Stubbs and was supposed to take all her meals at home, but the village cats—of whom there were many, since there were a great many mice—were welcome in most of the village households. Mrs. Lythecoe had a canary called Caruso, after a famous opera singer who had recently performed in London, and out of respect for Caruso’s feelings, did not keep her own cat. Crumpet could be trusted to stay away from the cage, however, so Mrs. Lythecoe often invited her in for a bowl of milk or piece of fish in the kitchen.

Grace followed the cat into the house, hung her wide-brimmed straw hat on the wooden peg next to the door, and dropped her mail on the hallway table to be looked over later. “The kettle is hot,” she said to Miss Potter, “and I was about to have a cup of tea and a sandwich. You’ve had lunch, I suppose?”

“I haven’t,”
said Crumpet pleasantly,
“and to tell the truth, I’m quite hungry.”

Miss Potter looked uncomfortable. “Actually, no,” she said, “but I—”

“Then you’ll have a something with me,” Grace said decidedly. “It’s well past lunchtime, and there’s a nice bit of joint left over from yesterday and fresh bread from this morning’s baking.” She looked down. “I daresay Crumpet would like a little something, as well. Wouldn’t you, Crumpet?”

“Thank you,”
Crumpet said with a smile and a flick of her tail.
“You are very kind.”

And with that, the three of them went along the passageway to the small kitchen at the back of the cottage, where Grace took her guest’s hat and jacket, hung them up, and pulled out a chair beside the oak table. She flaked a bit of cooked fish onto a saucer for Crumpet, then took out her blue china teapot and measured tea into it.

“We’ll have tea,” she said, pouring hot water from the kettle into the teapot, “and while you can tell me what’s on your mind, Miss Potter. I must say, you look as if you’re disturbed about something.”

“I certainly am,” Miss Potter said decidedly, sitting back in her chair. “I have just had a most unfortunate encounter.” And without further prompting she related the tale of Miss Crabbe’s visit to the Crosfield cottage.

Crumpet, having finished the fish, was washing her paw. She stopped and looked up, startled.
“Jeremy Crosfield, a thief?”
she exclaimed.
“Why, he’s the only boy in the village who doesn’t pull the animals’ tails or throw rocks
.
He’s no thief.”

“Jeremy Crosfield?” Grace asked incredulously. “That’s rubbish! He’s a very well-behaved child.” She picked up the teapot and poured two cups of tea. “Of course,” she added, putting the sugar bowl and a small pitcher of milk on the table, “children can surprise us with their mischief, but I shouldn’t have expected him to be a
thief
.”

“But his being well-behaved isn’t really the point,” Miss Potter said. “The point is that Miss Crabbe offered no evidence for her accusation, beyond the fact that the boy had the opportunity to take the money.” She dropped two lumps into her tea and stirred it so violently that the tea slopped over into the saucer. “I’m sure she must have been dreadfully upset when she discovered the loss, but that was no excuse for bullying the boy. Jeremy is intelligent and sensitive. He’s likely to bear the scar of this for a very long time.” She put down her spoon. “We must do whatever is necessary to clear him of suspicion!”

“Bravo!”
Crumpet exclaimed. Crumpet’s mistress Bertha Stubbs had plenty to say about the erratic behavior of Miss Crabb, whom she considered a “proper dictation, and every inch as revoltin’ as the Jar of Russia.” And Crumpet had heard a few interesting tales from Max the Manx, who lived with the three Crabbe sisters. Viola and Pansy were eccentric, he said, but reasonable, when you got right down to it. Myrtle, on the other hand—

“Of course we must think of the child,” Grace said soothingly. “And you’re right, there can be no excuse for that kind of behavior.” She sighed. “However, Margaret Nash—she’s the other schoolteacher—tells me that Miss Crabbe has been rather more nervous than usual lately, and forgetful. She misplaced her attendance book, and it was only found by accident. In the meantime, there was quite a commotion over it at the school.”

“Quite a commotion? That’s not the half of it.”
Crumpet gave a knowing laugh.
“Bertha threatened to hand in her notice if Miss Crabbe didn’t apologize for accusing her.”

“You’re suggesting that Miss Crabbe herself might have mislaid the money?” Miss Potter asked dubiously.

“It’s possible. Perhaps she put it somewhere for safekeeping and simply forgot.” Grace got up, put out the roast beef and some cheese and mustard, and began to slice the bread.

“Then what’s to be done?” Miss Potter asked, frowning. “My row with her didn’t do anything more than stave things off. She says she’s going to talk to Constable Braithwaite.” She picked up her tea cup. “And you can guess how Jeremy feels. I stayed until his aunt came home and tried to explain the situation to her. She was upset, as well. To them, two pounds is an enormous amount of money.”

Grace spread the bread with butter and put the slices on two plates. “I’ll speak to Margaret Nash and see what she knows about the situation,” she said, thinking out loud. She put the bread and sliced roast beef on the table. “And I’ll go up to Castle Cottage after lunch and enlist the aid of Miss Crabbe’s sisters. Perhaps you could come with me,” she added. “You were there when she accused Jeremy.” Grace didn’t like to subject Miss Potter to such a trial, but the two Misses Crabbe would prefer to hear Beatrix’s story directly from her.

“Castle Cottage
—
now, there’s an idea,”
Crumpet said approvingly, thinking that she would go along and chat up Max the Manx. Max was a gloomy cat who kept to himself, but he might be willing, if approached nicely, to talk about what was going on at Castle Cottage.

“Her sisters?” Miss Potter asked doubtfully.

“Myrtle Crabbe is the eldest of three. Pansy leads the Sawrey Choral Society, and Viola gives dramatic readings. Both of them are younger than Myrtle, and perhaps a little . . . well, more amiable. They have both been good friends to me, and are very nice, once you get to know them.”

“Nice, if a bit bizarre,”
Crumpet added. The younger Crabbe sisters had a reputation around the village for being rather daft.

“I see,” Miss Potter said. “Well, if you think I’d be helpful, I should be glad to go with you.” Her smile was less than enthusiastic, and Grace guessed that she did not relish confrontations. “I only hope that the money can be found and Jeremy’s name cleared.”

“Amen,”
Crumpet said fervently.

“So do I,” Grace said, and added ruefully, “You must find this affair a disagreeable introduction to our little community. I’m sorry you were dragged into it.”

“It does rather overturn one’s idea of an idyllic, harmonious village,” Miss Potter commented wryly.

“That’s an idea that needs to be upset,”
Crumpet remarked
, “and the sooner, the better. A more inharmonious village never existed than Sawrey. There are always rows and discontents and tittle-tattling and—”

“Crumpet,” Grace said sternly, “there is no more fish, so be quiet, please.” She poured two more cups of tea. “Now, Miss Potter, tell me about your morning. You said that you did some drawing?”

Miss Potter smiled. “I did indeed. In fact, Jeremy took me to see what he calls a ‘whacking great colony’ of frogs, above the bridge over Cunsey Beck. I’ve some very nice sketches to take back to London to work on, and I hope to get more whilst I’m here.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Now, if I could only think of a way to take possession of my house! I found myself suggesting to Mrs. Jennings that I might try to obtain Anvil Cottage for them, although I know only too well that I can’t afford to rent it for them, much less buy it.”

Some time later, their lunch finished, Grace and Miss Potter were preparing to walk up the hill to see the Misses Crabbe, when a horse and a red-wheeled gig drew up in front of Anvil Cottage, across the way, and a man and lady got out. The man was tall and thin, clean-shaven and quite good-looking, with brown hair brushed back and a pleasant smile. The lady was young, scarcely out of her twenties, with an intense expression and an obvious physical vitality. She was dressed in a costume that suggested that she was one of the New Women: a severely tailored plum jacket over a white shirtwaist and a plum-colored skirt, cut quite short and showing an inch of ankle clad in sensible black boots. Her dark hair was coming loose under a small plum-colored hat decorated with two stiff black feathers.

“Why, Mr. Heelis,” Grace said with pleasure, as the two came across the lane toward Rose Cottage. “How nice to see you!” Willie Heelis, who was in his middle thirties, was the younger partner in the Hawkshead solicitors’ firm of Heelis and Heelis and a frequent visitor to Sawrey. He was a likable man, although painfully shy.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Lythecoe,” Mr. Heelis said, lifting his bowler hat. “I should like to introduce Miss Sarah Barwick, from Manchester.” He added, with a little hesitation, “Miss Barwick is the beneficiary of Miss Tolliver’s will, and has inherited Anvil Cottage.”

Grace caught Miss Potter’s quick glance, and knew that she too was remembering the letter from Sarah Barwick they had found the day before, on the table beside Miss Tolliver’s chair. She was taken aback by the unexpected announcement of the inheritance, but she smiled nonetheless, and held out her hand.

“Welcome to Sawrey, Miss Barwick,” she said. “And congratulations on your inheritance.”

“I am glad to meet you, Mrs. Lythecoe,” said the young woman, shaking Grace’s hand energetically and speaking in a clipped, mannish voice. Her face was too long and narrow for conventional prettiness, her mouth too wide, her expression strained. But her sharp glance was undeniably intelligent. “I understand that you were Miss Tolliver’s friend.”

“Indeed I was,” Grace said, and introduced Miss Potter.

“Miss
Helen
Potter?” Mr. Heelis asked, in some surprise. “The purchaser of Hill Top?”

Miss Potter nodded. “Yes. I was planning to come to your office in the next day or two and introduce myself properly.” To Grace, she added, “Mr. Heelis’s firm is handling the deed and survey and the purchase documents—all those sorts of legal details. We’ve exchanged numerous letters, but never met.”

“Well, you two will want to get acquainted, then,” Grace said, and smiled hospitably. “Shall we all go in and have a cup of tea?”

Miss Barwick was brusque and to the point. “Thank you, but we were wondering if you might open Anvil Cottage for us. Mr. Heelis says that you have the key. And there’s something about a painting?”

“Miss Barwick is referring to the Constable miniature, Mrs. Lythecoe,” Mr. Heelis added with a shyly apologetic glance, as if feeling the need to explain. “Miss Barwick wondered whether Miss Tolliver might have simply taken it down and put it somewhere, and we hoped you might help us search the cottage. Neither of us have the slightest idea what we’re looking for.”

“We need to eliminate that possibility, you see,” Miss Barwick said, in a businesslike way, “before we bring the police into the matter.”

“It was that Roberts fellow,”
Crumpet put in
. “I—”

Grace frowned down at the cat. “Crumpet, you’re making a nuisance of yourself with all that meowing.” She smiled at Miss Barwick. “Of course I’ll help look for the painting.”

“Perhaps I’d better go on to Belle Green,” Miss Potter said, and made as if to leave.

“Oh, no, please,” Grace said, putting her hand on Miss Potter’s arm. “You’re the one who’s familiar with the painting. We need you to help us look. And anyway,” she added, thinking of their proposed visit to the Crabbe sisters, “we still have our errand at Castle Cottage.” She smiled at Miss Barwick. “If you’ll excuse me for just a moment, I’ll get the key.”

She hurried back into the house, took the cottage key off its peg, and picked up Miss Barwick’s letter from the hallway table. The four of them went across the way, with Crumpet at their heels. When they went into the cottage, the first thing they saw was Tabitha Twitchit, in her accustomed place in Miss Tolliver’s chair.

“I suppose this is Miss Tolliver’s cat,” Miss Barwick said, in a tone that implied strong disapproval. She sneezed.

“I lived with Miss Tolliver for years,”
said Tabitha, offended. She switched the tip of her tail.
“Who, pray tell, are you?”

“You’re not going to like it when you hear,”
Crumpet growled, jumping onto the chair beside Tabitha.
“She’s inherited Anvil Cottage. And she is obviously not a lover of cats.”

Tabitha lifted her chin.
“Then she can learn to live with the mice
.
Let’s see how she fancies
that
.”

“Mathilda Crook has volunteered to take Tabitha,” Grace said to Miss Barwick, “unless you’d like to keep her, of course.”

“She’s a lovely creature,” Miss Barwick said in a determined tone, “but I simply cannot tolerate cats. They make me sneeze. Please, Mr. Heelis, be so kind as to put both of them out.” She took off her gloves, her hat, and her jacket, as if she were making herself at home.

“You don’t have to put
me
out,”
Tabitha announced grimly, jumping off the chair and stalking to the door. She was followed by Crumpet, who added,
“I wouldn’t stay in this house if you begged me.”