The Tale of Hill Top Farm (15 page)

Miss Barwick took a handkerchief out of her purse and blew her nose. “Now, then,” she said in a practical tone, tucking her handkerchief into the sleeve of her tailored blouse, “where shall we start? The bedrooms? Mrs. Lythecoe, please lead the way.”

It didn’t take long to look through the tidy drawers, neat kitchen cupboards, and well-equipped pantry, but after a while, they had to admit defeat. The painting had not been taken down and put somewhere.

“You mentioned in your note,” Mr. Heelis remarked to Grace, as they assembled once more in the small sitting room, “that you remember the painting being in its accustomed spot on the wall when you helped Miss Tolliver celebrate her birthday.”

“Not exactly,” Grace amended. “I said that I would have noticed if it had been gone that day. I think it must have disappeared at some point after that.”

“You don’t suppose Miss Tolliver might have given it away?” Mr. Heelis asked uncertainly.

“I shouldn’t think so,” Grace replied. “Anyway, she was discovered dead the morning after her birthday, so there wouldn’t have been time. And to whom would she have given it? Certainly none of the villagers.”

Miss Barwick, who had been sneezing occasionally during the search, now sneezed again. “Really,” she said, in a resigned tone, “one would think from the way my nose is behaving that those cats were still in the room.”

“Observant, isn’t she?”
Tabitha whispered sarcastically to Crumpet, in their hiding place behind the sofa.
“A regular female Sherlock Holmes.”

“Her nose knows,”
Crumpet said, and giggled.

“I’m afraid, then,” Mr. Heelis went on regretfully, “that we must assume that the painting has been stolen.”

“Someone from the village, I suppose,” Miss Barwick said, and blew her nose. “Is there a policeman?”

“I keep telling them,”
Crumpet whispered to Tabitha
, “about that fellow Roberts. But of course they don’t listen.”

“They can’t,”
Tabitha said.
“Their ears don’t work right.”
She frowned.
“Or maybe it’s their brains.”

“Our policeman is Constable Braithwaite,” Grace said slowly. She had suddenly remembered that this was the
third
thing to go missing in the village in the past week or so—the painting, the Parish Register, and the School Roof Fund. “It’s hard to think who would have taken it,” she added, feeling slightly bewildered. “Everyone loved Miss Tolliver and wouldn’t do anything to trouble her. And anyway, none of us had any idea that the painting had any sort of significance or value. I’m sure we all saw it hundreds of times, but no one ever gave it a second look.”

During this conversation, Miss Potter had been sitting quietly on the sofa, listening. She coughed deferentially. “Perhaps it would be worthwhile to inquire of the art dealers in the surrounding area. If it has been stolen, someone may try to sell it.”

“Then we should have to have a description,” Miss Barwick said. She looked at Grace. “Perhaps you could you tell us what the painting looked like, Mrs. Lythecoe.”

“I certainly couldn’t,” Grace replied, “but Miss Potter may be able to. And since she is an artist, perhaps she’d be willing to draw a sketch of it.”

“What a good idea!” Mr. Heelis exclaimed heartily. “Do, Miss Potter. It would be such a help.”

The three of them turned to Miss Potter. “I suppose I could try,” she said with a small smile, “although one feels a bit . . . presumptuous, sketching a Constable.” She got up, took her sketchbook from the table where she had left it, and opened it to a blank page, considering for a moment. “There was a hay wain in the right-hand corner,” she said, sketching swiftly, “and a large tree—a copper beech. And a small, grassy stream in the foreground, with three or four white sheep on the bank. And white clouds piled against a blue sky, so.”

“And the size of the painting?” Miss Barwick asked.

“The canvas was no larger than three inches by four,” Miss Potter replied. “It was matted with—I think—green paper, and not a very nice shade of green at that. And of course, there was the usual gilt frame, rather ornate. Although if it’s been stolen, the thief may very well have taken it out of the frame.” She took the page out of the sketchbook and handed it to Mr. Heelis. “I hope this may be of some help.”

Mr. Heelis looked down admiringly at the drawing. “I must say, Miss Potter, you have a first-rate eye.”

“And an excellent memory for detail,” Grace added.

“Thank you, Miss Potter,” Miss Barwick said, in a friendlier tone than Grace had heard her use so far.

“You’re very welcome,” Miss Potter said, closing her sketchbook. She looked curiously at Mr. Heelis. “What will you do with the sketch?”

“I like your idea of taking it to art dealers. I am going to Ambleside tomorrow, and I shall drop in on a man I know there. He has a small shop—mostly local artists, of course, but I’m sure he’s familiar with Constable. Perhaps he can make a suggestion or two, and help us put out the word to other dealers.”

Miss Potter cocked her head to one side. “If you’re going to Ambleside,” she said, “I wonder if I might go along. Three acquaintances of mine, the Armitt sisters, live at Rydal, and I promised to spend a day with them. I’m sure I can find my own way back.”

“I’d be glad of the company,” Mr. Heelis replied. “I was planning to leave at nine, if that’s not too early, and I shall drive over and pick you up. You’re staying at Hill Top?”

“At Belle Green, with the Crooks,” Miss Potter said. Her shy smile lightened her blue eyes and made her almost pretty, Grace thought. “I am very grateful.”

Mr. Heelis turned to Miss Barwick. “Before we go back to Hawkshead, it might be a good idea to speak to Constable Braithwaite about the missing painting.” He gave her a lop-sided smile. “This is not a very pleasant introduction to your new cottage, I’m afraid.”

“It’s something that has to be settled, one way or another,” Miss Barwick said pragmatically. She glanced around. “It is quite a homey place, isn’t it? I think Miss Tolliver must have been very happy here—at least, she seemed so, in her letters.”

“You didn’t visit her here, then?” Miss Potter asked.

“No, I didn’t,” Miss Barwick replied, with a little shrug of her shoulders. “In fact, I didn’t know her at all until we began corresponding a year or so ago.”

Grace tried not to show her surprise at that bit of news. “Do you plan to live here?” she asked. “I daresay the question sounds inquisitive,” she added hastily. “But this is a small village, and all the neighbors are anxious to know what’s to become of the cottage.”

“I’m sure they are,” Miss Barwick said crisply. “To answer your question, Mrs. Lythecoe, yes, I do intend to live here. I had my doubts when I first learnt of the bequest, since I’ve lived most of my life in Manchester. But now that I’ve seen the cottage and have had a glimpse of the village, I must say it looks an ideal place for the business I have in mind. My father died not long ago, you see, and it seems a good time to start over.” She picked up her jacket. “If we’re going to speak to the constable about the painting, Mr. Heelis, p’rhaps we had better go.”

Grace was burning to know what sort of business this young woman was referring to. The cottage had no land and only a small garden. There was a pub across the road—the Tower Bank Arms—and the village shop was only a step away, so she couldn’t be thinking of opening a pub or a shop. What else did she imagine would be profitable in a village as small as Sawrey?

But Grace had learnt a long time ago, as the vicar’s wife, to curb her curiosity. She handed Miss Barwick the key. “Here,” she said. “This is yours.”

Miss Barwick took it. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be back in the morning. I’m expecting to spend a few days here, getting acquainted with the cottage and the village—and with my benefactress, as well.” Her voice seemed to soften. “There is a great deal I don’t know about Miss Tolliver. I’m hoping you will be able to tell me.”

Grace regarded her thoughtfully. She still could not imagine who Miss Barwick was, or why Miss Tolliver had given her cottage to this stranger, whom she had never met. But these were mysteries to be unraveled later.

“I’ll do my best,” she said, “although Abigail Tolliver was a very private person. All of us in the village loved and respected her, and some of the older ones knew her for the entire course of her lifetime. But I’m not sure that anyone knew her very well.” She took something out of her pocket and held it out.

“This letter is yours,” she went on. “Miss Potter and I found it lying on the table next to the chair in which Miss Tolliver died. In fact, she may have been reading it when she died. I took it home with me, intending to write, in case you hadn’t heard. I didn’t read it,” she added reassuringly. “I only intended to copy the address.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered if you had,” Miss Barwick said, taking the letter. “It’s nothing very secret—just about my dad dying.” She sneezed again. “I’m afraid that my first order of business,” she added, blowing her nose, “is a good housecleaning. The place must be full of cat fur.”

“I wonder,”
Tabitha said to Crumpet, very quietly
, “how this person feels about mice. I’m thinking of arranging a small present or two, strategically placed.”
She smiled, showing her teeth
. “In her tea cup, for instance. Or in the milk jug, or on her pillow.”

Crumpet chuckled, imagining the effect such interesting gifts might have on Miss Barwick’s composure. She leaned closer and said, into Tabitha’s ear,
“I’m going up to Castle Cottage to have a bit of a chat with Max the Manx. Want to come along?”

“No, thanks,”
Tabitha said, folding her paws
. “As soon as that woman is out of here, I’m going to run upstairs and shed fur all over the bed.”

15

True Love

Despite the magpie’s dire prediction, Miss Potter’s animals—tourists though they certainly were—encountered no serious dangers in the field beyond Belle Green’s back garden. They spent a delightful morning foraging in the drowsy meadow and orchard. The warm October sunlight lay like a golden mantle over the grass, its gentle rays lighting the brown and orange wings of the Wood Tiger moths that clung to the fuzzy blossoms of hemp agrimony. The orchard buzzed and hummed and droned as if it were alive—as it was, alive with drunken insects feasting in giddy pleasure on the wine-sweet apples that lay fermenting in the grass.

Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle was the first to make her way back to the hutch. After several hours of blissful snacking, she waddled back across the meadow, through the hedge, and under the loose netting flap. Her large meal had made her quite sleepy, so she rolled herself into a snug little ball, covered her head with her pocket handkerchief to keep out the light, and fell fast asleep. Since hedgehogs are known to nap for weeks at a time, and since Mrs. Tig had not enjoyed a good, sound sleep for quite a while, it was not likely that the others would wake her as they returned.

Mopsy and Josey were the next to come back to the hutch. Mopsy seemed to have lost a little of her fear, although she still cast nervous glances over her shoulder, as if expecting to be attacked by a panther or a bear. She kept close to Josey, too, relying on the larger rabbit’s greater strength and confidence.

Josey, for her part, was somewhat more vigilant than she had been when she started out, for she had caught a glimpse of an immense crow flying overhead, his shadow like an ominous finger moving across the land. She knew herself to be brave, but she was not foolhardy, and she had a proper respect for crows, who might dive down and peck out rabbits’ eyes. When she saw the shadow, she had pulled Mopsy under the shelter of a stone fence, where the two huddled until the danger was past.

But that had been a momentary alarm, and both rabbits were in fine spirits when they returned to the hutch, having feasted on wild clover, sainfoin, and dandelion blossoms, with a bit of thyme and self-heal for dessert. They found Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle fast asleep and knew better than to try to rouse her.

“I feel drowsy myself,”
Mopsy said, her ears drooping.
“I’m full of clover. And anyway, it is very tiring for the nerves, being constantly on the alert for things that might snap at one’s ears or tail. I think I’ll have a little nap.”
And suiting the action to the word, she curled up beside the hedgehog and fell fast asleep.

Josey looked around. Three of them had safely returned, but where was Tom? She glanced up at the sun, thinking that it must be after two o’clock. Miss Potter would be back before long, and she would come straightaway to check the hutch. She was fond of Tom, and would be upset if she returned to find him gone. What was more, she would likely discover and repair the loose netting, and then they’d never have another lovely holiday like this one.

So Josey ducked out of the hutch and set off for the haystack, where she had last glimpsed Tom, sharing a bit of grain with a field mouse with velvety gray ears, pretty white whiskers, and a very long tail. She should have to fetch him back home.

But Tom was not in a mood to return.
“What?”
he exclaimed, when Josey found him at last, sitting just outside the opening of a cozy-looking mouse house on the sunny side of the haystack.
“Go back to the hutch? Never!”
He put a proprietary paw on his companion’s shoulder.
“This is Teasel. She’s the most beautiful mouse I’ve ever seen. She and I are engaged.”

Josey was nonplussed. She had thought it would be good for Tom to get out into the open and get some exercise, and she had used the little female mouse as bait to lure him out of the hutch. But she had never imagined that he might fancy himself in love and refuse to go back home!

“But what about Hunca Munca?”
she asked finally
. “I thought you had vowed to be true to her forever and ever.”

Teasel turned to Tom, her eyes narrowing.
“Who is Hunca Munca?”

“Tom’s wife,”
Josey replied.

“Your wife!”
Teasel squeaked, jumping up.
“But you told me you weren’t married!”

“I’m a widower,”
Tom said
. “My dear Hunca Munca died last July. She was quite acrobatic, you see. She fell off a chandelier and broke her neck.”
His eyes brimmed and a big fat tear ran down his cheek
. “I’ve been terribly lonely ever since I lost her. And then I met you, Teasel. You’ve filled the empty place in my heart. It’s true love, that’s what it is. True love.”

Teasel, although appeased, looked warily at Josey.
“Is it
true that his wife is dead? My mother told me never to have anything to do with a married mouse.”

“It’s true,”
Josey conceded, feeling bound to tell the truth.

“Well, I suppose that’s all right, then.”
Teasel smiled pertly and rubbed her two white paws together, glancing at Tom under her long lashes.
“I must say, it will be ever so nice to have a town mouse for a husband. Before I met Tom, I was engaged to a common field mouse named Acorn. Tom seems more sophisticated
—
a mouse of the world.”

Josey was a clever rabbit. Seeing a possible opening, she said,
“I’m sure you do see a difference, Teasel. Compared to country mice, Tom is quite well traveled, and cultured, too. He has accompanied Miss Potter to Scotland and Wales, and to any number of resorts in the south of England. And when we are at home in London, there are musical entertainments, and readings-aloud, and games.”

Teasel looked worried
. “I hope you won’t be dull here in the village, Tom. There’s not much opportunity for travel, unless you hop into the baker’s basket and ride over to Hawkshead. And the only musical entertainments are the fairy dances in the oak woods on Midsummer’s Eve, and the Big Folks’ country-dancing at the Tower Bank Arms. But we have animal shows,”
she added with greater enthusiasm,
“and there’s always an egg-rolling on Easter Monday, and a jolly great bonfire on Guy Fawkes Night.”

“Animal shows, egg-rollings, and bonfires,”
said Josey, with a sidelong glance at Tom
. “A world of fun, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I’ll be all right,”
Tom said with a careless smile,
“as long as there’s plenty to eat. I’m especially fond of calves’ foot jelly, Teasel. And a meal isn’t complete without a thimbleful of wine. And of course, I do enjoy dressing for dinner. White tie and tail,”
he said, looking proudly at his own, which was very long and white.

“Oh, dear,”
said Teasel apprehensively,
“I think the calves in the barn would be terribly upset if someone suggested making jelly out of their feet. But there’s plenty of corn to eat, and we have oats for breakfast every day, and sometimes a bit of cheese, if the dairy is
left unattended. And there are turnips and dried peas and—”

“I don’t like turnips,”
said Tom, frowning,
“and I prefer green peas to dried. And what about wine? I am quite fond of fine French champagne.”

Teasel looked doubtful
. “We have elderberry wine, of course, and dandelion wine, and cider, but—”

“And dressing for dinner?”
Tom persisted
. “I am really quite accustomed to that, my dear Teasel. Hunca Munca had a delightful blue silk dress with a white lace ruffle and ribbons, which once belonged to a doll named Lucinda.”
His eyes took on a far-away look
. “I loved to see her wear it. So stylish, she was.”

Teasel looked down, her pretty ears suffused by a pink blush
. “I’m afraid I don’t have a dress, Tom. Clothing does rather get in the way out here in the country. When you’re running from owls, you see, it’s much better to be unencumbered.”

“Owls?”
Tom cried, scanning the skies anxiously.

Teasel held up one paw
. “Don’t speak so loudly, please! They don’t often come during the day, but one never knows.”

“No one said anything to me about owls,”
Tom snapped
. “You might have mentioned it before we got engaged.”

Teasel stared at him.
“I just didn’t think. Acorn never seemed to be afraid of—”
The rest of her sentence was drowned out by a loud mooing from a barn not far away.

“What’s that?”
Tom cried, his whiskers twitching in fright
. “What’s that noise?”

“It’s just the cow,”
Teasel said in a comforting tone
. “You don’t need to be afraid of Honeysuckle, Tom. She’s harmless, unless she happens to step on you.”

Tom was by now quite pale, and his voice was high and thin.
“Are there any other dangers I should be aware of?”

“Well,”
Teasel replied reluctantly,
“there’s the stoat, of course. We always have to be on the lookout for him. And the hay harvester’s sharp scythe, which cut off my father’s tail, and—”

“I wonder,”
Josey said thoughtfully,
“whether you have considered asking Teasel to come and live with you, Tom. That would
be rather nice, don’t you think? And I’m sure Miss Potter wouldn’t mind.”

Tom brightened
. “Why didn’t I think of that? Come on, Teasel!”

“Where?”
Teasel asked, bewildered
.

“To a wonderful place where you’ll have the very best food, and wine with dinner, and a dry place to sleep,”
Tom replied. “
And best of all, there are no owls, or scythes, or stoats. Come on!”
And with that, he scampered off across the meadow in the direction of Belle Green.

Teasel stood still, looking after him.
“What do you think?”
she asked Josey, in a hesitant tone.
“Should I go with him?”

“Do you love him?”
Josey asked. She herself had never loved anyone, other than Miss Potter, that is, and did not feel quite equal to giving advice.

“I . . . I think so,”
Teasel said, looking a bit unsure
. “It was all very sudden, though. Tom rather swept me off my feet, and I didn’t have time to tell Acorn that I was breaking our engagement.”

“Well, if it’s true love, I suppose you should go with him,”
Josey said
. “And if you’re going, now’s the time. We must get back in the hutch before Miss Potter returns.”
And she started off after Tom
.

“Who is Miss Potter?”
asked Teasel, running to catch up.

“You’ll see,”
Josey said
. “You’ll like her, I’m sure. She’s kind, and she takes very good care of us.”

The rabbit felt quite proud of herself for having the presence of mind to fetch Tom, so that their exit would not be discovered. It wasn’t until they got back to the hutch that she realized that when Miss Potter saw
two
mice instead of just one, she would look for the way Teasel had got in. She would quickly discover the way they had gotten out.

But Josey was quite clever indeed, and in a few minutes, she had taken care of the situation—or at least, so she hoped.