The Tale of Hill Top Farm (20 page)

As they reached the top of Castle Cottage lane, however, Miles was surprised to see Dr. Butters’s gig parked in front, his horse enjoying a nosebag of oats. Lounging on the front step, a pipe in his mouth, was George Crook. With him was Rascal, his Jack Russell terrier.

“Hullo, George,” Miles said. With a frown, he glanced up at the lighted second-story windows. “Has something happened? Why is the doctor here?”

George got to his feet. “G’evenin’, Captain,” he said, and grinned. “G’evenin’, Vicar. Aye, something’s happened, a-reet.” He lowered his voice. “It’s t’ elder Miss Crabbe. She’s bad, verra bad.”

“Dear me, George!” cried the vicar anxiously. “What’s happened to her?”

“Broke her leg, she did, poor thing,” George Crook said. “Lucky it weren’t her neck. Them auld stairs is verra steep.”

“My goodness,” said the captain, bending over to scratch Rascal’s ears. He could not escape the thought that, if Myrtle Crabbe had to go and break her leg, this was not a bad time to do it.

“Aye, broke it verra bad, she did,” George went on, adding, with an ominous emphasis, “above t’ knee.”

The captain straightened, flinching.

“Above t’ knee,” George repeated with grim relish. “I’ve been waitin’ here in case t’ doctor needs a hand settin’ it. Sometimes it takes two, y’know.” He shook his head mournfully. “’Specially when it’s broke above t’ knee.”

“Dreadful!” the vicar muttered. “Oh, this is dreadful! I shall go right up and see if I’m needed.” And without any dithering at all, he opened the door and went straight in.

The captain took out his pipe, filled, and lit it. “Broke her leg, did she?” he murmured, around the pipe stem. “How under the sun did she manage to do that?”

George Crook shrugged. “Stepped on t’ black cat on t’ dark stair, she sez. Put a foot wrong, sez t’ other two ladies. Either way, she went in a tumble head-first, all t’ way down to t’ bottom. Me an’ Charlie Hotchkiss put her on a plank and lugged her back up,” he added. “Wasn’t half hard, neither. The lady may not look heavy, but she’s solid as a ton o’ pumpkins. Charlie, he hurt his back, he did.”

The door opened and light fell out onto the little porch. “Captain Woodcock?” Miss Viola asked. “The vicar said you were out here. Won’t you come in?” She opened the door wider. “And George, Dr. Butters says to tell you that he’s finished setting the break. You’re free to go along home now, with our thanks. We’re very grateful for your help, and Charlie’s, too, of course. We’d never have gotten her into her bed without you.”

“Thank’ee,” George said. “I hope she mends well. Come on, Rascal. Mrs. Crook’ll have our supper ready.” He tipped his hat and went into the dark, trailed by his dog.

Miles followed Miss Viola into the sitting room. “How is she?” he asked.

“About as one would expect,” Miss Viola said, sitting down in front of the small fire. “She is in a great deal of pain, and very upset. My sister is a woman who likes to be in charge of things. This accident was not in her plan.” She paused. “Will you have a cup of tea, Captain? Or I can offer you a glass of port.”

“I’d welcome some port,” Miles said, still standing. He glanced down at his pipe. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Not at all,” Miss Viola said, getting up and going to the sideboard, where she took up a bottle and a glass. “Myrtle doesn’t permit it,” she added, pouring, “but I do rather enjoy a man’s pipe. It reminds me of Dear Father.”

Miles took the glass she offered and sat down. “This is rather an awkward question, under the circumstances, but I wonder if you know whether your sister managed to speak to Constable Braithwaite this evening. You see, she—”

“She did not,” Miss Viola said firmly. “She was on her way to see him when she met with the unfortunate accident.” She looked at him, her head tilted to one side. “I take it by your question, Captain, that you know about the missing money—and perhaps about my sister’s encounter with Miss Potter and the boy.”

“I do,” Miles replied, feeling a great relief that he did not have to explain the situation. “Miss Potter and Mrs. Lythecoe spoke both to me and to the constable about the matter, and I discussed it with the vicar.”

Miss Viola visibly relaxed. “So the constable isn’t likely to confront the boy?”

“Not without more evidence,” Miles said. “The vicar and I have discussed the situation with Miss Nash, as well, who was present when the theft is said to have occurred. She is persuaded that the child did not have the opportunity to take the money—and that he would not, if he had. She knows of no evidence that might incriminate him.”

“It appears, then, that the money may have been merely . . . mislaid, rather than stolen,” Miss Viola said. She gave a discreet cough. “My sister has not been quite herself lately, you see, Captain, and it’s possible that she’s put it somewhere and forgotten about it. Pansy and I were wondering whether, once Myrtle is settled comfortably, one of us should go to the school and search.”

Miles shook his head. “I don’t think that would help. Miss Nash and I made a thorough search of the school this afternoon, and found nothing. I think, however—” He paused uncomfortably, sipped his port, and tried again. “I feel like a cad for asking you this, but I would very much appreciate it if you would have a look around your sister’s room. Perhaps she brought the money home for . . . well, for safekeeping.”

“You’re not a cad, Captain.” Miss Viola sighed heavily. “I’m afraid that the scenario you suggest is entirely possible. The doctor will likely give her a sleeping draught before he leaves. When she’s safely asleep, I’ll have a look.”

As if on cue, Dr. Butters entered the sitting room. A much-loved figure in the neighborhood of Sawrey, he was a tall, thin man with a bony, intelligent face, gingery hair going gray at the temples, and a gingery moustache. “Viola,” he said, with a nod. “Good evening, Woodcock. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Miss Viola rose, clasping her hands. “Will she be all right, Doctor?”

“In time,” the doctor said. “It’s a nasty break, though. It will be some months before she’s ambulatory, and I doubt that she can return to the classroom this year. Knowing how your sister feels about the school, I’d say that this by itself might become a problem.” He looked intently at Miss Viola. “She seemed a great deal agitated. Kept muttering about the constable, and stolen money, and a thieving boy.” He cocked an inquiring eyebrow. “Anything that needs tending to?”

“We’re in the process of setting it right,” Miles said. “It’s not something she should worry about.”

Doctor Butters nodded. “I’ve given her something to make her sleep, so she won’t be worrying about anything for a while. I’ve sent Pansy to lie down with a draught, as well. She’s more anxious and flustered than is good for her.” He turned. “Would you mind looking in on her, Viola? The vicar is with Myrtle at the moment, so you’re not needed there.”

“Of course,” Miss Viola said. She went first to the sideboard and poured another glass of port. “Sit for a few minutes before you drive back to Hawkshead, Doctor.”

The doctor took the glass from her. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said. When Miss Viola had left the room, he dropped into a chair and put his feet on the fender. “Well, Woodcock? How are things?”

“Muddled,” Miles said ruefully. “The School Roof Fund is missing, the Parish Register hasn’t been seen for a fortnight, and someone appears to have taken a valuable painting from Anvil Cottage. Not to mention that there’s a good deal of gossip about the manner of Miss Tolliver’s death.”

“My goodness me,” said the doctor. “Where is Holmes when we need him?” He sipped his port. “And what are people saying about Miss Tolliver’s death? The usual gossip, I suppose.”

“It seems to be a bit more focused than that,” Miles replied cautiously. “It’s said that she died of poison, specifically foxglove. Perhaps self-inflicted, perhaps administered by some third party.”

“Well, I don’t know about your other mysteries, but I can certainly solve this one for you,” the doctor said. “Miss Tolliver showed no signs of digitalis poisoning—and the symptoms are unmistakable, believe me. Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea. It is not a pretty death, nor an easy one. Miss Tolliver died quickly and, I should think, rather easily, from a heart attack. It was not unexpected, you know.”

“Not unexpected?”

The doctor hesitated, as if he were wondering how much to reveal. Finally, he said, “I don’t suppose it matters now that she’s dead. There were previous attacks, although she did not want anyone to know. A very private person, that lady, who kept herself to herself—not an easy thing to do in a small village. So I wasn’t in the least surprised when you summoned me. I had always expected that some sort of sudden shock would do her in.”

“Sudden shock?” Miles asked, thinking in a rather disconnected way of the missing painting. Had Miss Tolliver surprised a thief who had broken into the cottage and was in the process of stealing it? Or—

“Oh, bad news, something of the sort.” The doctor gave him a slanted look. “Now, tell me this, if you can. What do you know of Myrtle Crabbe’s behavior in the past few months?”

Miles sighed. “Not as much as I probably should,” he said. “There was a problem today about some money—that business with Constable Braithwaite that she was going on about. I understand from Miss Nash, the other teacher, that there have been additional difficulties.” He frowned. “Why are you asking?”

“Just an idea. She was rather incoherent, you see, and she said a few things that rather surprised me.” A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “Not the kind of things one might expect to hear from a lady of Miss Crabbe’s sheltered background and social standing.” He tossed back the rest of his port and stood. “Time I was getting back to Hawkshead. I’m expecting Mrs. Forsythe to deliver tonight, and it won’t be easy. Are you on foot? Shall I give you a lift to Tower Bank House?”

“I’d like that,” Miles said. “I daresay the vicar won’t want me to wait for him.”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Dr. Butters said. “Let’s be off, then.”

Upstairs, the vicar, deeply troubled, was sitting beside Myrtle Crabbe’s bed, watching as she fell asleep. Her thin, bony fingers lay stilled on the eiderdown coverlet, and her pale face was peaceful in the light of the oil lamp on the table. Samuel Sackett reflected, as he often did, on the enigma of human nature. A few moments before, Miss Crabbe had been wildly fretful, tossing her head, muttering incoherently about the constable, the money, and Jeremy Crosfield, her fingers plucking restlessly at the covers. Now, her anxiety was gone, the stern lines of her face had relaxed, and she lay in restful, blessed sleep. Restful and healing, not just to the body, but also to the mind.

For this, Reverend Sackett was enormously grateful. In the past half hour, he had become very much afraid that the balance of Miss Crabbe’s mind was in serious jeopardy. Of course, the pain of her fracture was probably responsible, but the appalling torrent of profane words that had spilled out of the lady’s mouth had been wholly, entirely unexpected, a great shock to him and (he thought) surprising even to Dr. Butters, who had no doubt heard just about everything in his many years of practice.

And then, when the doctor had left, the vicar had heard even more. Miss Crabbe seemed to be glad that Abigail Tolliver was dead because she had refused to sign the letter, and without it, Myrtle couldn’t go to Bournemouth and get away from her meddling sisters and her horrible school and this wretched little village. Of course, this was all very incoherent and jumbled and the vicar wouldn’t have been able to make any sense of it if he hadn’t already known about the letter beforehand. But he was still shocked and horrified by Miss Crabbe’s vitriolic anger, and glad that neither of her two sisters had been present. Of course, it was not a question of blame or censure, for Myrtle was obviously not herself. Rather, it was a matter for compassion, and for the hope of healing and self-forgiveness. The vicar put his hands over hers, bowed his head, and translated his hope into a fervent, heartfelt prayer for Miss Crabbe’s early and entire recovery, both mental and physical.

A little later, hearing the wheels of the doctor’s gig crunching on the gravel outside, the vicar stood and took out his watch. It was not quite nine. No doubt Captain Woodcock had departed with the doctor, and he must be on his way, too, back to the vicarage. He would stop to say a few words to Miss Viola and Miss Pansy, and then take his leave.

He turned down the oil lamp until it was barely glowing, and moved it so that the light did not fall directly on the bed. He bent over the sleeping woman, touched her quiet hands, and said one last prayer. Then, as he straightened and turned toward the door of the darkened room, he was startled to see a pair of demonic green eyes staring at him from a dark shelf over the dresser that sat beside the door.

Dear God,
the vicar thought with a frightened gasp,
what in the—

Then the eyes blinked, there was a soft
meow,
and he realized with an instant flood of relief that he was looking at the Crabbe sisters’ Manx cat, so black that he was invisible in the darkness, only the gleam of his eyes betraying his presence. The vicar had met Max on his earlier visits to Castle Cottage, and had admired him greatly. He reached out his hand to stroke the cat’s wiry fur.

“Max,” he murmured. “Max, you devil.”

“Hello,”
said Max pleasantly, getting to his feet and arching his back under the vicar’s hand.
“So nice to see you.”
He had not planned to call attention to himself; after all, no one knew that he was prowling about upstairs. But the vicar was one of the few men who made their way into the women’s domain of Castle Cottage, and Max had always rather enjoyed him. He put out his paw with a playful gesture and caught the vicar’s cuff.

“Max, you’re a funny creature,” the vicar said with a chuckle, releasing his cuff and rubbing the cat’s ears. And then he frowned, his attention attracted by the book on which Max was sitting. It had a clasp, was bound in leather, and was about the size and shape of—

“Max,” said the vicar urgently, “get down.” And without ceremony, he lifted him up and put him on the floor. Then he reached for the book.