The Tale of Oat Cake Crag (20 page)

Grace nodded. “I’ve already spoken to her about the possibility. But not, of course, to Mrs. Thompson. The vicar will give her notice when the time comes—but not just yet. And certainly not until this business about the letters is settled and we can go forward with our plans.” She leaned forward. “Tell me who’s talking about this cousin thing, Beatrix.”

“I could tell you, if you asked
me,
”
Tabitha said slyly, examining one of her claws.

I am not in the least surprised by this, for both Mathilda Crook and Bertha Stubbs are quite well known to all the village cats. In fact, the cats have probably been in the room when Mathilda and Bertha were discussing the matter. And now that the matter has come up, I find myself wondering whether Tabitha knows anything about those letters, as well. Is it possible that she could tell us who’s writing them?

But Beatrix had to answer Grace’s question. “I’d rather not say, if you don’t mind,” she replied. “The information came to me indirectly. I need to look into it.” She got up. “I must be going, Grace. I’ll let you know if I learn anything.”

As she left, she heard Caruso singing again, now very loudly. She smiled a little to herself, thinking that Grace must have taken off his cover so he could see out the window again. She remembered that one of the letters had come through the mail slot in the door. It wouldn’t be at all surprising if the canary had seen who put it there. It was too bad he couldn’t tell them what he knew.

Beatrix wanted to be sure that her letter to Millie went out with the morning post, so instead of going straight up to the Crooks’ house, she made a detour to the post office, in Low Green Gate Cottage, on the eastern side of the village. She had once borrowed the green-painted cottage door with its fanlight for a scene in
The Tale of the Pie and the Patty-Pan,
thrilling Lucy Skead, the village postmistress, who bragged to everyone that Miss Potter had made hers the most famous door in the village.

The short, plump, round-faced postmistress was standing behind the tall counter on the wooden box that her husband, Joseph, had made for her. It was widely known that Lucy, an incorrigible and unrepentant snoop, could be counted on to read the addresses of all the letters and cards and packages that came and went through the post, and thus to know the names of everyone’s friends and relations and how often they kept in touch—or didn’t, as the case might be. A few of the villagers objected to her surveillance, but it did them no good, for Lucy could no more refrain from noticing and remembering names and relationships than her customers could keep themselves from their breakfast, dinner, and tea tables. They were lucky that she went no further than the outside of the envelope.

“Good morning, Miss Potter,” Lucy said briskly. “Tha hast two letters.” (Lucy always knew, without looking, exactly how many pieces of post were waiting.) She got down from her box and went to the tier of wooden post boxes built against the wall. She found the one marked HILL TOP and took out two pieces of mail. “One comes from thi publisher, t’ other from thi brother.” She handed them over. “Mr. Bertram Potter’s in London, I see, stayin’ wi’ thi mum and dad. He’ll be goin’ back to Scotland soon, will ’ee?”

“Thank you.” Beatrix took the letters without answering the question. She was a private person, and was not at all happy with the idea that Lucy Skead (whose tongue wagged at both ends and was loose in the middle) knew so much of her business. She was very glad to see the letter from Warne, which was supposed to contain the cheque for the royalties she had earned in the last half-year—at least, she hoped it did. It seemed that there were perennial accounting problems at the publishing house, and it was not always easy to get the money that was due to her. She was not anxious to read the letter from Bertram, however. She was afraid he might be writing to ask her to return home, for some urgent reason or another—and she had just got here!

She put the letters into the pocket of her coat, handed over her post, and was turning to go when Lucy spoke, with the air of someone making a very important announcement, “I suppose tha’st already heard about poor Mr. Baum.”

“Mr. Baum?” Beatrix turned back. “Why, no. That is, I know that he wasn’t at the meeting last night, but—”

“He wasn’t there b’cuz he was layin’ up on t’ rocks under Oat Cake Crag wi’ a cracked head,” Lucy said, speaking with a regrettable relish. It is often said that nobody likes to be the bearer of bad news, but this was not true of Lucy. The more terrible the tale, the greater her pleasure in telling it. “He’s got a broke leg an’ a broke arm, too. Still hasn’t woke up, neither.” Lucy shook her head mournfully. “Dr. Butters says there’s no tellin’ whether he’ll ever wake up, poor man.”

“Oh, dear,” Beatrix exclaimed, genuinely distressed. “What happened, do you know?”

Of course Lucy knew. She always did, although what she knew was not always the exact truth. “He tumbled down t’ face of Oat Cake Crag,” she said. “Jus’ like t’ poor Scottish soldier, all those years ago.” She leaned forward. “People are sayin’ that it’s a punishment for that aeroplane. If t’ good Lord had’ve wanted folks to fly, he’d’ve give us wings.” She lowered her voice confidentially, although there was no one else in the post office. “T’ question I want to know is wot he was doin’ up there on t’ crag in t’ first place. An’ whether somebody helped him down. A strong, healthy man in his reet mind doan’t just take it into his head to step off a rock when ’tis forty feet to t’ bottom.” She narrowed her eyes. “If tha take’st my meanin’, Miss Potter.”

Beatrix did. What’s more, she supposed that everyone who came into the post office this morning would take Lucy’s meaning, too, which meant that by the time the village sat down to tea, everyone would be speculating about whether someone pushed Fred Baum off the top of Oat Cake Crag, or whether he was not in his “reet mind” and went up there in order to jump. It was all very mysterious.

And there was nothing that the village loved more than a mystery—unless it was a romance.

Beatrix didn’t linger to discuss these shocking possibilities with Lucy Skead. She did take a moment to open the letter from Warne, and was happy to find the overdue cheque enclosed. She didn’t open the other, though. She was anxious to get on with what she had decided to do. So she walked on up the hill to Belle Green, where Mathilda Crook, wearing a white apron over her gray dress and a smudge of flour on her cheek, opened the door and invited her into the kitchen.

“I’m jus’ doin’ a little bread-bakin’, Miss Potter, so if tha dustn’t mind, tha cans’t sit at t’ table wi’ a cup of tea whilst I finish kneadin’.” She poured the tea, then attacked the mound of white dough, turning it deftly and pummeling it once again. “It’s me mum’s soda bread recipe, which she always baked plain. But I like to put in a few dried herbs from the garden. Needs no risin’, which makes it quick.”

“I’ve always enjoyed your bread, Mrs. Crook,” Beatrix said with a smile, adding, “I’ve told my mother how very good it is.”

Now, it was true that Mrs. Crook’s soda bread with herbs was very good, although Beatrix had not thought to mention it to her mother, who would not in any case have been impressed. Mrs. Potter had never baked a loaf of bread in her life—or cooked a meal, for that matter. Cooking and baking were best left to the cook one hired for that purpose. I hope you’ll forgive Beatrix’s little fib, for it didn’t hurt anyone and certainly pleased Mathilda Crook to no end, which was exactly Beatrix’s intent, of course.

“Hast thi, then?” Mathilda beamed. “Well, now, that’s nice, Miss Potter. And how are they? Thi mum and dad, that is.” She turned and pummeled and pummeled and turned (but gently, for soda bread does not require a great deal of kneading), then shaped the dough into a large round loaf.

“As well as can be expected, for their ages, thank you,” Beatrix replied. “I’ll let them know you’ve inquired.”

Mathilda was by now mightily pleased. Mr. and Mrs. Potter had rented a summer house not far from the village some years ago, and had brought their servants, their horses, their coach, and their coachman. Their well-staffed holidays were still spoken of with something like awe in the village. She felt deeply complimented at the thought that she would be mentioned to them.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Potter!”
exclaimed Rascal, dancing through the door. He had slept in that morning in his bed in the pantry, worn out with the excitement of Mr. Baum’s accident the night before.
“So good to see you!”

“Good morning, Rascal.” Beatrix leaned over to pet the little dog. “Oh, by the way, Mrs. Crook, I wonder if you might be willing to do some mending for me.” She put her parcel on the table and opened it. “My favorite tablecloth needs darning, and I’ve always admired your almost invisible work. What do you think?”

“Let me jus’ finish this, and I’ll have a look,” Mathilda said. She placed the round loaf on a greased and floured baking tray, patted it back into shape, cut a deep cross on the top, then put it into the oven. She wiped her hands and sat down at the table. “Now, let’s see.” She bent over the tablecloth. “Oh, my goodness, yes. An easy job.” She reconsidered quickly. “Well, easy enough, p’rhaps, but cert’nly it’ll take some time.”

“I’ll be glad to pay you whatever you think is right,” Beatrix said. She sat back in the chair. “Now, catch me up on the village news, Mrs. Crook. I’ve been away too long.”

“Have you heard about Mr. Baum?”
Rascal asked excitedly.
“He fell off Oat Cake Crag last night!”

Mathilda frowned down at the dog. “If tha’st goin’ to bark, Rascal, tha can’st go out t’ door,” she said sternly. “We doan’t need thi noise in t’ house.”

With a sigh, Rascal went under Miss Potter’s chair. Mathilda poured herself a cup of tea and sat down at the table. She was very glad to oblige with news, although since she had not yet been to the post office, she had not heard about Mr. Baum. Rascal knew it was pointless to try to make himself understood. And Beatrix didn’t bring up the subject, either, but contented herself with sipping her tea and listening to Mathilda carry on about a dozen trivial things, from the sore throats that were plaguing the village schoolchildren to the performance of Jeremy Crosfield as the new junior teacher and the new Mrs. Woodcock’s difficulties (now smoothed over) with the longtime Tower Bank housekeeper, Elsa Grape.

At last, Mathilda ran out of steam. “That’s about all I know,” she concluded, picking up the teapot. “More tea, Miss Potter?”

“I believe I shall,” said Beatrix. She did not really want more tea, but they had not yet got to the question she had come to ask. Whilst Mathilda poured, she added, “But you’ve said nothing at all about Mrs. Lythecoe’s marriage to the vicar, Mrs. Crook. Everyone in the village must be delighted to know that Mrs. Lythecoe will be back in the vicarage again.” She paused. “She lived there earlier, I’ve been told. When her first husband was the vicar at St. Peter’s.”

Of course, this was all said very sweetly and innocently as Beatrix stirred sugar into her tea and declined milk and lemon. Mathilda, however, was frowning.

“Oh, aye,” she said darkly. “She lived at the vicarage years ago. When she was married to t’ vicar’s cousin, on his mother’s side. Reverend Lythecoe.”

“I didn’t know that,” Beatrix said with interest. “Cousins? How very nice for Mrs. Lythecoe—to already be acquainted with Reverend Sackett’s family, that is.”

“Nice!” Mathilda exclaimed hotly. “I doan’t call it ‘nice’ mese’f. I call it disgraceful. Against t’ law, too. T’ pair of ’em ought to know better, old as they are.”

“Against the law?” Beatrix opened her eyes wide. “Why, whoever told you that, Mrs. Crook! Marriage between first cousins is discouraged, but there is nothing said against a woman marrying her deceased husband’s cousin. Or a man marrying his deceased cousin’s widow.”

Mathilda gave her an uncertain look. “But Bertha said ...”

Beatrix laughed lightly. “Oh, this is Mrs. Stubbs’ notion, is it?” She rolled her eyes. “Well, you know Bertha Stubbs. She doesn’t always get things right.”

Beatrix was being kind, for it was widely known across the village that Bertha Stubbs got almost everything wrong. What was worse, once she got something into her head, it was almost impossible to get it out, however mistaken it might be.

“I s’pose,” Mathilda acknowledged doubtfully. “But dustn’t thi think it’s a little . . . well, close? Bein’ married to two cousins, I mean, one after t’ other.”

“I don’t think it’s close at all,” Beatrix said firmly. “I think it is splendid that Reverend Sackett is about to find true happiness.” She gave Mathilda a direct look, by now certain of her ground. “I very much hope you will not help Bertha Stubbs spread this dreadful misinformation amongst the villagers. You won’t, will you, Mrs. Crook?”

Feeling cornered, Mathilda dropped her eyes. “Well, now—”

“Oh, good,” Beatrix said with evident relief. “I knew I could count on you. You are always so fair-minded and concerned for the welfare of others.” This assertion was patently untrue, for Mathilda Crook was not at all fair-minded and rarely exhibited any special concern for others. But Beatrix saw no harm in appealing to her better nature. She paused, looking straight at Mathilda. “I don’t suppose you know anything about the letters, do you?”