by Susan Albert
“The public footpath,” Crumpet said with emphasis. “Through Applebeck Orchard.” Crumpet, a handsome gray tabby with a red collar and a gold bell, set a great store by factual precision, having little patience with animals who omitted pertinent details from their reports. As you might guess, this habit did not endear her to everyone, especially because Crumpet’s tongue was sharp and she did not hesitate to use it.
“The problem, you see,” Max the Manx said glumly, “is that Mr. Harmsworth has blocked the footpath—at both ends. He took down the wooden stile and built a great barricade of wire and wood in its place.”
Max was a stocky black cat with a noticeable absence of tail, an hereditary trait that came about (as Max will tell you himself if you give him half a chance) at the time of the Great Flood. The ancestral Manx was the very last animal to board the ark and his tail was accidentally shut in the door by Noah himself, who was in a hurry to get everyone in out of the rain. Max was by nature a gloomy puss, but he was even gloomier lately. He had been without steady work for some months, and was in the market for a new job and a new home. He had yet to find either. The villagers seemed to have a prejudice against cats with no tails.
“At both ends!” cried Tabitha, aghast. “But that means—”
“It means that everyone will have to go the long way round to get to Far Sawrey.” Crumpet lifted her right paw and looked critically at her claws. She always took special care to keep each in perfect condition. An unwary mouse, a careless vole, an incautious bird—one never knew when a very sharp claw might come in handy. Crumpet believed in being prepared for any eventuality.
“People will have to walk farther to get to church,” Rascal added in a practical tone, “and school. And the butcher shop.”
“Think of the children,” Max said gloomily. “Especially in the winter. And some of them don’t have proper boots.”
Now, the closing of a footpath may not seem very important to you and me, since we depend on automobiles to take us here and there. Why, we even drive the two or three blocks to the grocery store! But it was a crisis of great significance to the residents of both Near and Far Sawrey, who mostly walked where they needed to go. To understand why it was so important, you might take a moment to glance at the map at the front of this book. You will see that the path through Applebeck Orchard shortens the distance between the two hamlets by over a half-mile. This is a great improvement in any weather (as I’m sure you’ll agree), but especially when people are loaded with baskets or buckets or schoolbooks and when it is raining or snowing or very warm or very cold. For as long as anyone could remember, the Applebeck Footpath had saved people hundreds of extra steps every day. They would not be happy to find it blocked.
“This is a bad bit of business altogether,” Rascal said, shaking his head. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to.” It had already been an unsettled summer, with good King Edward dying in May and the unseasonable June frost that everyone said was caused by Halley’s Comet and the coach accident on Ferry Hill in July and the haystack catching fire. And now the footpath. Not a calamity, perhaps, but certainly an appalling inconvenience.
“Everyone is quite annoyed,” said Crumpet. “Especially Mrs. Stubbs.” Crumpet should know, for she lived in the Lakefield Cottages with Mrs. Stubbs (who cleaned at Sawrey School) and Mr. Stubbs (who operated the ferry). Of course, when Mrs. Stubbs was truly annoyed, everyone in the village knew it. She was not a woman to bridle her tongue.
Max closed his eyes with a morose sigh. “I don’t suppose there’s anything to be done about it. People will simply have to get used to walking farther.”
“People will simply tear the barricade down,” Rascal barked. “And in my opinion, they’re perfectly entitled. That path belongs to everyone. Mr. Harmsworth has no right to block it.”
“Someone will pick up a rock and heave it through Mr. Harmsworth’s window,” Crumpet predicted in a knowing tone. She was not going out on a limb, for that was precisely what Mrs. Stubbs had promised to do. Go right to Applebeck Farm and put a rock through Harmsworth’s front window.
Tabitha felt it was time to regain control of the discussion. “I am sure,” she said firmly, “that Captain Woodcock will instruct Mr. Harmsworth to take down his barricade. Rascal is right when he says that the footpath belongs to everyone. And since Captain Woodcock is justice of the peace for Sawrey District, he has the proper authority.” Tabitha did not feel it necessary to add that the captain also had the authority to order a path to be stopped if it was no longer in use. This was most definitely not the case with the Applebeck Footpath. It was used every day by all manner of people and animals, coming and going. Tabitha herself had used the path just a few days before, to visit a cousin who lived the other side of St. Peter’s.
“But why?” wondered Crumpet. A cat with an analytic mind, she always liked to get to the bottom of every subject. “Why did Mr. Harmsworth block the footpath?”
“P’rhaps he is just being cantankerous,” Rascal said.
“Or malicious,” said Tabitha authoritatively. “From everything I’ve heard about him, he’s an ill-tempered fellow. His reason is neither here nor there, however. The more important question is what’s to be done about it.” She looked around. “Well, what? Who has a plan?”
Crumpet flicked her tail. Any cat worth her salt would have already thought of a solution. Tabitha was past her prime. She was not likely to step down from her presidency of her own accord, at least not while everyone continued to look to her for leadership. But if another cat proved herself a more effective organizer, then surely—
“I have a plan,” Crumpet announced, raising her voice. She should have to make this up as she went along, but she was both clever and inventive and planning was her forte. Still, even she was surprised by the bold words that came out of her mouth—bold or foolhardy, she was not sure which.
“You all know that Fritz the ferret lives near Wilfin Beck Bridge, not far from our end of the footpath.”
Tabitha gave her whiskers a nervous twitch. “I hope you’re not suggesting we involve that ferret,” she said uneasily. “He is not a nice animal. Terribly uncivil. Totally lacking in couth.” She shivered. “From all I’ve heard, he’s likely to tear us limb from limb.”
“Where did you hear that, Tabitha?” Rascal put in with a chuckle. “From the rabbits? They’re his favorite dinner guests, you know. There’s nothing a ferret likes better than fresh rabbit.”
“Then what would keep him from sampling a cat?” Tabitha demanded testily. “I for one do not propose to be dined upon.”
“I suppose there is a certain risk,” Crumpet said, ignoring her own apprehension. She didn’t like the idea of dealing with the ferret any more than Tabitha did, but leadership has its price. “However, from what I’ve heard, Fritz takes a proprietary interest in everything that goes on in the neighborhood. And the footpath begins practically at his front door. He’s bound to know something about the situation.”
Max frowned. “I don’t think it would help to—”
Tabitha interrupted him. “I’m not sure it’s necessary—”
“I fully understand your trepidation, Tabitha.” Crumpet smiled cattily. The silly old thing was playing right into her paws. “Of course, dear, if you’re afraid, you should stay right here where it’s safe. You, too, Max.” She stretched herself to her fullest height and added, in a firm, courageous tone, “I will pay a visit to the ferret, and Rascal can go with me.”
“I’ll be glad to go,” Rascal said. “Fritz may be snappish at times, but there’s no reason to be afraid of him.”
“Afraid?” Tabitha scoffed. She tried to speak lightly, but Crumpet could hear the tremor in her voice. “That’s ridiculous. Whatever gave you that idea? I’m just not sure what that ferret could tell us that we don’t already know.” She cast an appealing look at Max. “What do you say, Max?”
But before Max could say that he for one was not anxious to go within reach of that ferret�
�s claws, Rascal broke in.
“I don’t know what you’re all afraid of,” he said. “Fritz is a shy fellow and he certainly values his privacy. But I have gone rabbit hunting with him on occasion, and he—”
“He is a ferret,” Tabitha said firmly, as if that settled it.
Rascal frowned. “What’s wrong with ferrets?”
“Ferrets are not to be trusted.” Tabitha was emphatic. “Ferrets would as soon bite off your ears as look at you. What’s more, they are born liars. They never tell the truth. So it’s not likely that you’d learn anything of consequence.”
“Excuse me,” Rascal asked mildly, “but how do you know all this?”
There was a silence. None of the three cats could answer, because none was personally acquainted with Fritz. All they knew was what everyone had heard: that the ferret had been so vicious and unmanageable that his owner had finally given up any hope of training him and released him into the wild. The ferret now lived a reclusive life, keeping to his burrow near the bridge and terrorizing the warren in Sawrey Fold, where the rabbits cringed at the very thought of him.
For their part, the village animals were at pains to avoid the area, for Fritz had the reputation of being not only fierce, but a fierce thief.
Didn’t he wear a black robber’s mask across his face?
Didn’t the word ferret derive from the Latin furritas, meaning “little thief”? He wasn’t so little, either—for a ferret, he was quite, quite large.
And didn’t all the members of the ferret’s extended family have the reputation of being thieves, as well?
Of course they did. Very bad apples, the whole lot of them. The stoat and weasel cousins were despised for their habit of raiding the village chicken coops and the woodland nests of native birds, stealing every egg they could get their filthy paws on. The aquatic branch of the family, the otters, had been trapped into near-extinction because of their appetite for the trout and char that (as everyone knew) belonged exclusively to the fishermen. And the ferret’s nearest kin, the polecat (who also wore a black robber’s mask), was no longer seen in the Land Between the Lakes, for the simple reason that the farmers and gamekeepers had killed every last one of them. Their name, in French, was poule-chat, or chicken-cat, for their cruel habit of eating the farm wives’ chickens and the gamekeepers’ pheasants.
So it was probably in Fritz’s self-interest that he dined out after dark and mostly kept to himself, retreating when any animal came near. As a result, the cats knew only the rumors they had heard about him. And since what they had heard did not make them anxious to meet him face-to-face, it wasn’t likely that their unfavorable impression would be corrected.
But Crumpet was not going to let any of this deter her, not when she felt she had the upper paw. She gave Tabitha a condescending smile. “Well, then, old dear, since you and Max aren’t anxious to meet this fellow, Rascal and I will go. We’ll report back when we’ve found out what Fritz knows about—”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort!” Tabitha snapped, quite naturally smarting at the unkind phrase old dear. “I will go with Rascal, and you and Max will stay here.” She cast a half-beseeching glance at Rascal. “That is, unless Rascal thinks it isn’t safe, in which case—”
“Oh, it’s safe enough,” Rascal said with an amused smile. “Fritz isn’t harmless, by any means, and he’s certainly fierce with the rabbits. But as far as being a liar or—”
“I don’t care what you say, Tabitha,” Crumpet broke in. “Talking to Fritz was my idea. I’m not going to sit idly by and let you get all the glory.”
“Glory?” Tabitha hooted scornfully. “I don’t know what makes you think there’s any glory in exchanging a few words with a nasty, smelly old ferret.” She gave a heavy sigh. “But as senior cat and president of the Council, I shall not shirk the dirty work. If Rascal thinks there’s something to be learnt from this ferret fellow, I’m willing to give it a go.”
“I think we should talk to him,” Rascal said definitively.
Wearing an air of supreme self-sacrifice, Tabitha got up. “Come along, then, everyone.”
Crumpet had no choice but to follow. Max, who (as usual) had said almost nothing, brought up the rear.
As the little group set off, Rascal trotted up next to Crumpet. “Nice try, old girl,” he said with a chuckle.
“Oh, shut up,” Crumpet snarled, perfectly out of temper.
So our friends are off to see the ferret. But since it will take them some little time to locate Fritz and begin their inquiries, we shall turn our attention elsewhere—to Mathilda Crook, who has just come out of the kitchen at Belle Green with a basket of freshly washed laundry.
2
The Crisis Deepens
Mathilda had been up with the washing since well before dawn on this Monday morning, and was hurrying to hang out her sheets and tea towels before Agnes Llewellyn, who lived just next door at High Green Gate, could hang out hers. It was always a contest to see who would be the first to get her Monday morning laundry out of her washing tub and onto the clothesline. Whilst there were no prizes in this weekly competition, the glow of Monday morning’s triumph always warmed the winner’s heart right through to the following Sunday night.
Agnes had won the previous week, by the patently unfair expedient (or so Mathilda saw it) of washing only half a load of white things and leaving the other half to soak whilst she rushed her half-filled laundry basket out to the clothesline. This week, Mathilda had filled her copper wash boiler and put it on the kitchen range the night before, so when she got up on Monday morning, she did not have to wait for it to heat. When her first load was finished, she wrung it out as fast as she could, dumped it into the basket, and raced out to the clothesline.
But Mathilda’s was a hollow victory, for Agnes was nowhere to be seen. Mathilda hung up her sheets and towels, then, killing time while she waited for Agnes to emerge with her laundry, brought out a bowl and began picking blackberries for a pie for George’s supper.
Five or so minutes later, Agnes came out of her wash-house at a leisurely pace, carrying her wicker basket. She put it down, took a handful of wooden pins out of her apron pocket, and began pinning up tea towels, carefully smoothing the wrinkles from each one. She did not appear to notice that Mathilda’s clothesline was already full.
Mathilda looked up from the blackberry bush, feigning great surprise. “Why, Agnes,” she said, in the broad dialect of the Lake folk. “Wot’s kept thi this mornin’? Tha’rt verra late with t’ washin’.”
Agnes took a clothespin out of her mouth. “Oh, aye,” she said airily. “I lingered a lit’le long o’er breakfast. Mr. Llewellyn had a reet int’restin’ bit o’ news to tell. I thought t’ washin’ cud wait.” She shook out the last towel and pegged it to the line. “Doan’t nivver hurt to be a wee bit late wi’ t’ wash noo an’ then, do it?”
Mathilda felt a twinge of irritation. “News? Wot news?”
Agnes appeared surprised. “Why, I reckon’d tha’d heard it by now, Tildy. I’d uv laid money on’t, informed as tha’rt.” She allowed herself a small smile. “Most of t’ time.”
“Heard wot?” Mathilda demanded, hands on hips. She had gone to help a niece with a new baby on Saturday and hadn’t got back until late the previous night. Obviously, something important had happened while she was gone—something Agnes knew and she did not. “Heard wot?” she repeated sharply.
Agnes pursed her lips. “Aboot t’ Applebeck Footpath. Mappen thi doan’t know, after all, Tildy.”
“Wot aboot t’ Applebeck Footpath?” cried Mathilda, by now feeling desperate. “Tell me, Agnes!”
“Mr. Harmsworth has closed it off,” Agnes replied briskly. “Satiddy mornin’, ’twas. Bertha Stubbs and me went to t’ church to do t’ flowers fer Sunday, and t’ gate was gone. There was a tangle of barbed wire and wood stakes, all poured o’er wi’ tar, an’ laid reet across t’ path. ’Twere put there by Mr. Harmsworth, we reckoned. We had to go t’ long way round, by Chur
ch Lane.”
“Barbed wire?” Mathilda was aghast. “But he can’t. That’s a public footpath!”
“Well, he has. Both ends o’ it. Oh, and there’s t’ Applebeck ghost, too.”
“T’ ghost!” Mathilda exclaimed, by now almost beside herself. “Has somebody seen her again?”
“So says Auld Dolly. Which is a sign o’ evil to come, o’ course. T’ ghost nivver shows hersel’ unless bad times is comin’. Who knows wot’ll be happenin’ next? Another fire? Mebee t’ church or t’ schoolhouse this time? T’ ghost is al lus right.”
“Now, Agnes,” Mathilda said in a comforting tone. Agnes, the village doomsayer, was always imagining one disaster after another. “Likely it won’t be that bad.”
But Agnes was paying no attention. She was scowling at Sarah Barwick and her green bicycle, as Sarah whizzed down Market Street on her way back to her bakery, her brown hair loose from its pins and flying.
“Jes’ look at them trousers and that wild hair,” she muttered darkly. “These mod’rn women. ’Tis a disgrace to t’ whole village. Near as bad as Grace and t’ vicar.”
It was tempting to digress to the subject of Grace Lythecoe and the vicar of St. Peter’s, but Mathilda went back to the subject at hand. “Well, I doan’t know about t’ ghost, but somebody ought to do somethin’ aboot t’ path. It needs to be opened up, that it does, and straightaway. I’ll march reet to t’ smithy and ask my George what’s best to be done.”