The Trouble With Tortoises

by Evelyn James

  Clara stood still, her mind reeling from the news. At the moment when Edgar Malory had been ranting about his maid stealing Jeremiah, the poor girl must have already been on her death bed. Clara did not know what to say. Even if Ethel was responsible for taking the tortoise, how could she ask the family with the girl so tragically dead.

  “Would you like to come in?” The old man politely asked her. “You’ve gone rather pale.”

  “It was just a bit of a shock,” Clara remarked to him. “You don’t expect to hear of a young person being snatched away like that.”

  “No, you don’t,” the old man agreed with a strange look in his eye. “Though, I have seen it happen a little too often in my time. A man gets to my age and he asks himself, why did I live so long when others didn’t? But I ain’t one for troubling with philosophising. Why don’t you come in and warm up?”

  Clara accepted the offer. She did not feel like immediately trekking back through the cold to get home. She followed the old man into the cottage and was instantly inside a snug kitchen. The fireplace crackled with a modest but warming blaze and the room held the faint smell of bacon fried earlier that morning. There were two old armchairs next to the fire, facing one another. They could have been older than the house and had many patches and repairs, one had an odd leg, but they were well-loved and robust. Clara was shown to one that had a knitted blanket draped over an arm, no doubt to tuck about the knees when the cold of night encased the cottage.

  “Now, shall I make us tea?” The old man said.

  “I would not like to trouble you,” Clara replied.

  The old man waved off the remark.

  “Would save me drinking two cups meself and then having to walk to the outhouse every hour,” he grinned. “It’s right at the back of the yard too, rare old pain in the frost and snow.”

  “I’m Clara Fitzgerald,” Clara introduced herself.

  “Robin Holk,” the old man responded. “I was born at Christmas and mother fancied a seasonal name. Luckily, my father refused some of the more outlandish ones she suggested, else I could have gone through life as Gabriel.”

  “Or Joseph,” Clara suggested.

  “Unfortunately, we had a dog called that. Old Joe. Father insisted I could not share a name with a dog,” Robin was amused by the tale. “No, being named after a little bird that sings its heart out no matter if the snow is inches deep suits me, I think.”

  “Robins are strong and tough,” Clara nodded.

  “And rather fierce,” Robin chuckled. “But I don’t hold with that meself.”

  He sat in the chair opposite her with a slight creak of ancient bones.

  “Do you live here alone?” Asked Clara.

  “Yes. Never married. My brother lived with me many years, but he passed a couple of winters ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Clara said politely.

  Robin shrugged.

  “We all reach the end of our time eventually, ain’t nothing can be done. He was old and tired, passing was a release for him. No, it isn’t the passing of the old I weep over, it is when the young are snuffed out before their due.”

  Robin’s eyes strayed to the wall of his cottage that was shared with number three, as if he could look through it and into the sorrow filled house beyond.

  “I feel quite awful coming here now,” Clara said. “I was asked to come over by Ethel’s employer, Edgar Malory.”

  “Was he checking to see she was really sick?” Robin asked, his expression growing dark.

  “No, not that. Something had gone missing from the house and he wanted to ask Ethel about it,” Clara explained. “Personally, I felt it was a coincidence that the thing was found missing the day Ethel had sent a message to say she was unwell.”

  Robin was not naïve. He could see how the two events unhappily led to one conclusion.

  “They always blame the servants or the labourers if something goes missing,” he said. “Well, at least Ethel’s death has vindicated her.”

  “That is not terribly comforting,” Clara reflected.

  “What went missing?” Robin asked after a moment.

  Clara gave a smile, the words sounded odd in her head, let alone spoken out loud, but in the snug old cottage, by the cosy fire, it seemed a place to share confidences.

  “A tortoise.”

  Robin started to laugh in stunned amazement, before he caught himself. It seemed improper to be laughing when a girl next door lay dead.

  “A tortoise?”

  “A real, live one. It was a present for Mrs Malory and Edgar was keeping it in the linen cupboard,” Clara explained. “It was supposed to be hibernating.”

  Robin’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

  “Well, I never!” He declared. “And Mr Malory thinks Ethel might have took it?”

  “We have searched the garden and house to no avail. It can’t have left the garden by itself, as there is a sturdy brick wall all the way around. Unless it has learned to climb.”

  “Or grown wings,” Robin chuckled.

  “That leaves us with the conclusion someone has moved him,” Clara avoided the term ‘stolen’. “He must be found before he freezes to death, poor fellow.”

  Robin tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair.

  “Look, as a living thing is involved, I shall be a bit more open with you,” he said after a moment. “The Dickinsons are not renowned for their complete honesty. I wasn’t entirely surprised by your accusation earlier, but not knowing you from Adam, I was not going to bad-mouth my neighbours before you. Val Dickinson has been kind to me, always makes sure I have warm meals and watches over me when I am unwell. She is a good sort, but the children can be trouble.”

  Robin once more cast his eyes in the direction of number three.

  “Old man Dickinson, Val’s husband, was that way inclined. Too lazy for honest work, so he lifted things when he could. I worked on a farm with him and he helped himself to potatoes and grain, but I turned a blind eye as there was not a great deal of harm in it, and he had five children to feed.

  “Then he grew bolder. One spring he stole a piglet intending, I imagine, to raise it for Christmas. Still I said nothing, told myself one pig was not a big matter, the farmer might not even notice. But blow me if the farmer had made a note of how many piglets he had, and he saw one was absent. Now, most of the time you might blame such a thing on a sow eating one of them, or maybe it getting crushed to death and being eaten by the rest, but I think the farmer had noticed other things had disappeared. He had turned a blind eye to the potatoes and grain too, perhaps thinking he had earned such thieving due to the low wages he paid, but he wasn’t going to turn a blind eye to the pig.

  “One Sunday, when we had all just come back from church, the farmer strolled down this road and I felt my heart in my mouth. He was glancing at all the cottages, and then he walked behind them, to the yards, and he tapped his stick on each gate. He stopped at my gate at first and I nearly collapsed in anguish, fearing he suspected me. But then he moved to the gate next door and he took an apple from his pocket and tossed it over the wall.

  “Well, you can hear a pig snuffling and he heard that piglet right as rain. He opened the gate and all Hell broke loose as he called Dickinson a thieving scumbag. It ended much as you would expect. The police were called. Dickinson was arrested and spent five years in prison. Only he died in his fourth year from pneumonia.”

  “Poor Mrs Dickinson,” Clara sighed, feeling the plight of the unfortunate family.

  While it was wrong to steal, she also knew that the poorest were often hungry and driven to pilfering to top up an income that was insufficient to sustain them.

  “I suppose we all felt Dickinson brought it on himself. He took a step too far,” Robin shrugged. “But when you have children with empty bellies you can be tempted to do such things.”

  Clara nodded; she did understand.

  “And now the children are older?”

  “Ethel was the oldest girl, he
r sister, Abbey, is just shy of fifteen. The boys are all grown men,” Robin sighed. “Sadly, they have taken after their father and then some. Two are currently in prison for petty theft and the youngest lad will be doing the same if he carries on the way he is. Saw him the other day swaggering home with a barrel of beer in his arms.”

  “Smuggling?” Clara asked.

  “More likely he took it off the back of a wagon. He is not the sort you would want in a smuggling crew, too much of a mouth on him.”

  “That must be very hard for Mrs Dickinson,” Clara said with genuine sympathy. “But Ethel had a respectable job as a daily maid.”

  “Yes,” Robin agreed. “And, as far as I know she was behaving herself, but with that reputation in the family you can never be sure. They don’t tend to steal for profit, rather they steal what they need.”

  Clara felt a knot of dread in her stomach.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, they steal food, firewood, clothing, that sort of thing,” Robin continued. “Practical stuff. They don’t steal to sell on, at least not usually. It just occurred to me that with Christmas around the corner, Ethel might have got it into her head that a tortoise might be edible.”

  Clara nearly choked. The thought of Jeremiah being boiled up in a soup was terrible. Malory would be devastated.

  “But you don’t… she wouldn’t…”

  “How is a girl like Ethel to know the difference between a tortoise and a turtle?” Robin said plainly. “And we have all heard of turtle soup. Well, one thing with a shell is much like another. I’m not saying that has happened, but if she did steal it, then that would be the likeliest reason.”

  Robin looked unhappy with this declaration too. Clara found her eyes wandering to the adjoining wall, her mind conjuring up images of tortoise bones and an empty tortoise shell sitting somewhere in the Dickinsons’ kitchen.

  “I must speak with them,” Clara said.

  Robin looked bleak.

  “Had this been about a loaf of bread or even a diamond necklace, I would not have said a word,” he explained. “But a living thing is different, especially when it is someone’s pet. I had a cat once and it broke my heart when it died.”

  Clara had risen to her feet and was pacing about.

  “Mr Malory will be utterly destroyed if poor Jeremiah has become lunch,” she said. “He is beside himself as it is.”

  “You can wait here until Mrs Dickinson returns home,” Robin offered. “Can’t be much longer, she has been gone hours and she has her work to do too. She takes in laundry and mending.”

  Clara hoped he was right, and Mrs Dickinson would return soon, though a part of her wanted to break into the house right now and put herself out of her misery. If Jeremiah had already met his end, she wanted to know at once, the delay was horrible.

  Robin was looking more and more miserable as he slumped in his chair.

  “They have been good to me, never caused me bother, and now I have brought them trouble,” he said to himself. “But I can’t have them eating someone’s pet tortoise, now can I? It would be wrong and how would I live with myself?”

  Clara paused in her pacing and looked to him.

  “You did what was right,” she told him. “Though their reasons are understandable, to steal from people who have trusted them and given them work is not very honourable. It will cause the family to be distrusted in the future and will make it harder for them to find work.”

  Though, Clara reflected, that was not a problem for Ethel anymore.

  “If I can resolve this quietly, there will be no trouble.”

  Robin did not look convinced.

  “I am a foolish old man,” he muttered to himself.

  Chapter Seven

  Half an hour later, Mrs Dickinson returned to her house. Clara spotted her from Robin’s window.

  “Would you introduce me to Mrs Dickinson?” She asked the old man, feeling sensitivity was key to the situation.

  Robin had not moved from his armchair, for a time he had looked as if he was asleep, but he had just been in a deep stupor of self-pity. He felt extraordinarily guilty for telling Clara about the Dickinsons’ reputation. Clara guessed he was a man who tended to speak first and then think about what he had said later, often with the consequence of making himself feel wretched. In Robin’s mind he had betrayed the friendship shown to him by Mrs Dickinson over the years, all because he had been too quick to talk to Clara.

  “Mr Holk?” Clara said.

  The old man roused a tad.

  “Did you say something?”

  “Could you introduce me to Mrs Dickinson?” Clara repeated calmly.

  “Is she home?”

  “Yes. Just now.”

  Robin levered himself up out of the chair with a groan, some of his spryness had dissipated in the face of his self-criticism.

  “You know, I would have found all this out anyway,” Clara assure him. “We were just chatting.”

  “I never could keep my mouth shut. I run on. My brother used to berate me for it. Never kept a secret in my life, don’t have the ability,” Robin muttered as he went to the door to lead Clara to his neighbour’s house. “I am sure I don’t know why I told you all that.”

  “Because you felt a pang of concern for the pet tortoise and his distressed owners,” Clara suggested.

  Robin brightened a little.

  “That is true, I did feel a pang. Pets are funny things. They get right into your soul. I wouldn’t want any harm befalling the fellow.”

  “And that is why you spoke to me. It was all because you are trying to do the right thing.”

  Robin walked a bit taller as Clara’s mollifying words sunk in.

  “Yes, yes, now that is true enough.”

  They only had to walk a step or so to reach the door of number three. Robin knocked politely and Mrs Dickinson appeared almost at once. Her face was puffy, her eyes red from weeping, but there was a resolve in her eyes that implied she had done her grieving and would now move on.

  “Mrs Dickinson, this young lady has come on behalf of Mr Malory,” Robin said. “She was enquiring about poor Ethel and I have explained the situation.”

  Mrs Dickinson cast a hard look over Clara. She took in Clara’s clothes and hat, her gloves without darns, her shoes looking close to new and recognised a person who was, if not quite of the station of Mr Malory, certainly far above that of herself and her daughter. Clara hoped her expression demonstrated her genuine sympathy for Mrs Dickinson’s loss, but it was hard to tell when faced with the stony façade she was presenting.

  “I suppose Mr Malory was wanting to know when his maid would be back? Well, you can tell him never and that his woes over daily help are none of my concern,” Mrs Dickinson said gruffly.

  Clara could see this was not going to be an easy discussion.

  “I would like to pass on my condolences on behalf of Mr and Mrs Malory. I am sure the news that the poor girl has been snatched from us so suddenly will affect them. This is very unexpected.”

  Mrs Dickinson did not look impressed.

  “I doubt they will break their heart over it. Paid my Ethel a pittance, they did, and always making her work so hard.”

  Clara thought of the dusty tables and unswept floors of the Malorys’ home and surmised that Ethel had been weaving a fine tale for her mother. Never had a servant been so underworked, as far as she could see.

  “Mrs Dickinson, part of the reason I was sent by the Malorys was to ask Ethel about a slightly awkward matter,” Clara decided to be blunt, as beating about the bushes was achieving little. “Mr Malory had a tortoise hibernating in his linen cupboard and the unfortunate animal has escaped and wandered off. Mr Malory is very concerned about where he might have gone as tortoises cannot endure the cold. He has searched the house and garden, but wondered if Ethel had noticed the creature while she was cleaning?”

  Clara was not sure Mrs Dickinson believed her explanation. If she did know where the tortoise was, she was
revealing nothing. She folded her arms over her chest and glowered at Clara.

  “That is Mr Malory’s problem, as far as I see it. I have a daughter to bury.”

  “And, indeed, that is very true. Certainly, I would not have come here had I known of the tragedy that had befallen you. But as I am here, I wonder if Ethel mentioned anything, anything at all that might reveal where Jeremiah the tortoise has gone to? You see, it is urgent, else I would not ask at this difficult time. The poor fellow could die of cold or hunger.”

  Clara knew she was asking a lot of the woman at a time when she was trying to deal with the emotional and practical challenges the death of her daughter presented. She felt badly at being pushy, but if Jeremiah had been taken home by Emily, then he needed to be found before he ended up as soup or died from no one knowing how to take care of him.

  “I know nothing of a tortoise,” Mrs Dickinson huffed, and she stepped back as if she was going to slam the door in Clara’s face.

  Fortunately, Robin interceded.

  “Dear lady, far be it from me to question you or your late daughter’s sentiments or moral outlook, but it strikes me that we are all duty bound as good Christians to show care for the dumb animals of this world, be they the horses that pull carts and ploughs, or the lambs we raise for meat. As all animals have a purpose, so do we have a purpose, to be their guardians and concerned caretakers. It would seem to me that if you knew anything about the whereabouts of this unlucky tortoise, you would say so, to prevent the animal suffering a misfortune.”

  Robin’s gentle and articulate speech seemed to have a soothing effect on Mrs Dickinson. Her manner softened, she stared at the old man for some time, her eyes growing wet with emotion. When she finally spoke, the edge had dropped from her voice.

  “Why don’t you come in a minute?” She said. “That wind blows icy.”

  Clara and Robin stepped into Mrs Dickinson’s humble home. It had much the same appearance as Robin’s next door, but small touches revealed a woman lived there – dried flowers on the mantel, embroidered cushions, a sweet smell of herbs hanging from the ceiling. Mrs Dickinson paused by the fire to warm her hands.