The Tale of Briar Bank

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Well, it’s very peculiar,” the doctor said, chewing his toast. “Braithwaite’s photographs distinctly reveal claw marks on the tree, as if an animal had climbed it. Quite a large animal, I’d say. Bigger than a badger, by far. The constable—he examined the tree itself, I only saw the photographs—was under the impression that the claw marks were fresh, made quite recently. Perhaps as recently as the night the tree fell.” He shook his head. “I must confess that I am mystified.”

  “Bigger than a badger?” The captain chuckled. “A bear, perhaps? Or a panther, escaped from a circus?” (As I’m sure you know, there are no native bears or panthers in England. And the wolves have been gone for centuries.) He chuckled again, ironically. “Or maybe the monster has left Loch Ness and come to live in Moss Eccles Lake. I’ve heard that it’s rather deep out there in the middle. Perhaps the marks should be analyzed from that point of view.”

  “That’s right, Woodcock, have your fun.” The doctor gave him a frowning look.

  “Sorry, old chap,” the captain said. “I just meant—” He chuckled. “I suppose we could put the marks on the tree into the same category as the flaming fireball that struck Lady Longford’s barn this morning. Burnt it to the ground, Llewellyn said, when he brought the morning’s milk.”

  “A fireball, eh?” the doctor said, with interest. “A meteorite, do you suppose?”

  The captain grinned. “Divine retribution, according to Llewellyn. He claims her ladyship cheated him when she sold him a cow.”

  “No doubt Llewellyn would put the marks on the tree into the same category,” the doctor said. “However, I am not attempting to analyze them, merely to report them. I thought they might be of some interest to you, since you are convening the inquest. You intend to call Constable Braithwaite to testify, I suppose. For the sake of completeness, you might wish to enter his photographs into evidence.”

  “I’m not inclined to do so unless the photographs have a bearing on the way Wickstead died. Likely, they’d only fuel the gossip. You’ve heard what the villagers are saying, I suppose.”

  “Ah, yes. They love nothing better than a good curse, don’t they?” The doctor finished his toast and put his napkin to his lips. “I shouldn’t worry, Woodcock. Talk is the villagers’ cheapest entertainment. Gossip, speculation, rumor, scandal. It’ll keep everyone busy until after Christmas, I’m sure.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And p’rhaps it’s better for them to be talking about claw marks on a tree than a secret treasure trove, mythical or not.”

  “I don’t know about the claw marks, but the treasure is no myth,” the captain said quietly. “Wickstead really did discover something up there in the woods. Something he found quite . . . intriguing.”

  The doctor gave him a questioning look. “He told you about it, then? Or perhaps showed it to you?”

  “Neither,” the captain said. “He only hinted, but he was quite excited. And I certainly got the general picture. I felt that he was not more specific because of the Treasure Trove Act.”

  “I wondered about that,” said the doctor with a wry smile. “I suppose the old fellow was trying to avoid surrendering his loot to the Crown.” He frowned. “Although why I persist in calling him ‘old,’ I don’t know. Wickstead was no more than five years older than I. And I am by no means ancient.”

  “You’re right,” the captain said ruefully. “His hair was gray, which made him seem older than he was. In fact, I rather think he cultivated the appearance. Wickstead was, after all, an antiquarian. Thought he ought to look the part, perhaps.” He leaned back in his chair. “Anyway, had he come straight out and told me he’d found a treasure trove, I should have had to direct him to hand it over to the Home Office, straightaway. Frankly, I thought it better not to inquire.”

  Both the captain and the doctor know exactly what they are talking about here, but I suspect that you have not a clue—nor did I, until I took the trouble of looking it up. You see, in England, at the time of our story, the law required that anyone who found any sort of treasure had to give it over to the king, to be disposed of as His Majesty wished. Here, word for word, is what the law said:

  When any gold or silver, in coin, plate or bullion hath been of ancient time hidden, wheresoever it be found, whereof no person can prove any property, it doth belong to the King, or to some Lord or other by the King’s grant, or prescription.

  Well, now. To me, this sounds as if there is no getting around it. If the deceased Mr. Wickstead had indeed found some sort of treasure (as the doctor and the captain and the villagers seem to think), he was supposed to have turned it in.

  “Personally, I doubt it was much of a treasure,” the captain went on. “A few gold coins, a dagger, a piece of jewelry or two. The villagers have blown it up into a magnificent trove, worth a king’s ransom, but Wickstead gave me the impression that it wasn’t worth bothering the Home Office about.”

  “Don’t tell the Crown that,” the doctor remarked. “It’s always been the position that every treasure uncovered, no matter how insignificant, belongs to the king. And some people have got into serious trouble for concealing what they found. I read recently about a Yorkshire chap who dug up a hoard of coins on his property—on his own property, mind! He tried to keep it dark, but of course word got out. Before long, people were swarming all over the place, digging here and there, hoping to find their own cache of coins. And the next thing he knew, the agents from the Home Office were on to him, demanding that he turn it over. He paid a hefty fine for concealment.” He grunted. “Great lot of nonsense, if you ask me. A man digs up something valuable on his property, it ought to belong to him. Crown’s got no right to it.”

  “I agree,” the captain said. “Perhaps Wickstead intended to dispose of his find quickly, before anybody from the Home Office got on to him.” The doorbell pealed. “Florence!” the captain shouted. “Answer that, would you?”

  “And did he in fact dispose of it?” Dr. Butters asked curiously. “The fellow was well known among antiquarians. If he wanted to sell his treasure quickly—large or small—I’m sure he could find a buyer.”

  “Dispose of it? I haven’t the foggiest,” the captain confessed. “If the treasure was still in Wickstead’s possession when he died, I should think it will go to his sister. And then it will be her problem.”

  “Ah, his sister.” The doctor brightened. “The fair Louisa. A handsome woman, indeed, and quite charming.”

  The captain cocked his head and raised one eyebrow. “Interested, are you, Butters?”

  “Well, I suppose, a little,” said the doctor offhandedly. “Bit of luck, wasn’t it, though? Her turning up the way she did. Cheered Wickstead’s last days, I’ll warrant, just having her around. A very pleasant lady.”

  Florence opened the door. “Mr. Heelis,” she murmured, blushing (Florence always blushed in the presence of single gentlemen), and ushered in a tall, good-looking man in a brown coat and brown bowler.

  “Well, Heelis,” the captain said heartily. “So you’ve made it, after all.” Will Heelis, Mr. Wickstead’s solicitor and the captain’s best friend, was expected to be at the inquest. But when the snow began, the captain had doubted that he would come.

  “I drove my sleigh.” Mr. Heelis rubbed his hands together. “The Kendal Road’s been plowed, so people are beginning to get about. Hullo, Butters. Good to see you—although I’m sorry for the occasion that brings us together. Wickstead was an odd bird, but he was all right, at heart. At least, I always found him so.”

  This did not surprise the captain, for Mr. Heelis was the sort of person who found that everyone was all right, at heart. Perhaps that’s why he was so well liked. “We were just discussing Wickstead’s sister,” said the captain, with a teasing glance at the doctor. “Butters here admits to being an admirer of hers.”

  The doctor colored and ducked his head.

  “Well, I for one wish you luck, Butters,” Will Heelis said, for he was a generous man and did not want the doctor to feel that he w
as being tormented, or take offense. “Miss Wickstead is handsome and agreeable, and about to be rather wealthy. Not that her circumstance should make any difference,” he added hastily. “If you find her amiable in other ways.”

  “Wealthy?” the captain asked, raising his eyebrows. “So she is to inherit Wickstead’s fortune, then?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Heelis replied. “Her brother left Briar Bank Farm to her, and all of his personal property, including his collection of antiquities, which is quite extensive.”

  “Including, I suppose,” the captain said, “that treasure trove he dug up last spring. Have you seen it, Will?”

  “Not I,” Heelis said, shaking his head. “And if you want the truth, I wasn’t keen to hear about it. If he had found something valuable and intended to keep it from the government, that was his business, not mine.” He paused. “His last will and testament won’t be officially read out for another few days, but I have already informed Miss Wickstead that she is to inherit. She’ll be at the inquest, no doubt.” He eyed the doctor. “If you want to speak to her about this matter, that is.”

  “Oh, I see no reason for that,” said the doctor, rather flustered. “Although I shall of course pay my respects.”

  “And you, Heelis?” the captain asked. “What’s the state of your courtship these days?”

  “Your courtship?” asked Dr. Butters, raising his eyebrow. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

  “Why, Miss Sarah Barwick,” the captain said with a grin. “Haven’t you heard, Butters? It’s all over the village. We expect an announcement at any time.”

  Will Heelis frowned. “The village has it wrong.” It wasn’t the first time people had linked his name with that of a local young lady. As a solicitor active in various business affairs throughout the district, he met quite a few unmarried women, and as a confirmed bachelor, he was vaguely aware of their occasional efforts to interest him. But he was a shy man, and did not find it easy to talk to the ladies.

  “I think,” said the captain, consulting his watch, “that we had better be on our way to the pub. I hope our jurors will be able to get there. It would be a pity to convene the inquest and find ourselves two or three jurors short.”

  “It will take more than a three-foot snowfall to keep people away from this morning’s inquest,” the doctor said. “If nothing else, they’ll be hoping to hear something about the treasure—or the curse.”

  “And Lester Barrow will be celebrating afterward,” Will Heelis added with a grin, “when everyone requires a half-pint of his best to wash down the jury’s finding.” To the captain, he said, “I’ve stabled my horse in your barn. Hope you don’t object.”

  “Not at all,” said the captain, showing his guests into the hall. “You’re welcome to stay the night, you know, should you decide not to go back home.” Over his shoulder, he added, to the doctor: “I shan’t be requiring Braithwaite to enter those photographs into evidence, Butters. There’s no need to fire up the villagers’ imaginations—they’re quite lively enough already.” He shook his head disgustedly. “All this talk about a curse. Nonsense.”

  “What photographs?” Will Heelis asked the doctor as they followed their host down the hallway.

  “The photographs of the tree that killed poor Wickstead,” the doctor replied. “Taken by the constable. You haven’t seen them, then?”

  “Not I,” Heelis said. “Are they important? Do they reveal anything that’s not already known?”

  “Yes,” said the doctor.

  “No,” said the captain firmly, taking down his guests’ coats from their pegs and handing them out.

  “How the devil do you know, Woodcock?” the doctor challenged. “You haven’t seen them.” To Will Heelis, he added, “The tree bears fresh claw marks. Large claw marks, made by an animal of substantial size. Larger than a badger, I’d say, perhaps three or four times as large.” He frowned. “And of course, badgers don’t climb trees. At least not to the top.”

  “An animal of substantial size?” asked Heelis in surprise. “What could it have been?”

  “Two badgers, perhaps,” said the captain, with a sarcastic chuckle. “Escaped from a traveling circus. In the company of a panther. Or a panther and a bear, as the case may be.” At Will Heelis’ raised eyebrow, he added, “Or perhaps a Loch Ness monster, out for a nocturnal jaunt. Who knows? In any event, the villagers do not need any additional fuel for their fancies. Arboreal animals!” He snorted. “Next thing you know, they’ll be saying that Wickstead was killed by the same agency that fired the Longford barn.”

  “Lady Longford’s barn burned?” Will asked, concerned.

  “This morning,” the captain said, pulling on his galoshes.

  “I don’t think we ought to be so quick to dismiss the photographs,” the doctor remarked cautiously.

  “I’m not dismissing them,” Captain Woodcock replied. He straightened and reached for his coat. “I’m just keeping them out of my inquest—and out of the villagers’ rumor mill. It’s already been concluded that poor Wickstead was doomed the minute he dug up that treasure. So the constable can keep those photographs in his pocket. Or burn them—that would be far better.”

  The doctor shrugged into his coat. “And what makes you think you can quash those photos? I’ll wager a quid they’ve already been seen and discussed by every male in the village.”

  The captain put on his hat. “I’m sure you’re right, blast it,” he muttered. “But at least I can keep them out of the inquest. Come along, gentlemen. We don’t want to be late.”

  “Claw marks,” Will Heelis said to himself, as they went out the door. “I wonder what that’s all about.” He made a mental note to ask Constable Braithwaite to show him the photographs. And to find out what had happened to Lady Longford’s barn.

  8

  Bailey’s Story: Episode One

  What Mr. Wickstead Found in Briar Bank

  At the end of Chapter Five, we left Bailey Badger telling his story in front of the fire in The Brockery kitchen. It was rather rude of me to take you away just as the badger was getting started, and I apologize, although as I pointed out at the time, urgent matters commanded our attention. But whilst Captain Woodcock and his friends are making their way through the snow to the Tower Bank Arms, we shall hurry back to The Brockery and rejoin Bailey, Bosworth, and young Thorn, at the point at which we left off listening. (This is a special privilege of writers and readers of books, who are not regulated by the rules of Real Time or Chronological Order, which, when you get right down to it, are very boring indeed.)

  We find the three badgers gathered around the kitchen fire, just as we left them, Bosworth and Thorn listening as Bailey, still damp from his plunge into icy Moss Eccles Lake, tells his tale. The first part, however, like the first chapter of many stories, was made up mostly of Bailey’s personal history, which Bosworth already knew, so it was hard to keep his mind from wandering. He would have liked to say, “Get on with it, won’t you?” but he had in mind the Eighth Badger Rule of Thumb: It is rude to criticize another animal’s story, no matter how wanting in art it might be, for one’s stories are as important to one’s self-esteem as are one’s fur and whiskers and ought to be admired in much the same way.

  Thorn, however, was paying close attention. Sprawled on the floor in front of the fire, he listened with genuine interest, for Bailey’s personal history was news to him. And since Thorn occasionally interrupted the story with a question or two, and because Bailey himself was in no special hurry, it took a rather long time to relate. I hope you will pardon me if I take the liberty of summarizing it for you.

  Bailey grew up where he lived now, in a large and mostly abandoned sett near Moss Eccles Lake. He lived alone, having elected to remain a bachelor. (None of the nearby lady badgers had ever suited his rather finicky requirements, and he was not a badger to be content with a second choice.) However, it is a settled truth that no badger ever lives completely alone, for many other animals—foxes, rabbits, mice, hedgehogs
, spiders, and the like—often make free of the unused rooms and chambers in the sett. The Fifth Badger Rule of Thumb acknowledges this fact and directs that all badgers should practice the art of hospitality, gladly accommodating any animal who finds himself temporarily without bed, board, or a roof, and turning away only those who would be a danger to their neighbors.

  But it takes all sorts of animals to make up this big, wide, wonderful world of ours, and Bailey was not of an hospitable turn of mind. He had no intention to let lodgings. He took no pleasure in the company of others, and was repulsed by the idea of hosting a community kitchen where anybody could wander in, raid the pantry, eat his fill, and leave without doing the washing-up. Bailey was a recluse and a hermit, a misanthrope who had chosen to live a solitary life, free of the encumbrances and distractions of family and society. To avoid the bother of turning other animals away, he had simply walled off a section at the south end of the Briar Bank badger sett for himself, and in these private apartments, made himself comfortably at home. And to make sure that he would be comfortably at home by himself, he put up a notice-board at the end of the path, painted in large red letters.

  WARNING!

  No day-trippers,

  fell-walkers, moor-ramblers,

  or marsh-rovers

  allowed.

  KEEP OUT!!

  THIS MEANS YOU!!!

  Anyone who disregarded this notice and wandered down Bailey’s path was warned again by a smaller sign that was posted beside the door. (There was no bell-pull to post it under, because bell-pulling guests were not anticipated.) This sign read, more simply:

  Badger Digs

  Go away

  Inside, Bailey’s lodging was simple but spartan. (Bosworth, who braved Bailey’s displeasure and visited from time to time, described it as “bare.”) The sitting room featured a fireplace, a drinks cupboard, a chair for Bailey, and a footstool upon which the occasional (very occasional) guest might be seated. The pantry kitchen was tidily equipped, with a range, a washing-up sink, and a table and one chair. The sleeping room had a pallet of clean straw stuffed into a bed-tick, an oaken dresser for clothes and boots, and a mirror on the wall, with a shelf beneath for Bailey’s combs and hairbrushes. (Badgers are noted for their good grooming habits.) There was a smaller room that had been Bailey’s when he was a boy, and a larger chamber that had belonged to his grandparents, but these were closed off now.