Which is what Max reported to his friends at the Village Cat Council, when it convened later that night. And since the village cats all believe that when a cat knows a thing, she has to tell it to three more cats before sundown the next day or she will turn into a fat orange pumpkin—well, I think you can understand why the tale of Pickles’ treasure made at least two circuits around the entire village within the next week, gaining in size as it went, like a snowball that gets bigger and bigger as it careens down the hill. By the end of the week, Mr. Wickstead was twice as rich as Croesus and the twelve mammoth bags of treasure that Pickles had pulled out of the badger burrow were worth a king’s ransom.
But Pickles isn’t responsible for the fact that the Big Folk in the village also got the story, for it was Billie Stoker who saw to that. He stopped in at the pub and whispered to his good friend Lester Barrow that his employer had come home from somewhere with two small sacks of a very valuable—not to say priceless—treasure trove.
“Treasure!” Lester Barrow exclaimed. “Treasure?”
“Aye, that’s reet, Mr. Barrow,” said Billie Stoker confidentially. “Treasure trove is what it was an’ treasure trove is what it is. Viking treasure. Priceless Viking treasure, buried fer hunderts an’ hunderts o’years, an’ tha’s no lie.”
Not that Billie Stoker would say exactly what this treasure was, of course, or where it had been found, or what Mr. Wickstead intended to do with it now that he had it. Billie Stoker was sworn to secrecy. Billie Stoker’s lips were sealed. Nothing in the world could make him tell.
That wasn’t the end of it, of course. After Billie Stoker left the pub that night, Lester Barrow told Mr. Llewellyn all about the Viking treasure Mr. Wickstead had dug up, and Mr. Llewellyn told George Crook, who told Roger Dowling, who told Joseph Skead. And then they all went home and told their wives—Agnes Llewellyn and Mathilda Crook and Lydia Dowling and Lucy Skead—who told their sisters and their cousins and their aunts, who told their husbands, and so on and so forth.
And somewhere along the line, someone (it might have been old Dolly Dorking, Lucy Skead’s mother, who is reputed to be a witch) pointed out that anyone who found a treasure trove and took it home with him was curst, and they could all expect Mr. Wickstead to die, sooner rather than later. All agreed with Dolly Dorking’s prediction, and not one was in the least surprised when Mr. Wickstead turned up dead.
But as I said, Bailey was not to know any of this for quite some time. When Mr. Wickstead and Pickles had disappeared down the hill toward Briar Bank House, the badger picked up his basket and made his way back home, where he made himself a sandwich of watercress and salad burnet leaves and poured a glass of elderberry wine. Having eaten, he put on his smoking jacket and slippers (his feet were feeling very cold) and shuffled to his library, where he searched the shelves until he found what he was looking for. It was a slim leather-bound book with an ornately engraved title:
English Law As It Pertains to the
Discovery & Declaration of Treasure Trove
Perusing this volume, the badger by and by came upon the paragraph that you and I noticed earlier: “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.”
Bailey closed the book, satisfied. What Mr. Wickstead had found had clearly been gold coin and gold plate that appeared to have been “of ancient time hidden,” by whom, Bailey could not even guess. Consequently, the treasure did not belong to Mr. Wickstead, but to the king, who at this time (as Bailey well knew, for he read the Times whenever he a copy fell into his paws) was King Edward VII. It behooved Mr. Wickstead to hand it over at once.
But of course, what Mr. Wickstead did was none of Bailey’s business. As he returned the book to its place on the shelf, he briefly wished that he might have been the one to find the treasure—a logical wish, since Mr. Wickstead had found it in his burrow. But Bailey was basically a law-abiding badger. Had he found the treasure, he would have had the great nuisance of traveling all the way to London, locating King Edward (what a bother that would be), and turning it over.
And then another thought struck the badger, with the force of a bolt of lightning. He had better hope—no, he had better pray—that Mr. Wickstead told no one where he had found the treasure. No one! Not the Crown, not anyone in his household or the village, not anyone at all!
Because once it got about that there was gold in Briar Bank, there would be a Gold Rush that would rival the one at Sutter’s Mill in California in 1849, of which Bailey had read only last month and which he now thought of with horror. From the moment people knew where the treasure had been found, he would not have a single moment’s peace, not one. They would come with their picks and their shovels and their buckets and their bags and dig from morning to night, clanking and crying and swearing and disturbing the peace. Intruders would investigate every one of the dozens of entries to the Briar Bank sett, including his own. They would badger the life out of him.
So as he went off to spend the evening in his reading room, Bailey sent a fervent plea in Mr. Wickstead’s direction, imploring him to hold firm. Then he poked up the fire, poured his port, filled his pipe, pulled a shawl around his chilly shoulders, and sat in his chair, toasting his cold toes by the hearth. He congratulated himself on being done with the business and reached for the next book. He had a great many more books to read, and if he didn’t hurry, he would quickly fall behind.
But was he?
Done with the business, I mean.
No, of course he wasn’t. If he were done with the business, there wouldn’t be any more story, would there? In fact, if you want to know the truth, it has only just begun. There are a great many adventures yet to be had, some of them downright thrilling, at least for a badger who is a reader, not a warrior.
But this much of the story has taken a rather long time to tell, and Bailey is not even half finished. Since this is a good point at which to leave him, we shall do just that, for things are happening in the village that require our attention. Contain your soul in patience, and we shall return to Bailey’s tale when we have the chance.
In the meanwhile . . .
9
Miss Potter Does Business
Beatrix spent a quiet hour tidying up and getting reacquainted with her house, the place she loved more than anything else in the world. Outside, the sky was gray, the world was covered with snow, and the wind was blustery, but inside, all was delightfully warm and cozy. The guinea pigs napped by the fire, the kettle sang, and Beatrix settled happily into her day.
Taking out her feather duster, she dusted the collection of blue-and-white ware in the handsome oak dresser, and the blue willow Staffordshire earthenware and the portrait bowls of George III and Queen Charlotte. She wiped the pretty painted face of the tall oak long-case clock, which was over 120 years old, and stood on her tiptoes to dust the top. She flicked her duster over the mantelshelf as well, admiring the Doulton stoneware jugs and the pair of wooden Peter Rabbits she had found in a toy store, as well as the row of shining brasses beneath.
The wooden rabbits were unauthorized, of course, but she had learnt that it was simply impossible to keep people from copying Peter. When it came to pirating, the Americans were by far the worst. But it was hard to blame them, for her publisher had foolishly failed to register the copyright to The Tale of Peter Rabbit in America. Which meant that Americans could legally purchase picture books and toy bunnies that looked rather like Peter (at least to Americans), but were not hers, and that a substantial amount of money had been lost to literary pirates.
Beatrix, who had inherited a good head for business from her Lancashire calico-manufacturing grandfather, was quite aware of this loss. In fact, she kept the rabbits on the shelf to remind her that creativity was all very well and good, but it was also necessary to keep an eye on one’s business interests. She knew tha
t her books had a great deal of commercial potential—people wanted to buy toy rabbits and Peter Rabbit games and Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle puzzles and dishes and even wallpaper. The difficulty was that even though she had plenty of ideas along these lines, Harold Warne (who had taken over her books after Norman died) had not much interest in hearing them. And when he did take an interest, he got things all muddled.
That wasn’t the only bothersome thing about dealing with Harold these days. He was forever raising silly objections to this or that trivial bit in a book, and she had to write several letters to straighten things out. Much more worrying, her royalty account was always months overdue, and she was put in the unfortunate position of having to ask him for the payments that should have been sent automatically. This was deeply mortifying, of course, and to her mind, a simply appalling way to do business. If one owed money, one paid it when it was due, and that’s all there was to that.
She opened the door on the other side of the room and stepped into what had once been an ordinary bedroom, now transformed into a fine parlor. She had made the small room seem very grand by installing an imposing marble chimney-piece and adding French-style chairs, a small table, and a rather ornate rug. But it was her personal treasures that gave the room its real richness: the red Italian lacquer box on the worktable, the oriental cabinet decorated with parquetry and copper mounts, even the Potter coat of arms, in an ornate gilt frame. If her mother ever came to visit Hill Top, this is where they would have tea, poured from her most splendid teapot into her best porcelain cups and served with Sarah Barwick’s finest scones. (Beatrix knew, of course, that this would never happen, but still, it was a nice dream.)
The parlor dusted and tidied, she went back into the hall (the name Lakelanders gave to the main room of the house), stirred the fire, and brewed a pot of tea. She took out the notebook in which she was writing and drawing a new story, The Tale of Mrs. Tittlemouse, which she planned to give as a New Year’s present to Nellie Warne, Norman’s little niece. After that, she would turn the colored drawings into more carefully painted pictures for the book, which was scheduled for publication next June. Beatrix liked Mrs. Tittlemouse very much, and fancied that there was something of herself in the little creature—something, at least, of her contentment at Hill Top.
Mrs. Tittlemouse was a wood-mouse who lived in a sandy bank under a leafy green hedge. Her house had long, lovely winding passages, convenient cupboards, and a snugly curtained bed for the mouse of the house to sleep in (a bed that had green curtains, like those on Beatrix’s own bed upstairs). Her store-rooms were full, the nut-cellars and seed-cellars satisfactorily stocked with cherry-stones and thistle-down and acorns, and everything was exceptionally clean and tidy and arranged just as Mrs. Tittlemouse liked. Indeed, her life would be perfect if she weren’t always being interrupted. Beetles wandered in without invitation, and humblebees and spiders and the toadish Mr. Jackson, who came looking for honey and left a mess behind. “I am not in the habit of letting lodgings,” snapped Mrs. Tittlemouse, brandishing her broom. “This is an intrusion!” But still the trespassers came, for a wood-mouse’s house is a perfect place for a smallish creature to take shelter from the rain.
Beatrix was just getting out her watercolors to work on the picture of Mrs. Tittlemouse confronting the humblebees (I am looking at the picture just now, and so can you, for it is in the very front of The Tale of Mrs. Tittlemouse) when she herself was interrupted. Hearing a knock at the door and wondering who might be out on such a snowy day, she hurried to the door to open it.
“Why, Deirdre Malone!” she exclaimed happily, drawing the mittened and muffled girl inside out of the wind. “How good of you to come out in all this snow and wind! And just in time for tea, too! Come and have a cup with me.”
As Deirdre took off her things and hung them up, Beatrix thought what a pretty girl she had become—nearly a young woman now, fifteen and growing fast. Gone was the awkward lankiness of her early teens, when Beatrix had first met her and shared an adventure at Cuckoo Brow Wood. But with her unruly red hair, dancing green eyes, and the freckles scattered across her stubby nose, Deirdre was still unmistakably Irish. She had an Irish practicality, too, and a loving but firm hand with the little Suttons that Beatrix particularly admired.
“Oh, look, Miss Potter!” Deirdre exclaimed. “Guinea pigs! Are these for Caroline?” Deirdre and Caroline Longford were fast friends, although since both had finished at the village school, they weren’t together as often as they liked. Caroline was continuing her studies with a governess and Deirdre had her hands full with the little Suttons.
“Yes, they are,” Beatrix said, moving her artwork out of the way. “Their names are Nutmeg and Thackeray.”
“Such sweet little creatures,” Deirdre said admiringly.
“Thank you,” Nutmeg said, preening. She had just been telling Thackeray about her elder sister Hazel, really the prettiest of her family, who had been bought by a nanny and a little girl in a lovely pink pinafore with ruffles and lace and gone to live in a big house where they had strawberries and cream for tea every day.
“I am neither sweet nor little,” Thackeray growled. He was entirely out of patience with Nutmeg, who had been going on and on for hours. “I am a fully grown adult guinea pig, who prefers to be left alone. Left alone, do you hear?”
“I really think it would be better, miss,” Nutmeg said hastily, “if you did not put your finger in the cage. Thackeray might—”
“Ow!” Deirdre exclaimed, and jerked her hand back.
“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Beatrix asked, concerned.
“Not much,” Deirdre said, putting her finger in her mouth. “Bit unfriendly, isn’t he?”
Thackeray narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like being poked in the face,” he muttered. “And I am sick to death of female chatter!”
Beatrix sighed and began to slice a lemon. “Actually, I’m beginning to question the wisdom of taking him to Caroline. I was planning to go there tomorrow, and—”
“Tomorrow!” Deirdre brightened. “Why, tomorrow is my holiday. Do you suppose I could go along? I should love to see Caroline. It’s been a very long time.”
“I don’t see why not,” Beatrix replied. “Miss Barwick is going with me, but we’re taking the sleigh, so there’s plenty of room. We plan to drive up to Briar Bank House for the funeral luncheon, and can stop for you on the way home. But do wrap up well. It may be a chilly ride.”
“I don’t suppose anyone cares about it being a chilly ride for me,” remarked Thackeray with a dark sarcasm, retiring to reread Mr. Churchill’s speech for the fifth or sixth time.
Beatrix poured the tea, set out sugar and lemon, and put several biscuits on a plate. “What brings you out on such a morning, my dear?”
Deirdre sat down at the table and took a folded paper out of her pocket. “I feel simply wretched about this, Miss Potter.”
Beatrix looked at her in surprise. The girl was pale and tense, nothing like her usual exuberant self. “About what? Is something wrong?”
“Yes,” Deirdre said simply. “Very wrong.” She unfolded the paper and put it on the table. “If someone doesn’t do something quickly, the Suttons will be forced to leave Courier Cottage.”
Beatrix stared. Of all the things she might have expected Deirdre to say, this was the very last. “Leave Courier Cottage?” she managed finally. “Oh, dear! But . . . but how? Why?”
“Because the Kendal Bank is going to foreclose on the mortgage,” Deirdre said quietly.
“Foreclose!” Beatrix was horrified.
“People aren’t settling their accounts, you see,” Deirdre said. “Almost all of Mr. Sutton’s clients are on credit. Which means that the Suttons have no money to pay the bank.” She pushed the paper across the table. “If everybody paid their bills, it still wouldn’t be quite enough for the mortgage payment. But maybe if Mr. Sutton gave the bank something—” She broke off, nodding at the paper. “That’s the bill for Hill Top Farm, Miss Potter
. Mr. Jennings hasn’t paid it. It’s one and eight. I thought . . . well, I was hoping you might be able to settle it up today.”
“Oh, dear,” Beatrix said, and looked down at the paper. One pound and eight shillings for the vet’s visit and some medicine for Kitchen, the cow, who had had a badly infected foot several months ago. She pushed her chair back, shaking her head. She remembered now when Mr. Jennings had sent her the bill, along with several others. Mr. Jennings had asked for the money, but she had put him off because of not having received her royalties. (“This is what comes,” she thought crossly to herself, “of people not doing business properly.”) She had finally sent a cheque, but apparently Mr. Jennings hadn’t yet paid Mr. Sutton.
“I had no idea that the account wasn’t settled,” she said. “I’ll take care of this immediately.”
Deirdre closed her eyes, and let out her breath. “Thank you, Miss Potter,” she said, in a voice that was close to tears. “Oh, thank you!”
“You don’t need to thank me,” Beatrix said firmly, getting her purse out of the dresser. “It should have been paid before this.” She counted out one pound and eight shillings onto the table.
Deirdre took out a pencil and carefully wrote PAID and the date on the bill. “Thank you,” she said again, and put the money into a leather purse. “You’ve given me courage. I just hope that the rest of the people feel as you do.”
“The rest?” Beatrix sat down, frowning. “Do you have many more accounts to collect?”
“Twenty,” Deirdre said, and looked out the window. She gave a shaky laugh. “The snow complicates things. I’m afraid it’s going to take a little while.”
The Tale of Briar Bank Page 11