The Tale of Briar Bank

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “But we live in modern times,” Bosworth hurried on. “And there are railways and steamships and telegraphs and telephones and electricity—although not here, necessarily,” he amended. One read about such innovations in newspapers, but they were slow to reach the Land Between the Lakes, where there were as yet no telephones or electricity, although Captain Woodcock did have a motor car, and there were electric lights at Windermere, on the other side of the lake.

  “The thing about dragons—if there were dragons—is that they lived so very long ago. In fact,” he went on, warming to his subject, “I have often heard Great-grandfather Basil Badger say that the Norse folk who settled this area in the ninth and tenth centuries were very well acquainted with dragons. Mythical dragons, that is. They wrote about them in their sagas and pictured them on their jewelry and shields and—”

  “And put them on the prows of their ships,” said Bailey impatiently, stopping for a moment. “Yes, yes, of course, the Vikings were well acquainted with dragons. They understood them. They lived with them. But the dragons are not entirely mythical. And not fossilized, either.” He gave Bosworth a meaningful look, as if he had just made an important point, and resumed his pacing.

  Bosworth frowned, sensing that he had somehow missed the significance. “But the Vikings have been dead for centuries,” he protested. “All that’s left of them are the old stone crosses and the names they gave to places. Any dragons they might have brought with them are dead, too.”

  He concluded with a “so there” flourish, feeling much an expert on the topic. His great-grandfather had been a serious student of Viking history and lore, and Bosworth was well aware that the human language and dialects of the Lake District were heavily influenced by the Norsemen who landed on the western coast and moved inland during the tenth and eleventh centuries. If you should be so fortunate as to visit there, please watch for the evidence of their long-ago occupation, which you may see all around: their sheep (the ancestors of the hardy Herdwicks who still live on the fells), their stone-built farmsteads, their customs, along with words that both describe the landscape and evoke it: tarn for lake and fell for hill and beck and ghyll for stream. And when you look at a map of the Lake District, be on the lookout for the many Norse place names, some of which may make you smile. Bassenthwaite and Newbiggen and Skiddaw Dodd, and Hardknott, for instance.

  But Bailey wasn’t smiling at Bosworth’s glib defense. “So the dragons have all died, have they?” He rolled his eyes and sat back down in the rocking chair. “And just how long do you think a dragon lives?”

  The professor, who knew a great deal about a great many things, let out a long, slow breath. “A very looong time, nooo doubt.” His tone suggested that this was not something to which he had given a great deal of thought.

  Bosworth thought for a moment, then hazarded a guess. “A hundred years, perhaps? Two hundred?”

  Bailey snorted.

  Bosworth, of course, was thinking of the professor’s “very long time” in terms of badger generations. And since a badger life span is just fifteen years, a century is a very long time. Now feeling himself at a distinct disadvantage, he said, “Well, then, how long do they live?”

  “Hundreds of years,” Bailey said. “Thousands.” He paused, so as to give more weight to what he said next. “A dragon the Vikings brought with them—a real one, that is, not just the ones on their shields or their boats—might easily be alive still. In fact,” he added grimly, “one of them is very much alive, as I can attest.”

  Thorn was staring at the visitor, wide-eyed, with an indescribable astonishment. “You’re telling us,” he said incredulously, “that a dragon has lived here—in the Land Between the Lakes—since the time of the Vikings?”

  The professor did a quick calculation. “That would be,” he said definitively, “ten centuries. Mooore ooor less.”

  “That’s what I’m telling you.” Bailey held up his bandaged paw. “In witness whereof, I offer you this.” He extended it shakily.

  Oh, if only Pickles could have seen and heard this testimony, the very proof that Rascal had asked him for! Or perhaps it isn’t, since Bailey has not yet told us exactly how his paw came to be burnt. I suppose he might be making up the story to account for his quite unaccountable swim in the freezing waters of Moss Eccles Lake. But still, it does seem as though we are getting closer to the truth.

  Thorn leaned toward Bosworth. “It’s a burn, all right,” he said, in a low voice. “The paw is badly singed, all the way to the elbow. I noticed it when I pulled him out of the water.”

  “And a very nasty burn it is, too,” Parsley put in, stepping forward with another plate of scones, fresh from the oven. “But I think it will heal right away, Mr. Bailey, sir,” she added reassuringly. “I applied plenty of old Mrs. Prickle-Pin’s comfrey salve. ’Tis the very best thing for a burn.”

  Glad for the distraction, Bosworth took a scone. “Let me see if I understand this correctly, Bailey. You had a close encounter with a dragon that resulted in a singed paw—”

  “Barbequed badger, if I hadn’t dived into the water,” Bailey said, in a dark tone. “The lake was the only safe place. Of course, it was the other dragon, Yllva. Not my friend.”

  “Your friend?” the owl hooted in a disbelieving tone. “Yooou are talking about a dragon?” He helped himself as Parsley handed round the tray. “Thank yooou, Parsley. Yooor scooones are delicious.”

  “Yes,” Bailey repeated firmly. “My friend would never have done such a thing, even if he did bring that yew tree down on Mr. Wickstead’s head. That was an accident.”

  “A dragon brought down the tree?” Bosworth asked, startled.

  Bailey nodded. “The thing is that he’s a rather young dragon, and he’s been cooped up in close quarters for seven or eight centuries. He doesn’t have a very good sense of how big he is—although he’s certainly not very large, compared to Yllva.” He shuddered. “I had to get away from her fire-burner. That’s why I went into the lake.”

  “Fire-burner?” Thorn repeated, as if he weren’t sure that he had heard correctly.

  “Fire-burner, flame-thrower, furnace, incinerator, chimneypot. Whatever you like to call the part of a dragon that makes the fire,” said Bailey.

  “Incinerator, chimneypot,” said Bosworth, under his breath. “Oh, dear.” He settled back into his chair and began to eat his scone, feeling in need of sustenance. “I think that we had better hear the story. The whole story, I beg you, Bailey. From beginning to end.”

  “And dooo not leave anything out,” instructed the professor.

  “Not even the smallest detail,” said Thorn, picking up the teapot to pour tea into Bosworth’s cup.

  The owl scowled. “This sooo-called dragon, the one who killed Mr. Wickstead. What’s his name?”

  “Thorvaald,” said Bailey.

  “Excuse me.” The owl leaned forward. “I didn’t quite get that.”

  “T-h-o-r-v-a-a-l-d,” Bailey said. “Double a. And he didn’t kill Mr. Wickstead. Not on purpose, anyway. I was there. I saw it all.”

  Thorn raised his head, his eyes widening. “You were there?”

  “Well—”

  “Thorn!” Bosworth exclaimed as tea spilled over the rim of his cup and onto the floor. “Mind what you’re about, young fellow!”

  “Ah, sorry, sir,” Thorn muttered, and went to fetch a mop-up cloth.

  At that moment, the clock began to chime. The owl looked up regretfully. “Oooh, dear,” he said, and gobbled the rest of his scone, scattering crumbs all around him. “Is it really sooo late? I’m afraid I shan’t be able tooo stay for the story. I must fly.”

  “Not in here, please,” said Bosworth hurriedly, for the professor (whilst he was a very intelligent owl when it came to such things as calculating the position of Mars or the phase of the moon) was apt to be absentminded about takeoffs and landings. To Bailey, he added, “I’ll be back in a moment. Don’t go on with your story until I’ve returned.”

&
nbsp; “I shan’t,” said Bailey, and yawned widely.

  Bosworth saw the professor to the front door and waved goodbye as he flew off, then turned and hurried back to the fire to hear the rest of the story. But Bailey’s chin had dropped to his chest and he had fallen fast asleep. And since there is no telling how long the badger will nap, we shall take this opportunity to hurry back down the hill to Sawrey Village to see whether Mr. Heelis has as yet found his way to Hill Top Farm.

  13

  In Which Mr. Heelis and Miss Potter Make a Surprising Discovery

  After Deirdre left, Beatrix got out her watercolors and began coloring the drawing she had made of Mrs. Tittlemouse and the humblebees. She was troubled, though, wishing she had not been so quick to agree to help Deirdre with her scheme to collect the money owed to Mr. Sutton. Money was always such a troubling subject—as she very well knew from her own experience with Harold Warne. But she had agreed, and she would honor her promise, no matter how awkward she felt about the business.

  After a while, she put down her brush and put on her blue coat and her favorite floppy-brimmed felt hat and went out to the barn to say an affectionate hello to the farmyard creatures: Kitchen and Blossom, the Galloway cow and her calf; Aunt Susan and Dorcas, the pigs; and Kep the collie. She still occasionally kept pets at Bolton Gardens, for the times when she needed models for her drawings. But her latest books had been about the farm animals and the village dogs and cats, and she was beginning to feel very close to them. They had more freedom than caged pets, and their lives seemed more mysterious, somehow—fuller, richer, more various, more real. And what’s more, they were part of the farm life she was learning to love. So as she said hello, she gave each of them a careful looking-over, to make sure that they were all in good health and seemed happy. She lingered to collect a few eggs from Bonnet and Boots—only a few of the older and more experienced hens went on laying through the winter—and exchange greetings with the Puddle-ducks, noting that Jemima was nowhere around.

  “That preposterous duCK has flown off with that QUACK ridiculous fox again,” said Jemima’s sister-in-law, Rebecca. “An unnatural union. Heaven only knows what they see in each other.”

  “Our Jemima hasn’t been QUACK right in the head since she hatched that nestful of QUACK tortoises,” said Rachel Puddle-duck in a tone that mixed sympathy with disapproval—rather more of the latter.

  “She wasn’t right before then, either,” retorted Rebecca snappishly. “Always wanting to go off on her own, instead of staying in the barnyard, tending to QUACK business.”

  Beatrix shook her head. Jemima seemed to come and go as she chose, although no one could quite think how she got out of the various coops into which she was put. One almost suspected magic. (You’ll find the full story of Jemima, the fox, and the tortoises, in The Tale of Hawthorn House.)

  In his stall, Winston, the shaggy brown pony, lifted his head with a pleasant whinny. “Mornin’, Miss Potter. Up from London again, are we?”

  “Good morning, Winston,” she said, scratching his ears. “I’ve given you a holiday today, but tomorrow, you and I are taking the sleigh up to Briar Bank House, with a stop at Tidmarsh Manor.”

  “Nay!” Winston tossed his head obstinately. “You need a horse for that sleigh! I’m a mere pony. It’s too heavy for me.”

  “Don’t worry,” Beatrix said, smoothing his mane. “The lane will be well traveled by that time, and we’ll breeze right along.”

  “Don’t worry,” Winston muttered in a sepulchral voice. “It’s not herself that’s doin’ the pullin’, now is it?” Sulkily, he shook off her hand and retired to the rear of his stall. “City ladies have no idea how hard a farm pony has to work.”

  “Don’t pay him any mind, Miss Potter,” barked Kep, the farm collie and one of Beatrix’s favorites. “He’ll do as he’s bid, I’ll see to that. And a fine job he’ll make of it, too.” Kep, whose task it was to keep the barnyard animals in line, slipped into the stall and nipped sharply at Winston’s hoof. “Won’t you, Winston?”

  “But I do wonder,” Beatrix said, “whether I’ve made a mistake.” She frowned at the pony. He did a fine job pulling the pony cart, but he really wasn’t very large. “The sleigh might be too heavy for you, Winston. Perhaps I’ll ask Mr. Llewellyn if I might borrow one of his horses.”

  “There, y’see, Kep?” Winston gave a triumphant flick of his brown tail. “We’ll make a farmer out of this city lady yet!”

  “If she says go, you’ll go,” Kep growled. “Stay, you’ll stay. She’s the boss.”

  Beatrix smiled, thinking (not for the first time) how clever animals were, and how it was almost possible to know what they were saying. She left the barn and was just going back to the house with her basket of eggs when someone called her name. She turned.

  “Why, Mr. Heelis!” she exclaimed, discovering that she was suddenly quite flustered. “How . . . how very nice to see you!”

  “Delighted to see you, Miss Potter,” Mr. Heelis said, doffing his brown bowler hat. “Mr. Llewellyn has just finished plowing a path up Market Street. I thought perhaps you might like to walk up to Castle Farm and inspect the repairs to the barn. The job was finished last week—before the snowfall, I’m glad to say.”

  “What a very good idea,” Beatrix said. “But I’ve been outside for a bit. I should like to warm up first. Would you care for a cup of tea? Or perhaps lunch?” She held out her basket. “The hens produced only four eggs this morning, but there are enough for an omelet. I should be glad to make it for you. I don’t do much cooking, but I’m happy to say I’m rather good with omelets.”

  “Thank you, no,” Mr. Heelis said, as he followed Beatrix into the house. “The constable and I have just had a hot mutton pie and some of Mrs. Barrow’s bread pudding. But I could certainly do with a cup of tea, if you’re making one for yourself. I’ve been at the Wickstead inquest all morning,” he added, as if in explanation. “It’s dry work.”

  “Poor Mr. Wickstead,” Beatrix said, hanging up her coat and shawl on the pegs behind the door. “He was struck down by a tree, Miss Barwick told me.”

  “Yes,” Heelis said. He frowned as he took off his brown overcoat and hung it beside Miss Potter’s blue woolen coat—a handsome coat, he thought in passing, nearly the same color as her eyes. “An unlucky accident. I must say, it is rather curious, though.”

  “Curious?” Miss Potter asked, putting the kettle on. “How so?”

  Will came close to the fire, holding out his hands to warm them. “I’ve just seen some photographs,” he said, pulling himself back to the subject. “Constable Braithwaite took them, of the yew tree that came down on poor Wickstead. There are what appear to be claw marks on it. The marks of quite a large animal. At the top of the tree.”

  “My goodness,” Miss Potter said, turning to face him, quite surprised. “But that is very odd, isn’t it? The largest wild animal in this area is the badger. I’ve often seen their claw marks on trees, but only near the bottom, where they’ve scratched off the bark, looking for grubs.”

  “Oh, it was larger than a badger,” Will said, and sat down at the table. “Three or four times as large, easily.” He looked around, admiring the way the firelight winked from the brass and china and thinking that Miss Potter had made the old farmhouse—which had been dirty and uncared for when she bought it—into something quite beautiful and very comfortable. Furnished it with antiques, too, like that oak dresser and that old clock with the painted face. And the spinning wheel, with a basket of fleece and spindle full of spun yarn. Real treasures that made him think of his grandmother’s home, where he had spent happy days as a child.

  “Twice as large as a badger.” Miss Potter tilted her head to one side. “If I might make a suggestion,” she said, “perhaps the photographs could be sent to Professor Trevor Hall, at Carlisle. I met him at the museum there. He is quite expert on the natural history of this area—he may be able to venture an opinion about the marks.”

  “Jolly good ide
a, Miss Potter!” Will exclaimed, wondering why he hadn’t thought of it. “I shall obtain copies of the photographs and take care of the matter myself.”

  “So it is settled that Mr. Wickstead was killed by the tree,” Miss Potter said quietly, as she measured tea into a pretty china teapot.

  “That’s the jury’s verdict,” Will said. “Dr. Butters’ opinion, as well. Accidental death. No foul play involved.” He tilted his head and gave her a teasing smile. “No mysteries to solve, I’m afraid, Miss Potter. Unless, that is, you’d like to tackle the mystery of the claw marks. Or Lady Longford’s burnt barn.”

  When they were first acquainted, Will remembered, Miss Potter had used her knowledge of painting to put an end to a ring of art thieves, and not long after—through powers of observation that still seemed to him quite remarkable—had identified the man who shoved old Ben Hornby off the cliff. Reflecting on this now, Will thought he had never met anyone with Miss Potter’s astonishing knack for seeing through things, past the surface features, with all their distractions, to the essential reality beneath. Perhaps it was her artist’s eye, or her attention to small details, he thought. Whatever it was, it seemed to him quite uncanny.

  But Miss Potter did not apparently take his remark as expressing admiration. She turned away, flushing. “I hope I have not seemed very forward,” she said, in a low voice. “Or intrusive. Meddling in situations that are none of my business, I mean. I should not like you to think—”

  “Oh, no, not at all!” Mr. Heelis exclaimed, very warmly. “I am sorry—really, I am!—if I seemed to be teasing you. That was not my intention.” And quite without knowing what he was doing, he found himself taking her hand.

  She turned and looked at him quite directly, saying nothing. The color had flooded her cheeks and her eyes were very blue. And shining, yes, they were shining, as if lit by some inner light, and he saw that they were wet with tears.

  “I hope I haven’t offended you,” he said, feeling like an awkward schoolboy who has said exactly the opposite from what he meant and has hurt someone whose good opinion he valued. “Please forgive me, Miss Potter.” He looked down at the small hand he was holding, and knew that he should let it go. He tried, and found that he couldn’t. “I mean—”