Mr. Barrow, the owner of the Tower Bank Arms, had taken his plate to the window for a better light and was carefully examining the pickled tongue, perhaps comparing it to the same dish as it was prepared by Mrs. Barrow and served to diners at the pub.
Bertha and Henry Stubbs stood in another corner, with Lucy and Joseph Skead. Mr. Stubbs, the ferryman, was looking extremely cheerful, no doubt because he was having a holiday (the ferry still wasn’t operating) and enjoying free food. Mr. Skead, however, wore a mournful expression, befitting the man who had dug Mr. Wickstead’s grave and seen him lowered into it at the private burial that had taken place that morning.
The fireplace mantel was heavily draped in black, with green ferns, white carnations, and a large black bow perfectly centered. In front of it stood Miss Nash, headmistress of Sawrey School, chatting quietly with Grace Lythecoe. Beside Mrs. Lythecoe stood Vicar Samuel Sackett. The vicar was glancing toward Mrs. Llewellyn with a half-defiant look, Beatrix thought, remembering what Sarah Barwick had said about that lady’s disapproval of the vicar’s frequent visits to Mrs. Lythecoe. (She herself felt it would be a very good thing if Vicar Sackett were to marry Mrs. Lythecoe, if that’s what the two of them planned to do. Not only would the vicar benefit, but the whole parish would be the better for it.)
And in another grouping, Beatrix saw Captain Woodcock, Major Kittredge, and Dimity. Dimity was wearing a pretty dark gray maternity dress that made her look like a plump gray dove. She was seated on a sofa with Lady Longford. Dimity caught her eye and waved and smiled, and Beatrix smiled back, shaking her head just a little. She would have been glad to join her friend, but one session with Lady Longford would do for the entire day.
And then something puzzling happened. As Beatrix watched, the gentleman she had seen in the village the afternoon before—the tall, thin, dark-whiskered man with the camera—came up to Captain Woodcock and introduced himself. Beatrix couldn’t hear, but Mr. Heelis had told her the man’s name. He was Joseph Adams, the photographer who was staying with the Crooks and was going around with his camera, taking photographs of various picturesque scenes. He did not have his camera with him now, of course, and Beatrix wondered why he was here. Had he been acquainted with Mr. Wickstead? Perhaps he had photographed the collections, as had her father. Or perhaps he had simply come with the Crooks—but in that case, what was his business with Captain Woodcock?
After a moment, Mr. Adams and Captain Woodcock stepped to one side and continued talking, the captain frowning intently, Mr. Adams’ face grave. Another moment, and Captain Woodcock was beckoning to Mr. Heelis, who had just come into the drawing room. Mr. Heelis was introduced to Mr. Adams, and then the three of them carried on what was obviously a serious conversation, putting their heads together and speaking in low voices. At one point, all three men glanced in the direction of the group around Miss Wickstead, as if they were discussing someone there. The skittish Miss Wickstead? Mr. Knutson, of the robin red-breast waistcoat? Or perhaps the fox-like gentleman?
It was all very curious, Beatrix thought. Something was afoot—what was it? But she was not likely to find out at the moment, so unless she wanted to join Dimity and Lady Longford, she should have to find something else to occupy herself. That was the bother of gatherings. One had to be sociable whether one wanted to or not, or feel oneself a fifth wheel, if not totally outcast.
But there was another alternative. At the opposite end of the drawing room were the double doors that opened into the oak-paneled library where Mr. Wickstead had kept his antiquities. Beatrix went through them and into the library, which was happily empty of people, and spent several moments looking at the locked, glass-fronted cases in which were displayed the ancient coins and bowls and jewelry and works of art that Mr. Wickstead had collected, all uniquely contrived and (to Beatrix’s eye) extraordinarily beautiful. Several pieces were so cleverly detailed that her fingers itched for a pencil so that she could sketch them. What would Miss Wickstead do with all these lovely things, now that they were hers? Did she admire them as much as her brother had? Or perhaps she had no interest in them. Such rare and valuable items belonged in a museum, of course, but other collectors would certainly be willing to pay a great deal to acquire them. Would she sell?
“Pardon me,” said a voice, cultured and supercilious. “Are you acquainted with Mr. Wickstead’s collections?”
Beatrix turned. It was the elegant gentleman with the fox-colored hair and the handkerchief. Mr. Smythe-Jones.
“A little,” Beatrix admitted.
“Well, then,” said Mr. Smythe-Jones, fluttering his handkerchief. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to direct me to his recent acquisition. A Viking hoard, I understand.” He swept the room with his gaze—an avaricious gaze, Beatrix thought, that took everything in, weighed it, measured it, and put a price tag on it.
“You shall have to ask Miss Wickstead about that,” Beatrix said politely. “I’m afraid I know nothing of it.”
The man stamped his foot. “Miss Wickstead claims not to know anything of it, either!” he exclaimed angrily. “No one knows anything of it—or if they do, they won’t say. But it’s here, I tell you! I’ve come all the way from London to find and buy it and I won’t be turned away!”
Beatrix herself felt suddenly angry. “I can do no better than to refer you to Mr. Wickstead’s solicitor,” she said coldly. She turned to the open door and pointed. “He is the gentleman in the dark suit.”
Smythe-Jones stormed out without so much as a thank-you, and Beatrix turned back with relief to her examination of the displays. It was a good thing that Dr. Butters had been so sure Mr. Wickstead’s death was accidental. If not, the foxy gentleman might find himself under suspicion.
“Oh, here you are, Bea,” Sarah Barwick said, entering the room. “Is this the old gent’s collection?”
“Yes,” Beatrix said, looking up. “A part of it, anyway—there was more when I was here earlier with my father, but I imagine it’s locked away. It’s quite remarkable, isn’t it?”
“If you say so,” Sarah replied. “I’m more of a modern person, myself.” She glanced around. “I wonder where the treasure is. Now, that’s something I’d love to get a look at.”
“You and everyone else,” Beatrix said with a little laugh. “Mr. Smythe-Jones was just telling me that he intended to buy it and take it back to London.” She paused. “Is it quite certain that there’s a treasure? P’rhaps it’s only just a lot of talk. You know how people are—worse than magpies for chatter.”
“Could be just gossip, I suppose,” Sarah said doubtfully. “Although Billie Stoker certainly seemed sure of himself. And of course, it could really be a Viking treasure. There were plenty of Vikings around here, I’ve been told, eons and eons ago. They could’ve buried anything anywhere, I s’pose.”
“That’s true,” Beatrix said slowly. “There was a great hoard found some years ago at Cuerdale, on the River Ribble. I’ve seen it in the British Museum.”
“Well, there you are, then. P’rhaps he did find something.” Sarah tilted her head. “What did you think of my Savoy cake, Bea? Mrs. Stoker gave it pride of place on the table.”
“I haven’t had any yet,” Beatrix replied. “Actually, I haven’t eaten, although the table looks lovely.”
“Better hurry,” Sarah cautioned, “or it will all be gone. Mr. Crook and Mr. Llewellyn were on their way for second helps. The two of them could clear that table in a flash. In fact, I’d better get back to the kitchen and see if all my baked goods have been put out.”
As Sarah turned to go, her brown woolen skirt caught on one of the carvings of a small three-legged table topped by a tall stack of books. The table teetered. She caught it, but too late—the books slid with a crash onto the floor.
“Oh, blast,” she muttered, kneeling down to pick them up. “Skirts are such a bother, always getting caught on things. If I had my way, there’d be a law saying that all women have to wear trousers.”
Beatrix had mixed feelings
on the subject of trousers. They were highly appropriate for bicycling and climbing over walls, and she had no objection to others wearing them. But she herself was a bit old-fashioned on the subject, preferring skirts. She knelt beside Sarah to help, gathering up two books—Oliver Twist and Vanity Fair, both favorites of hers—with Mr. Wickstead’s name written on the flyleaf. She held them in her hands, thinking how sad it was that he would never read them again.
“Oh, look, Bea,” Sarah said eagerly. She had picked up a larger volume, leather-bound, with gilt embossing on a fancy cover. “It’s a family album.” She had opened to a title page on which was written, in a slanting copperplate:
Wickstead Family Album
“Perhaps Miss Wickstead gave it to her brother when they were reunited,” Beatrix mused. She loved looking at old photos—there were such a lot of them in her family, because her father was a keen photographer who could never let an occasion go by without lining everyone up for the obligatory photographs. Sometimes you could learn a great deal about people just by looking at their pictures. Her mother kept her lips pressed tight together and never smiled at the camera or looked at any members of the family. Her brother Bertram, who was married and living on a farm in Scotland, usually stood just a little apart from the family group, stiffly, as if he were holding in a secret—as he was, of course. Their parents knew nothing of Bertram’s marriage, which he had kept secret from them for some seven years.
“I wonder if there are any photos of Manchester,” Sarah said. “That’s where the Wicksteads are from, I understand. Like me. Maybe I’ll see something I recognize.” She began turning the pages, holding the album so that Beatrix could look, too. Photographs, newspaper clippings, and other things had been pasted onto the pages, some with captions written beside them in the same sloping hand that had created the title page. “Yes, it’s definitely Manchester,” Sarah added. “There’s the Town Hall.”
“And that’s the cathedral tower,” Beatrix said, pointing to another photo. “The year Grandmama died, Papa and I stood on the street and listened to the bell. Papa thought the sound of it very fine. After that, we went to see Grandpapa’s warehouse in Mosley Street, and the house in Ex-mouth Terrace where Papa was born.”
Beatrix half-smiled, remembering. Her father had enjoyed showing her around the city where he’d grown up. It had been an adventure, just the two of them. Her first tram ride, actually, and she’d found it great fun. Her smile faded. That was long before Norman’s proposal, of course. The way her father had behaved—as if she were disgracing the entire family by marrying someone who worked for a living—had changed everything. She could never again feel the same affection she had felt for him as a girl.
“And here is Mr. Wickstead’s dad and mum,” Sarah said thoughtfully, turning the page.
Beatrix shook her head to clear away the memories and bent for a closer look at the captions. Dad, said one, under a photo of a jaunty-looking man in a bowler hat. Mum and Dad and Louisa, said another—a pretty, brown-haired woman seated in a chair in a garden, a year-old baby on her lap and the bowler-hatted man standing beside her. Dad and Little Hughie, said a third. The same man, but without his hat, held a boy of two or three in his arms. The child had blond curls and was wearing a ruffled white pinafore.
“Makes you sad, doesn’t it?” asked Sarah, studying the photos. “I wonder how the family happened to get split up. The mum and dad must have died—mustn’t they?—because the little boy was chucked off to an orphanage. Wonder where Miss Wickstead grew up. Was she in another orphanage, or with relatives? Maybe the relatives wanted a little girl but wouldn’t take a boy. Which happens sometimes. A great pity, I’d say. No wonder the brother and sister were so glad to be reunited.” She turned another page, and then another—pictures of people, pictures of houses.
“Stop, Sarah!” Beatrix exclaimed suddenly, and put her hand on Sarah’s. “Turn back, please!”
“What? To this page?” Sarah asked, doing as she was bid.
“No, one more,” Beatrix commanded. She was frowning, and something—surprise, disbelief, apprehension?—had suddenly knotted tight inside her. “There.” She pointed at a photograph. “Look there!”
“ ‘Wickstead Family Home,’ ” read Sarah, “ ‘1865.’ ” She whistled between her teeth, looking at a photo of a large stone house with a Greek-Revival portico, tall windows, and a great many chimney pots. “Poor little Hughie Wickstead, turned out of a mansion like this and sent off to an orphanage. Looks like the family had quite a lot of money at some point, although I suppose they must have lost it. Maybe it happened when Mum and Dad died, and—”
“But that’s not their family home,” Beatrix said in a low, trembling voice. She was staring at it incredulously. “That’s the house my mother was raised in, Sarah! That’s Gorse Hall, in Stalybridge, just to the east of Manchester.”
“Of course. I know where Stalybridge is.” Sarah frowned. “But you can’t be remembering right, Beatrix. You see what it says? Right there.” She pointed. “ ‘Wickstead Family Home.’ Your mother’s home might be similar, but—”
“I don’t care what it says, Sarah!” Beatrix said fiercely, now beginning to feel quite angry at the idea that someone, anyone, would usurp one of her favorite houses. “I have been in Gorse Hall too many times to count. My grandparents built it in 1835 with stone from a local quarry, on property they bought from the Dukinfield family.” She jabbed a finger at the photograph. “You see that window? That’s the room I slept in when we visited—the old nursery. There was a music box, and a rocking horse, and engravings on the stairs. The house is on a hill, and you could look out and see Grandpapa Leech’s cotton mill in the valley. And there was an orchard, and a bowling green, and Grandmama Leech’s formal garden.” She took a deep breath. “It’s the same house, I tell you! It’s Gorse Hall!”
Sarah looked uneasy. “Well, p’rhaps the Wicksteads bought it afterward,” she reasoned. “After your grandmother died.”
“Impossible,” Beatrix said flatly. “The house sat empty for a very long time, and then it was bought by a mill owner named Storrs. He gave it to his son as a wedding present.” She stopped, her mouth suddenly dry. “In fact, his son was murdered in the house just last month. George Harry Storrs, his name was. The story has been in all the newspapers.”
“Murdered!” Sarah scoffed, but her tone was uneasy. “You’re having me on, Bea.”
“Would I joke about something like that?” Beatrix demanded impatiently. “Anyway, look at the date that’s written beside the photograph: 1865. My grandfather died in 1861, and Grandmama Leech stayed on in the house. She was living there in 1865, and she went on living there until she died in 1884.”
Sarah’s eyes were dark, her face troubled. “But I don’t understand, Bea. It doesn’t make any sense. Why would Miss Wickstead put a photograph of your family home into her family album? Did she make a mistake?”
“Well, I suppose it could’ve been a mistake,” Beatrix said, trying to see both sides of the question. “I suppose she might have found the picture in an old scrapbook and just assumed—”
“Yes, that’s right,” Sarah said. “She saw it and jumped to conclusions.”
“On the other hand,” Beatrix said slowly, “she might have done it because she wanted to deceive Mr. Wickstead. And if she was using this photograph to deceive, it’s possible that none of these other photographs are real, either.” She began turning the pages, looking at the photos of people. “Anybody can paste photographs into an album and write anything they please about them. I could paste in photographs of King Edward and Queen Alexandra and call them ‘Mama’ and ‘Papa’ and it wouldn’t make me a princess.”
Sarah cleared her throat. “Really, Beatrix, you can’t think—”
“Of course I can.” Beatrix pointed at the page. “Just look at this, Sarah. The children in these photos are no more than two or three years apart in age, wouldn’t you say? But Mr. Wickstead was older than Miss Wickstead by at leas
t seven or eight years. When she was a year old, he would have been eight or nine.”
“The photographs could have been taken at different times,” Sarah objected.
“They could have, but they weren’t. Look closely, Sarah. They were all taken in the same garden, in front of the same rhododendron shrub. See? There’s the very same rosebush off to the right, against the brick wall. The same brick wall, with the same ivy creeping over it.”
Sarah peered at the photo more closely. “By golly, Bea, you’re right! I’d never have noticed it if you hadn’t pointed it out. There’s the shrub, and the rosebush, and the wall and the ivy—all the very same! If the little girl is Louisa, the boy can’t be Hugh. And vice versa.” She looked up, puzzled. “But why would Mr. Wickstead’s sister write all these wrong captions in her photograph album?”
“Because she’s not really Mr. Wickstead’s sister,” Beatrix replied. “She wanted to convince him that she was his sister and hoped that these photos might strengthen her case.”
“What an awful thing to do,” Sarah exclaimed heatedly. “Poor Mr. Wickstead is dead, God rest his soul, so it can’t matter to him now. But . . .” She puffed out her breath.
“Yes, ‘but,’ ” Beatrix said emphatically. “Miss Wickstead has inherited Mr. Wickstead’s estate. But what if she’s not Miss Wickstead?”
“Not Miss Wickstead! But then, who is she? And why did she do this?”
“There’s only one way to find out.” Beatrix scrambled to her feet. “We’ll ask her.”
Sarah stared up at her. “What? You mean, right now? With all these people here? That’s not such a good idea, Bea. What if she makes a scene?”
The Tale of Briar Bank Page 23