The Tale of Briar Bank

by Susan Wittig Albert

  At the touch of Beatrix’s hand, Miss Wickstead had raised her head, the tears streaming down her face. “It’s true!” she sobbed. “I never meant anything at all! It was just a job. I was only to find the treasure and tell—” She stopped.

  “Tell who?” Mr. Heelis asked, leaning forward.

  Miss Wickstead pressed her lips together, her glance darting from side to side as if she wished she could flee.

  “Whom were you to tell, Miss Wickstead?” the captain demanded roughly. “Come on, now, come clean. Out with it! Tell us what you were aiming to steal.”

  “But I wasn’t aiming to steal it!” she cried, her eyes widening. “No, never! Not that at all, truly!”

  Beatrix saw that the captain was about to say something angry and insulting, and forestalled him with a shake of her head. “Miss Wickstead,” she said, “will you tell us who employed you?”

  Miss Wickstead looked at her wildly. “How did you—” She stopped, and her voice dropped. “Employed? What makes you think that?”

  “I believe you were employed to learn about the treasure Mr. Wickstead is said to have found. It would be easier to do that, of course, if you were in the house, if only for a short time. You might have come seeking employment, but there was none to be found here. So you came as a relative. A long-lost sister.” She paused. “Perhaps it would be easier if I could call you by your real name. It must be painful for you to hear yourself continually addressed as Miss Wickstead.”

  “It is so painful I can scarcely bear it,” the lady said, in a very low voice. There was a long silence. At last, she said, “My name is Emily Mason.”

  Beatrix smiled. “Thank you, Miss Mason. There. That is a relief for me, and it must be for you.”

  Miss Mason nodded wordlessly, the tears spilling over her cheeks.

  “It is true, then,” Beatrix went on, “that you came to Briar Bank posing as Mr. Wickstead’s sister?”

  Miss Mason’s “yes” was barely audible.

  “And you came in search of the treasure?”

  “Yes.” Miss Mason cleared her throat. “But I didn’t . . . didn’t stay for that.” She put out her hand to Beatrix. “I was supposed to leave when I found it and took the picture, Miss Potter. My work was over then. But I stayed because I began to—” Her voice broke.

  Captain Woodcock started to say something but Mr. Heelis put a cautioning finger to his lips. It was as if the two women had forgotten their presence and were alone together in the room.

  Beatrix took Miss Mason’s hand. It was icy cold, the fingers like frozen twigs. “You stayed because you began to care,” she said.

  “Mr. Wickstead was very kind to me. He accepted me without question. He was loving, in all the ways a brother should be.” Miss Mason closed her eyes. “No one had ever loved me in that way before, Miss Potter. He wanted me to stay.” She shook her head, her voice falling almost to a whisper. “He offered me a home. A real home, for the first time in my life.”

  “And yet you were concealing yourself from him,” Beatrix said, still holding the hand and thinking how hard it must have been for Miss Mason to feel herself loved and wanted, but under false pretences. “It must have been dreadfully painful for you. I imagine that you would have much preferred to tell him why you had come. Had you done so, I think he would have forgiven you.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he would have!” Miss Mason cried. She pulled her hand back, took out her handkerchief, and wiped her eyes. “If only I could have told him—” She stopped.

  “Told him?” Beatrix prodded gently, and then hazarded a guess, based on what she had seen of the group around Miss Mason in the drawing room. “About Mr. Knutson?”

  Miss Mason’s eyes grew large. There was a long silence, and then a sigh. “You know?”

  “Only a little.”

  “Well, then, I suppose you might as well know the rest.” And in very simple terms, she told them the story. She had been approached by Mr. Sven Knutson, the director of a Norwegian museum, who had heard that a treasure of immense value had been found by an antiquarian in the Lake District. The antiquarian, Mr. Wickstead, had refused to discuss his find or to reveal any of the details, but Mr. Knutson was persuaded that he had truly discovered something significant and that it was a Viking treasure. In his opinion—a passionate opinion, arising out of his love of Norway’s heritage—it belonged, not to a British collector nor to the British Crown, but to Norway, and should be returned there. He was prepared to do whatever was necessary to obtain it, but first of all he had to confirm its existence.

  So Mr. Knutson had come to Miss Mason, who had done some investigative work for another museum in the past. He directed her to pass herself off as Mr. Wickstead’s long-lost sister, in order to gain access to the house. Her task was very simple. She was to find the treasure, photograph it, and send the photographs to Mr. Knutson, who would then take care of the rest of the operation.

  “What do you think he was intending to do?” Beatrix asked.

  Miss Mason shook her head, her eyes dark. “I don’t know—that part of it had nothing to do with me. I assumed, of course, that he would try to buy it. But whatever he intended, it didn’t happen.” She raised her head. “I want you to know that. It didn’t happen!”

  Beatrix nodded, saying nothing.

  Miss Mason pulled in a deep breath. “I did what I was supposed to do. It took a while, but I finally found the treasure here in the house, where Mr. Wickstead had hidden it. I took the photographs and sent the lot to Mr. Knutson. He wrote to tell me that, indeed, it was a Viking hoard, but that he needed a closer look so that he could evaluate the pieces. He said he was coming to the village and would book a room at the Arms.”

  “When did he arrive?” Beatrix asked.

  “Last week. He came to Briar Bank on a day when Mr. Wickstead planned to go to Kendal. I gave the servants a half-holiday and prepared to show him the treasure. But it was not where I had last seen it, and I had no idea where it was to be found. Mr. Knutson was very angry. And then Mr. Wickstead was killed, and I was afraid . . .” Her voice broke. “I was afraid . . .”

  “You feared that Mr. Knutson had killed him.”

  “Yes.” Her eyes were swimming with tears. “I could scarcely believe it when Dr. Butters testified that the death was accidental, and the jury’s finding was an enormous relief. At least I wasn’t implicated in . . . in—” Her voice broke.

  “In his death,” Beatrix said. “Or his murder.”

  Miss Mason swallowed painfully. “Yes. But then I learnt that Mr. Wickstead had named me as his heiress—” She broke down completely. She could say nothing more.

  Beatrix put her arms around the weeping woman and held her until she quieted. “I think,” she said to Mr. Heelis, “that we’ve heard all we need to know, at least for the moment. You will discuss the matter with Mr. Knutson?”

  “Yes, of course,” Mr. Heelis said, his eyes on hers with a look she could not quite comprehend.

  “Indeed we will,” Captain Woodcock said, very firmly. “Constable Braithwaite and I will see to that directly. As to Miss Mason, I shall see that she is conveyed to—”

  “As to Miss Mason,” Beatrix said, with equal firmness, “I believe that she will be quite all right here at Briar Bank, for the present.”

  “Heelis!” the captain protested. “We cannot allow—”

  “I agree with Miss Potter,” Mr. Heelis said. “If you like, Woodcock, you might leave instructions that she is not to leave the house.” He gestured toward the window, where the snow had dropped an opaque white curtain. “After all, it is not as if she will be able to leave the district.”

  Beatrix gave him a grateful look. “Thank you, Mr. Heelis,” she murmured.

  20

  We Catch a Dragon by the Tale

  So comes snow after fire and even dragons have their ending.

  J.R.R. Tolkien

  When we last saw our friend Thackeray, he was enjoying a sandwich and a bowl of Parsley’s delicio
us potato soup and the company of the various animals who had gathered around the luncheon table at The Brockery. In addition to the two guinea pigs, there were a half-dozen badgers, a pair of hedgehogs, a trio of mice, several voles, a blind ferret, and a large tawny owl whom everyone called “Professor.” They were all talking at once on a variety of subjects, and to Thackeray’s ears, the hubbub was intense. But whilst there was a great deal of confusion, there was also a great spirit of camaraderie and friendliness, and Thackeray could not help feeling very much at home.

  On Thackeray’s left was seated a badger named Bailey, whose right foreleg and paw were wrapped in white gauze. Somehow (afterward, Thackeray could not quite remember how it happened) the subject of books came up, and it turned out that Bailey, too, was an admirer of Mr. Gibbon, and possessed—mirabile dictu!—all six volumes of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, as well as an extensive library of other notable literary works.

  If Thackeray was almost beside himself with astonishment, Bailey could scarcely believe his good fortune. Fancy encountering a fellow bibliophile over soup and sandwiches! Imagine meeting someone who not only adored evenings reading before the fire, but had had experience in cataloguing a library (as had Thackeray, who had helped his dear book-collecting friend, Mr. Travers)! And when this bibliophile was as fluent and erudite a conversationalist as was this guinea pig—well! I think you can understand Bailey’s delighted feeling that he had met an animal after his own heart. It will come as no surprise to you that when the badger learnt that this remarkable creature was in want of a good home and a good book, he extended an invitation forthwith.

  “Come home with me to Briar Bank,” said Bailey. “You are welcome to read as much as you want and stay as long as you like. There’s plenty of room. And if you are inclined to perhaps take turns in the kitchen and lend a paw in the cataloguing project—well, a bit of help is always welcome. No obligation, of course,” he added offhandedly. “If it doesn’t work out for any reason, no hard feelings.” But deep within, he found himself wishing very much that it would work out, and that he and Thackeray could carry on discussing Gibbons and cataloguing books for a very long time.

  Thackeray was so moved that he could manage only a gulp and a whispered, “Oh, dear me, yes, thank you, I should like that very much!” before he broke into hiccupy sobs and had to be comforted by Tuppenny, who was seated to his right. And the assembled animals greeted Bailey’s announcement that Thackeray had agreed to be his roommate with a round of applause and cheers. For the most part, animals are a companionable lot and are grieved when one lives alone, without company, even when he professes to like it that way.

  “A momentous occasion,” said Bosworth. “I must make a note of this in the History.” He raised his glass. “To friends.”

  “Tooo friends!” hooted the professor. And from all around the table came the gleeful cry, “To friends!”

  And then, as if Bailey’s cup of joy was not almost brimful, it completely spilled over the top when, a few hours later, he opened the front door at Briar Bank. The rug on the floor greeted his toes with a cozy warmth, the pictures on the wall smiled down at him, the lamp glowed with a welcoming warmth, and the whole house seemed to embrace him, whispering happily into his ear, “There you are, old thing, home at last, after such a long time away!” and “Who’s this you’ve brought with you? A new friend? Let’s put another cup on the table.”

  But the dearest, happiest, most astonishing thing of all was the sight of Thorvaald the dragon, who was curled up asleep in a corner of the sitting room, his wings folded, his scaly tail tucked under his nose in the manner of a cat, the iron teakettle tucked close against a belly that glowed faintly pink with banked fire. Thackeray gave a faint cry and hid behind the badger’s bulky form.

  “Thorvaald!” Bailey cried ecstatically. “Oh, my dear, dear, dearest Thorvaald, how wonderful to see you! Where on earth have you been keeping yourself?”

  “Bailey?” The dragon blinked and scrambled to his feet, nearly upsetting the kettle. “Iszs it really you, Bailey?” he cried incredulously. “I thought you were drowned! You dove into the water and disappeared and—”

  “Not drowned! Not drowned at all, but rescued!” cried the badger, dancing a delighted jig. “Dragged out and dried off and well fed and home again. But I thought you had flown away forever, old chap! I imagined that you refused to spend another boring minute guarding that treasure and had gone somewhere to get away from it all—not that I could blame you, of course, not in the slightest. But here you are, back again! It’s beyond belief, that’s what it is. Beyond belief!”

  “I did fly away,” said the dragon. “I had an errand. I had to disposzse of the treaszsure.” He peered behind the badger. “I say, Bailey, it appears that you are being followed by a dish mop.”

  “It’s not a dish mop, it’s a new friend,” Bailey said, pulling the guinea pig out from behind him. “He’s come to live with us.”

  “It lookszs like a dish mop to me,” said the dragon, but in a kindly way. “Doeszs it have a name?”

  “Thackeray, sir,” the guinea pig said in a trembling voice. He knew very well who Thorvaald was, since the badger had told him all about the dragon as they made their way to Briar Bank. He understood that the dragon was a dear friend of Bailey’s. Moreover, he had frequently encountered dragons in the pages of books. But of course, it is one thing to hear or read a story about a dragon and quite another to bump into one in the flesh, especially in such tight quarters, where one inopportune breath could incinerate everything within thirty paces. And while Thackeray had always thought of himself in the largest and most important terms, he felt quite small and insignificant in the company of this creature, as I’m sure you and I would feel, if we were in the same situation.

  “Delighted to meet you, Thackeray,” replied the dragon, with grave politeness. “Any friend of Badger’s iszs a friend of mine.”

  With that assurance, Thackeray felt a little more comfortable. It is no small compliment to be offered friendship by a dragon, even if it does come secondhand.

  “The kettle’s hot, I see,” said Bailey to the dragon, “many thanks to you. We’ll have a cup of tea and Parsley’s scones. Oh, and Bosworth sent along several bottles of nettle beer. There’s nothing much else to eat, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, yes, there is,” said the dragon. “On the way back from London, I flew over a wagon stuck in the snow, abandoned, and full of things to eat. My pockets were empty, so I filled them. It’s all in the cupboard now. Tinned sardines and salmon and peaches, and boxes of biscuits, and German sausages, and pickles and plum cake and marmalade, and oh so much else.”

  “Well done!” cried Thackeray and then quickly subsided, lest the dragon think him impertinent. As you can see, his new colleagues are having quite a salutary effect on our guinea pig’s behavior.

  “Well done, indeed,” said Bailey warmly, really quite beside himself with the unimaginable luxury of it all. “Sardines and salmon and pickles and plum cake and even nettle beer! We shall have ourselves a feast, a right royal feast. And did you say London, old fellow? You must tell us all about it—where you’ve been and what you’ve done.” He paused and grew serious. “And of course, what you mean by ‘dispose of the treasure.’ ”

  So the badger got out his tin opener, while the guinea pig fetched the plates and knives and forks and spoons, and the dragon brought the kettle back to a boil. And then they gathered round the table—yes, a right royal feast indeed!—and Bailey and Thackeray ate their fill and listened raptly whilst Thorvaald told his tale, all about what happened after Mr. Wickstead died and how he came to believe that Bailey had drowned and what he did in consequence and who else was involved and what happened after that. And then, of course, he told what became of the treasure. And since it is an interesting tale and resolves some of the remaining mysteries, perhaps you will want to listen, too.

  The Dragon’s Tale

  Dire portents appeared over Northumbria,
immense whirlwinds and flashes of lightning and fiery dragons were seen flying through the air.

  Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, 793 C.E.

  When Thorvaald saw that the yew tree he was climbing had struck Mr. Wickstead and killed the poor man dead, he was covered filled with shame and deep remorse. He had never meant to cause such a calamity, but what was done could not be undone, so he had flown away to grieve and (as we would say in our own post-Freudian day) work through his issues.

  The dragon had a lot to work through, actually, and not just his guilt over the accidental homicide that he and his tree had just committed. Thorvaald, you see, was an essentially medieval fellow who had gone to sleep when the stirrup and the crossbow were the latest technological marvels. (With the stirrup, a knight could put all his weight behind his lance and skewer a dragon without being unhorsed. With a crossbow, an uncouth peasant could put a steel-tipped bolt through a knight’s Sunday best, or nail a dragon at a remarkable altitude.) But now, Thorvaald found himself wide awake in the company of railway trains, aeroplanes, telephones, and the wireless telegraph. Things had changed. He could no longer tolerate the idea of hunkering down upon two bags of treasure, like a silly goose on a nestful of eggs, for uncounted centuries into the future. What good was there in that? He was sacrificing his whole long life, and for what? For nothing, that’s what!

  Moreover, it was beginning to dawn on Thorvaald that treasure brought out the worst in everyone. Yllva’s stories, which she told with a dragonish relish, were all about knights who murdered other knights over odd bits of gold, and boys who killed giants for their pots of gold, and geese who were slaughtered for their golden eggs. Was there any piece of gold, anywhere, that wasn’t stained with blood? He’d seen it close at hand, too. Mr. Wickstead had taken the gold, and then had been afraid that somebody was out to steal it from him. That’s no way to live, the dragon thought quite sensibly.