The Tale of Oat Cake Crag

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Just listen to those cats carry on,” Grace said, hanging up her coat beside Beatrix’s. “You’d think they were having a conversation.”

  “I’m sure they are,” Beatrix remarked. She put her writing supplies away and refilled the teapot with hot water from the kettle. “Our tea will be ready in a jiffy,” she added. “Now, sit and catch me up on all the news, Grace. I’ve only just come down from London the day before yesterday and have been too busy with the farm and the garden to see anyone but Lucy Skead, at the post office.”

  Grace chuckled. “If you’ve seen Lucy, you’ve probably heard most of the news.”

  She pulled out a chair at the table and sat down. She was a woman of late middle age, dressed in a neat gray skirt, white blouse, and blue knitted jumper, and her dark, silver-streaked hair was twisted into a knot at the back of her head. The widow of the former vicar (that is, the vicar at St. Peter’s before Vicar Sackett came there), Grace had lived in the village for a number of years and was much respected by everyone. Well, almost everyone. If you are at all acquainted with villages, you will know that at least one person in every village bears a grudge, sometimes silently, sometimes not.

  “Perhaps you could tell me about the aeroplane,” Beatrix suggested. “Lucy was interrupted before she could say more than a few words.”

  “Oh, that aeroplane!” Tabitha exclaimed, and switched her tail. “Noisy, wretched, ugly machine! Why the Big Folk want to build such ridiculous contraptions is beyond me.”

  Tabitha always held decided opinions about everything, but in this case, she was voicing the opinion of all the village animals, who had devoted a great deal of heated discussion to the subject since the contraption had appeared. Mostly, it flew up and down Windermere, but it made occasional sorties over the land. And anyway, the noise was so loud that it could be heard for miles. It echoed off the hills and fells and (especially since the animals were not accustomed to loud mechanical noises) always sounded as if it were directly overhead. At first, the dogs and cats had run for cover, thinking that they were under attack. And the birds . . . well, the poor birds could not for the life of them make any sense of the thing. You know how excitable birds are. They fled for their lives, chirping and screeching, shouting that the awful creature was about to gobble them up.

  “Ah, that aeroplane.” Grace sighed. “Or rather, hydroplane, as we are supposed to call it, since it lands and takes off from the water. You’ve heard the beastly thing, then, have you?”

  “Beastly!” Crumpet growled, coming out of the cupboard. “Really, Mrs. Lythecoe, I do wish you wouldn’t use that word. We beasts have nothing at all to do with that mechanical monster. It’s entirely a man-made invention.”

  “Heard it?” Beatrix made a wry face. “I couldn’t not hear it, Grace. I spent the afternoon in the garden, and that infernal buzzing drowned out every other noise. It utterly destroys the peace of the landscape.”

  “It’s even worse for cats than for people, Miss Potter,” Tabitha put in. “Our hearing is remarkably keen, you know. We are terribly sensitive to noise.” To Crumpet, she added, with a superior look, “I see that you couldn’t manage to find a mouse.”

  “There’s not one to be seen,” Crumpet grumbled. “Maybe Felicity’s mended her ways.”

  Beatrix eyed the cats, chuckling. “I’m sorry you were disappointed, Crumpet. Perhaps Mrs. Jennings has been setting mousetraps whilst I’ve been gone. A little milk might make you feel better.” Suiting the deed to the word, she put down a saucer and filled it with milk from the jug. “Tabitha, you can share it, too.”

  “Thank you, Miss Potter,” the cats chorused, and settled down to lap up the milk. They had learnt long ago that most of the Big People could not understand what they said. (This does not include young children, of course, who often know exactly what the cats and dogs are talking about.) But Miss Potter was an exception. Whether it was because she had such a long experience of drawing cats and mice and ducks and dogs and foxes for her little books, or because she had some sort of natural affinity for animals and listened carefully when they spoke, she often appeared to know what they were saying. Not the exact words, perhaps, but the gist of it.

  Beatrix poured tea into two cups, then set out sugar, milk, and lemon. “That hydroplane—it wasn’t flying when I was here last, Grace. How long has this been going on?”

  “About three weeks,” Grace replied. “It has been flown almost every day, even on Sunday, and during Sunday services. St. Peter’s is much nearer the lake, of course, and the pilot has occasionally flown over the church.”

  “Over the church!” Beatrix exclaimed. “How terribly annoying for everyone. But surely there’s something that can be done. Has anyone spoken to Captain Woodcock? As justice of the peace, he ought to be able to put a stop to it.”

  “Unfortunately, the flights take off and land near the eastern shore of the lake, outside of the captain’s jurisdiction.” Grace dropped a sugar cube into her tea. “And I’m afraid that he isn’t so opposed to the thing as the rest of us. He’s a military man, you know. The hydroplane is said—by its developer, anyway—to have scientific and military importance.”

  “Scientific,” Beatrix muttered darkly. “The science of noise, I suppose. Who is this ‘developer’? Someone from London, I suppose, who doesn’t care to preserve the serenity of the Lakes.”

  Grace stirred her tea. “Oddly enough, he’s a local gentleman. Fred Baum, whom I think you know. He’s a neighbor of Dimity and Christopher Kittredge, at Raven Hall. He’s the one who’s putting up the money to build and fly the aeroplane.”

  “Mr. Baum!” Beatrix exclaimed. “I wouldn’t have thought it. Yes, we met at Raven Hall after Dimity’s marriage to Major Kittredge.” She took a sip of tea. “He certainly seemed nice enough, although a little abstracted—and well, rather whimsical. I had no idea that he had any interest in aeroplanes.”

  “Whimsical.” Grace laughed. “Such a tactful way of saying that he’s an eccentric, Beatrix. But he hadn’t any interest in aeroplanes, or so I understand—until a man named Oscar Wyatt came along with the idea. Mr. Wyatt is a pilot and aeroplane builder. He had the notion, apparently, that it is safer for aeroplanes to take off and land on water, rather than on the ground, and was looking for someone to put up the money. Mr. Baum has invested in the project and seems very enthusiastic about it. They built the plane in Manchester and then brought it here, or rather, to Cockshott Point, across the lake. They’ve constructed quite a large shed there—they call it a hangar—and are said to be manufacturing a second plane.” She made a face. “So there will be two of them flying around.”

  “Oh, dear,” Beatrix said, her eyes widening in alarm. “Cockshott Point is quite a lovely place. It’s too bad for it to be used in this way.” She set down her cup. “And two of the wretched things! What if they both fly at once? And commence flying over the village? However will people manage to shut out the noise?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Grace said. “There’s to be a village meeting at the Tower Bank Arms tomorrow evening. I plan to attend—and I understand that Mr. Baum will be there to answer questions. Perhaps you will come?”

  “I certainly shall,” Beatrix said warmly. She pulled her brows together, thinking. “I wonder if anyone has informed Lady Longford of the meeting. Her opinion carries a great deal of weight in the district. Perhaps she could convince Mr. Baum to fly his hydroplane somewhere else—over the ocean, preferably, where there’s no one to be bothered.”

  “Perhaps,” Grace agreed, somewhat dubiously. “If she cared enough to have an opinion. Do you think you might invite her to the meeting, Beatrix? She seems to listen to you.” Lady Longford, who lived a rather aloof life at Tidmarsh Manor, was not known for her support of village concerns. More often, she seemed to turn her back on what the villagers wanted, or even go contrary to their wishes, as if she wanted to spite them.

  “I’ll try,” Beatrix said. “I intended to visit her tomorrow, anyway. I under
stand that Caroline is at home between terms, and I’m hoping to see her.” Lady Longford’s granddaughter, a favorite of Beatrix’s, was studying composition at the Royal Academy of Music.

  “Good,” Grace said. She put down her cup and leaned forward, her gray eyes somber. “But that’s not why I dropped in today, Beatrix. I’m deeply troubled about something—something personal and rather private.” She hesitated, biting her lip. “I’m afraid it might require a bit of . . . well, I suppose you might call it detective work.”

  Now, if this request seems a bit odd, coming out of the blue as it does, perhaps I should remind you that our Miss Potter has been instrumental in solving several village mysteries. The theft of the Constable miniature painting from Anvil Cottage, the mysterious death of poor old Ben Hornby on Holly How, the identity of the baby left in a basket at Hill Top’s door, and (most recently) the fires at Applebeck Farm—these are some of the puzzles that have been handily solved by Miss Potter. In fact, in the six years the villagers have known her, she has earned quite a local reputation for her investigative prowess, although I’m sure that she herself wouldn’t call it that. If we were to ask, she would only say (quite modestly) that she simply used her eyes and her brain and put two and two together when called upon to do so. Any thoughtful person could have arrived at the same conclusions, if he or she had put half a mind to the task. But even Captain Woodcock had felt compelled to accuse Miss Potter of exercising supernatural powers of observation, and to remark that she was easily the equal of Sherlock Holmes.

  “Detective work!” Beatrix exclaimed, taken seriously aback by the look on her friend’s face. “Why, Grace—you look frightened. Whatever is the matter? What can I do?”

  “I am frightened, a little,” Grace said in a low voice. She looked down. “I suppose I should start by telling you that Vicar Sackett has asked me to marry him.”

  Tabitha, full of milk and half-dozing by the fire, suddenly woke up. “You see there, Crumpet?” she crowed. “I told you that Mrs. Lythecoe and the vicar are getting married, and you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “I apologize, Tabitha,” Crumpet said. She harrumphed. “I should have known that you were telling the truth. You’re the biggest eavesdropper I’ve ever seen.”

  “I am not an eavesdropper!” Tabitha retorted huffily. “I was sitting in the very same room when he asked her, warming my paws at the fire.” She sighed. “It’s such a wonderful match, don’t you think?” A sentimental cat, Tabitha had lost her mate many years before and mourned him ever since. “The vicar is a bit dithery, but he has always been one of my favorite people. And Mrs. Lythecoe is . . . well, there’s no one nicer. She is the soul of generosity, especially when it comes to table scraps.”

  “They’ll make a good team,” Crumpet agreed, sitting on her haunches and wiping her milky whiskers with her paw. “As a former vicar’s wife, she certainly knows what she’s letting herself in for. And of course, the parish will be pleased.”

  I daresay that Crumpet is right. Everyone in Claife Parish agrees that the vicar is a wonderful man who has the very best interests of his parishioners at heart. But they also know that the parish is sorely in want of a vicar’s wife, who will bring her woman’s touch to their spiritual community. It is, after all, not quite the thing for the vicar to organize the monthly jumble sale, especially when he’s not all that well organized himself.

  Beatrix clapped her hands delightedly. “The vicar has asked you to marry him? This is exciting news, Grace! I do hope you’ve said yes. When will the wedding take place?”

  “We were planning to marry on April twentieth. The banns have already been read.” Grace fished in her jumper pocket for a handkerchief and blew her nose. “But I’m afraid there are . . . complications.”

  “Complications?” Beatrix studied her friend, frowning. “Vicar Sackett is a wonderful man, Grace. You’ve known each other for ten years or so, and I’m sure that the two of you would be very happy together. What in the world can you mean by ‘complications’? If you love each other and agree that you want to marry, whatever would prevent you?”

  There was a note of envy and perhaps even exasperation in Beatrix’s voice. She herself had been prevented by her parents from marrying Norman Warne, whom they judged “not good enough” for their daughter. An editor who worked at his family’s publishing house and shepherded Beatrix’s books into print, Norman belonged to a different social class than the status-conscious Potters—although, of course, that was not their only reason. They intended to keep their only daughter at home, so that she could look after them in their old age, and had been secretly gratified when Norman had suddenly died. So Beatrix had pretty much resigned herself to being a spinster. Hill Top Farm and her children’s books had given her some of the freedom she craved, but she feared that she could never marry. Not, at least, as long as her parents were alive. And although they were both old and often in ill health, neither showed signs of a serious illness or any indication of reconsidering their resolve. Even now, when Will Heelis was pressing her to . . . but there. I’ve gone too far again. I’m sorry, but that part of our story will just have to wait.

  Grace twisted her handkerchief. “I know I can count on you not to speak of this to anyone else,” she said. Her voice was now so low that Beatrix could almost not hear her words. “I haven’t even told the vicar about ...” She pulled in her breath. “I’ve only told him that I think it might be prudent to delay our wedding a little. He would be devastated if he knew the truth.”

  “Uh-oh,” Tabitha said, her eyes very dark.

  Crumpet looked up. “Uh-oh what?”

  Tabitha shook her head. Her tail twitched from side to side. “I knew that Mrs. Lythecoe was very upset when she got those letters,” she said in a low voice, “and now I know why. It’s blackmail.”

  “If he knew about what?” Beatrix asked. She leaned forward and took her friend’s hand. “My dear Grace, surely there is nothing that would keep you and the vicar from—”

  “Letters.” Grace turned her face away. “Anonymous letters, unsigned. Saying . . . hateful things.”

  “Anonymous letters?” Crumpet was staring at Tabitha. “You knew this? You knew about these letters and you didn’t tell me?”

  “I don’t have to tell you everything, do I?” Tabitha retorted.

  “But you knew!” Crumpet wailed disconsolately. “Why, you probably even know who’s writing those letters! And you didn’t say a word!”

  Tabitha gave her a cross look. “If I told you what I know, the story would be all over the village in no time. You’d never be able to keep quiet about something this important.”

  Now, you might be wondering just what Tabitha knows and how she found it out, and so (I confess) am I. But I must remind us that whilst she may be getting on in years, she is still a highly competitive cat who takes every opportunity to gain the upper paw over Crumpet—and all the other village cats, as well. I am really very sorry, but I can’t tell you whether what Tabitha said just now—what she implied, actually—remotely resembles the truth. She might know something important. In fact, she might even know who is writing those letters. But then again, she might not. Tabitha is not above telling a very large fib just to make herself look and feel important.

  Crumpet, however, took Tabitha at her word. Stung, she sat up on her haunches. “That’s stuff and nonsense,” she spit. “I can keep a secret as well as the next cat!”

  “Oh, really?” Tabitha snarled. “Then how did Rascal find out about what happened in the kitchen at Tower Bank House last week? I told you in the strictest confidence. You promised not to tell a soul! And the next thing I knew, all the animals were talking about it. Why, even Max the Manx had heard the story, all the way over in Far Sawrey.”

  Crumpet shrilled a laugh. “What makes you think I’m the one who told? It could have been anybody. It could have been—”

  “Hush!” Beatrix commanded sternly. “If you cats can’t be quiet, you’re going outdoors.” To Gr
ace, she said, “I am so sorry to hear about this, Grace. It must be perfectly dreadful for you. But surely you ought to just ignore the letters and go on about the business of making yourself and the vicar very happy—as I’m sure you will.”

  “Ignore them?” Grace cried. “How can I ignore them, Beatrix? Anyway, it’s not as if I actually believed anything the writer says—although there’s nothing very definite, just ugly hints. And of course, there’s not a shred of truth in any of it. But that’s worse, don’t you see? Whoever is writing these things, he’s making them up. And if he isn’t stopped, he might do something worse. He might spread a rumor, or tell a tale. And you know what villages are like. Once somebody hears a whisper of scandal, it’s all over the place in no time. Something like that would hurt the vicar’s reputation. Could damage it irretrievably.”

  Beatrix considered that for a moment. “I suppose you might be right,” she said reluctantly. “Although it’s hard to believe that anyone who knows you and the vicar could do something like this.”

  Grace nodded miserably, twisting her handkerchief in her fingers. “That’s almost the worst of it, you know. Walking through the village, wondering who it is. Wondering what will come next.” She stopped, and her voice became firmer. “That’s what I want you to do for me, Beatrix. Find out who’s writing these letters and make them stop. Please. You must.”

  “Now, that’s a good idea,” Crumpet said approvingly. “After all, Miss Potter has solved more than one of our local mysteries.”

  Tabitha could not disagree with this, for it was true. Miss Potter seemed to have some sort of sixth sense where secrets were concerned.