The Tale of Oat Cake Crag

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Beatrix frowned. “Have you discussed this with Captain Woodcock? I’m sure there must be some sort of law against—”

  “But I can’t, don’t you see?” Grace interrupted. “The captain would insist on conducting an investigation, and he couldn’t do it privately. Word of it would be sure to get out. I can’t take that risk.”

  “Well, then,” Beatrix asked reasonably, “how about talking it over with the vicar? He might have an idea about—”

  “Oh, dear, no!” Grace’s eyes widened and she gave her head a hard shake. “I could never do that. You know him, Beatrix. Samuel . . . Reverend Sackett is such a gentleman, so tenderhearted. He would be terribly hurt to think that someone—one of his parishioners, most likely—was writing such poisonous letters. He mustn’t know, ever.”

  “But what if—” Beatrix was about to ask what would happen if something the letter writer had said turned out to be true, but Grace put up a hand, stopping her.

  “I’m sorry, Beatrix,” she said miserably. “I know this is very difficult, and I am so sorry to impose on you in this way. But I can’t think of anyone else who can help me—anyone I can trust. Will you?”

  “Poor Miss Potter,” Crumpet said. “It sounds like an unsolvable mystery. Where will she even begin?”

  Beatrix sighed. Anonymous letters, poisonous messages, unhappy secrets, a furtive investigation into something ugly and nasty. It wasn’t the sort of thing she wanted to be involved in. But Grace Lythecoe had been kind to her when she needed a friend. Vicar Sackett was a very good man. And of course, Grace was right. Someone who would write poisoned pen letters might be driven to do something that would cause real and lasting harm. That shouldn’t be allowed to happen, Beatrix thought bleakly. And if the situation were reversed, if she were in this sort of trouble—in any trouble, really—she knew that Grace would do whatever she could to help.

  “Well, I suppose,” she said slowly. “Yes, of course, Grace. I’ll help.”

  “Very good!” Crumpet exclaimed. “So brave of you, Miss Potter!”

  “Our Miss Potter,” Tabitha said. “On the case.”

  “But I’ll need to see the letters,” Beatrix went on. “How many are there? Did you bring them with you?”

  Grace shook her head numbly. “There are three. The most recent came just last week. But I didn’t think it was wise to carry them around. They’re at my house. I’ve hidden them in a safe place.”

  “I see,” Beatrix said. She straightened her shoulders and added briskly, “Well, then, I suppose I ought to go to Rose Cottage with you and read them, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, would you?” Grace asked eagerly. “Beatrix, I don’t know how I can ever thank you.”

  “You mustn’t expect too much, Grace,” Beatrix replied in a cautionary tone. “I may not be able to help at all. And in the end—” She stopped.

  “In the end what?” Tabitha asked.

  “Yes, what?” Crumpet demanded.

  But Beatrix didn’t finish the sentence. She had been about to say that in the end, even if she was able to find out who was writing the letters and why, Grace might not have cause to thank her.

  Where secrets of the heart were concerned, Beatrix had learnt that the truth—even when it could be uncovered—was not always welcome. Sometimes, it was better not to know.

  3

  The Professor Puts His Foot in It

  Professor Owl did not shilly-shally. Perplexed and uneasy in his mind, he flew straightaway to find his friend Bosworth Badger XVII. Bosworth resided at The Brockery, a very large badger sett at the top of Holly How. He served as the chief badger historian, maintaining the official History of the Badgers of the Land Between the Lakes and its companion project, the Holly How Badger Genealogy. The badger had always taken his duties as a historian very seriously, recording in detail the various events, episodes, accidents, adventures, misadventures, and other happenstances that occurred throughout the area. The Professor was confident that Bosworth would be able to tell him everything that was known (if indeed anything at all was known!) about the rude, impertinent winged creature that had accosted him at Oat Cake Crag.

  So upon his arrival at The Brockery’s front door, the owl rang the bell as loudly as he could, and shifted from one foot to the other whilst he waited impatiently for someone to open the door and let him in. No one did, at least not right away, so the Professor took a moment to study the Badger Coat of Arms, which was painted on a wooden sign over the door pull. (He was thinking, if you must know, that he himself could do with a coat of arms, and was wondering how he might go about getting it.)

  This one, which was quite attractive, bore twin badgers rampant on an azure field, with a shield inscribed in Latin with the badger family motto:

  De Parvis, grandis acervus erit.

  Which, translated into English, proclaims: From small things, there will grow a mighty heap, or, as the local folk put it, Many littles make a mickle, Many mickles make a mile. This referred, as the Professor knew, to the badgers’ habit of excavating their extensive burrows, each generation adding to the work of preceding generations until there was a mile or more of labyrinthine underground tunnels, with great heaps of dirt piled outside the various entrances and exits. As a result, most badger setts were much too large for individual badgers, and were often used as convenient temporary refuges by animals in search of shelter.

  But The Brockery was exceptionally large, even by badger standards, and over the years had gained a wide reputation as an animal hostelry. On any given day, you might go down a hall and discover a fox and a pair of hedgehogs in residence, or a trio of traveling mice and an interesting assortment of spiders, or several squirrels and a variety of voles, or even an itinerant badger from another district, stopping in to catch up on the news. Of course, all animals (including the foxes and stoats who might have an appetite for the mice and voles) had to behave in a civil way toward one another, even—or especially—at the table. Bosworth would not tolerate any animosity or ill-will. “If you can’t behave,” he had been heard to say, “you can go somewhere else to eat.”

  The owl rang again, frowning. It was taking longer than usual for someone to open the door, for the simple reason that there was nobody at hand to answer the bell. Flotsam and Jetsam, the twin rabbit housemaids who usually welcomed the guests, had both been sent down to the garden behind the hotel in Far Sawrey to collect a few carrots and turnips for tomorrow’s dinner. Parsley, who cooked The Brockery’s meals, was visiting her sister near Wilfin Beck. Primrose, the housekeeper, had gone with her, and they hadn’t yet returned. Hyacinth (she had recently taken Bosworth’s place as the holder of the Badger Badge of Authority and the manager of the hostelry) had gone over to Briar Bank, to invite Bailey Badger and his guinea-pig roommate, Thackeray, to a birthday party. It was Bosworth’s birthday and the party was supposed to be a surprise, but the old badger had overheard Hyacinth whispering to Parsley and Primrose about it. He had immediately stopped listening and felt pleased and honored that they would plan such a thing. Now he had something very special to look forward to.

  Since everyone else was gone, Bosworth was the only animal left minding the shop, as it were. Glad to be alone for the afternoon, he had spent it in the library, which he had always considered quite the nicest room in The Brockery. The cheery fire cast intriguing shadows on the familiar gilt-framed family portraits that hung on the walls. The comfortable leather chair, spread with Primrose’s green-and-brown crocheted afghan, was waiting with open arms beside the fireplace, and the heavy oak table cordially invited him to sit and write. It served as a desk, with his pencils laid out in a neat row, his knife ready to sharpen the pencils, and his inkpot and pen and blotting paper at hand, all very nice for a badger who especially fancied his work as a historian. For whilst Hyacinth had assumed the physically demanding work of managing The Brockery, Bosworth—who was getting on in years and glad to put that part of his life behind him—still maintained the History and the Genealogy.<
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  In fact, just a few moments ago, the badger had completed a current-events entry in the History and had returned the leather-bound volume to its place on the shelf. The place was so quiet (underground houses are very quiet indeed, with a way of swallowing up any loud noises) and the leather chair beside the fire so perfectly inviting, and the fire itself such a lovely sort of warm. So he settled into the chair, pulled the afghan close around him, put his feet on the fender to warm his toes, and dozed off. And why not? There were no animals around to hinder him, nothing he was required to do (he was, after all, semiretired), and a nap before tea was the very nicest thing he could think of.

  Bosworth was sleeping quite happily when he dreamed that there was some sort of emergency—a fire, perhaps. Yes, most certainly a fire, for someone was ringing the fire bell with great urgency, clang-clang-clang. The badger woke with a start, hoisted himself out of the chair, and made for the closet, where a bucket of water—painted red and clearly marked FIRE BUCKET—was always kept ready to be used in case of a fire emergency. He had the bucket in hand and was making his way down the hall when he realized that the bell he had heard (was still hearing, in fact) was not a fire bell at all.

  It was the doorbell. Whoever was pulling the bell pull was doing so with a great deal of fervor.

  Bosworth put down the bucket. “Jetsam!” he called. “Get the door, will you?” He paused, waiting. Then he called, louder, “Flotsam! Where are you? Someone wants to come in!”

  But then he remembered that both Flotsam and Jetsam—and Parsley and Primrose and Hyacinth, as well—had gone out for the afternoon, and he was alone. So it was up to him to answer the doorbell, which continued to peal furiously.

  So he picked up the bucket, stumped crossly to the door, and opened it. He did so with caution, of course, remembering the Seventh Badger Rule of Thumb (Rules of Thumbs are maxims according to which badgers govern themselves): Even if one hopes for friends at the door, one is well advised to anticipate enemies. Badgers were vulnerable even in their underground homes, for badger-diggers and their fierce dogs regularly roamed the countryside. More than one unfortunate badger had been forcibly removed from his home in the Land Between the Lakes. It was well to be wary.

  But the animal on the other side of the door was not an enemy. It was his old friend Galileo.

  “Oh, hullo, Owl,” said the badger cordially. “So it’s you. Good to see you, old chap.”

  To tell the truth, Bosworth was a little surprised to find the owl on his doorstep. The Professor regularly entertained his friends and colleagues in his beech-tree home, and had even installed a ladder for the convenience of those who were not by nature tree-climbers or fliers. But when it came to invitations from acquaintances who resided underground, the owl usually declined—politely, of course. He much preferred the open reaches of sky, where he could stretch his wings to the winds. He was known to feel that there was something a bit cramped and claustrophobic underground, where if he so much as lifted a wing, he was apt to knock a book off a table or a picture from a wall. Whatever the reason for his call, Bosworth knew, it must be urgent, or the owl would not be here.

  “Yes, it’s me,” the Professor said in an irritable tone. “It’s been me fooor quite some time, ringing this bell. It’s rather chilly on this hillside, yooou know.”

  “I’m afraid everyone is out. Everyone but me,” Bosworth added apologetically, since he was very clearly not out. “I was having a nap. But do come in, Owl. You’ll catch cold standing there.”

  The owl came in. “If everyone’s out,” he said, “what are yooou doooing about tea?” He looked down at the bucket. “And why are yooou carrying that fire bucket?”

  “Because I thought there was a fire,” said the badger. “I dreamt that somebody was ringing the fire bell.”

  “There is definitely nooo fire,” the Professor pronounced professorially. “But it would certainly be goood if someone would kindly offer some tea. And a sandwich or twooo,” he added, in a more thoughtful tone. “Ham, if you happen to have it. Or cheese. And a scooone, perhaps.”

  The badger put the bucket down. “Well, come on then, Owl. I expect we can find a little bit of something or other.”

  And with that, he led the way down the dusky hall and through the cavernous dining room, which contained a very long wooden table and enough chairs to accommodate the two dozen or more animals who frequently appeared for dinner. The Fifth Badger Rule of Thumb makes it clear that, since badgers often inherit dwellings that are much too large for them, they are expected to practice hospitality and to welcome any lodger, boarder, or dinner guest who comes their way. (This is related to the Third Rule of Thumb, generally thought of as the Aiding and Abetting Rule: One must be as helpful as one can, for one never knows when one will require help oneself.) Every chair at the dining table was often taken, especially during the dark days of winter when many might otherwise go hungry, and Parsley and Primrose were sometimes put to the test as cooks. It had always done Bosworth’s heart good to look down the expanse of table and see so many animals eating with as much eagerness as politeness would allow.

  But it was too early for supper and the table was empty, except for one hedgehog who had not left after luncheon and was asleep under a chair. The badger and the owl went through the chilly dining hall and into the kitchen. It was cheerfully warmed by a fire in the range, where a kettle was steaming. After a few moments, the two friends were seated at the kitchen worktable, with cups of tea and plates of ham-and-cheese sandwiches.

  The owl found that hot tea and cold ham and cheese and Parsley’s fresh-baked bread did a great deal to soothe his spirit. But it did not relieve his perplexed concern, so he came right to the point.

  “I wonder what you can tell me about the creature that’s flying over the lake,” he said. “I shall describe it fooor yooou. It has fooour wings that dooo not flap, and practically nooo tail (except for a piece or twooo sticking up), and it makes a horrid noise. It is enormous and must have an exceptionally large appetite.” He took a bite of his sandwich, and then another. “I am not afraid for myself, of course,” he added, with a careless flick of his wing. “But I dooo fear fooor the smaller birds. The creature might devour them all!”

  “I hardly think so,” the badger said in a consoling tone as he smeared some of Parsley’s homemade mustard on his sandwich. “That is, I hardly think it eats birds. It’s a flying boat, you see.”

  “A flying boat?” the Professor asked incredulously, opening both eyes very wide. “A boat that flies?”

  “Yes. Or hydroplane, as some are calling it. It’s something the Big Folk are trying. An experiment, to see if aeroplanes can be made to go up and come down on water. They have given this one the name of Water Bird. A ridiculous name for the thing, I grant, but there it is.”

  “Aeroplanes?” The Professor, who prided himself on being well informed about everything that happened in the Land Between the Lakes, now felt distinctly ignorant and uninformed. “Water Bird?”

  “An aeroplane is a machine with motor-car engines and wings,” the badger explained gently, knowing that the Professor does not like to be told something he feels he should already know. “I confess that I am not sure just how it works, but the wings do seem to keep the thing up in the air, regardless of how heavy it is, and the motor drives it forward. There is a propeller at the rear, although it goes around so fast that you may not have been able to see it.”

  The owl was scowling fiercely as he tried to make sense of what Bosworth was telling him. “A machine? With a motor-car engine?”

  “Yes. The latest rage, it seems, although I daresay it’s only a fad.” The badger chuckled wryly. “You know how Big People are. They’ll get over hydroplanes before long and be on to something else.” He paused, then added regretfully, “Although they seem to have rather an enduring fondness for those wretched motor cars.”

  Bosworth had no liking for automobiles. Men drove them very fast (it appeared that women were not allowed
to drive them at all), and were utterly unmindful of any hapless dog, cat, chicken, badger, or pig who might have been crossing the road. He himself had recently seen the tragic consequences of such criminal disregard. A young cousin had been flattened a fortnight ago in the vicinity of Hawkshead, by a motor car recklessly careening down the lane after dark. The badger had left a grieving widow and four little ones. Times would be hard for them now.

  “Ah, a machine!” exclaimed the owl, suddenly getting the picture. “Of course!” He cleared his throat. “Hydroooplane,” he intoned, rolling the word around his tongue. “Hydrooo, as in water, from the Greek, ὐδρ. Tooo wit: hydrooography, hydrooopathy, hydrooometer. An hydrooometer,” he added professorially, “is an instrument designed tooo find the specific gravity of a fluid. And then of course there is hydrooophobia, a symptom of canine madness. When transmitted tooo man or beast, it consists in an aversion tooo water or other liquids, and a difficulty in swallowing them. And hydrooosphere, which is tooo say—”

  “Yes, rather,” said the badger hurriedly, for his friend showed every inclination of embarking upon one of the interminable lectures for which he was famous, and which would no doubt go on past bedtime. “It is an aeroplane designed to fly up from the water. And land on it again, when it’s time to come down. It’s powered by petrol.”

  This temporarily silenced the owl. “Petroool?” he repeated, in a tentative tone. “From the Greek πέτρσ, meaning ‘rock’? As in petroooglyphs and petrooographics, or—”

  “Exactly,” the badger put in hastily, before the Professor could get started again. “This fuel is something they get out of rocks in the ground. Petroleum is what they call it. It’s the same stuff they pour into their motor cars.”

  “Ah,” said the owl, greatly relieved. “Well, then. This hydroooplane eats rocks, not birds or other small creatures.” He could stop being concerned for the health of his research subjects.