The Tale of Oat Cake Crag

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Perhapsz it iszsn’t,” the dragon said regretfully. “I would rather have discovered a dragon that waszs more like the Loch Nesszs monszster, swimming and diving and the rest of it. But I wonder if it won’t serve my purposze just as well. And perhaps even better, considering its dire effect on the neighbors.”

  “Serve the purpose?” The owl looked down from his perch, beginning to feel a niggling sense of suspicion. “Just what purpose dooo you have in mind, Thorvaald?”

  Thorvaald shuffled his feet, looking a bit shamefaced. “Well, to tell the truth, I am looking for a way to redeem myszself with the Grand Asszsembly of Dragonsz.” He gave a windy sigh, exhaling a stream of smoke and live flame, which sparked a nearby fir branch.

  “Don’t dooo that!” the owl cried urgently. “Are you trying tooo start a forest fire?”

  “Szsorry,” the dragon muttered, and inhaled, pulling the smoke and flame back into his nostrils, as if he were a vacuum sweeper. “I am not exactly in the Asszsembly’szs favor, you see. In fact, I shouldn’t be at all surpriszsed if they revoked my airworthinesszs certificate and put me to work in the dining hall instead. I flew all around the globe on the Asszsembly expense account. I waszs supposed to be counting dragonszs, but I couldn’t find any to count. This thing, though—”

  The Water Bird had made a large loop and was now flying south again, sweeping over Belle Isle and turning eastward in front of them, preparing to make a landing. The engine was buzzing so loudly that the dragon had to raise his voice to be heard above the racket. “Thiszs flying thing—this mechanical dragon—it isn’t just a law-abiding monszster minding its own busineszs in the depths of a very deep lake, where it’s a threat to nobody but a few large pike. In fact, this creature is much more dangerouszs. It threatens the lives and happiness of creatures all acroszss this region. Isn’t that what you’re telling me, Professor?”

  “Indeed,” said the owl soberly. He was now beginning to get the picture. “That’s what I’m telling yooou, Thorvaald. But I don’t see that there’s anything you can dooo to stop it.”

  “Oh, really?” the dragon remarked in a carelessly contemptuous tone. “I don’t suppose you know very much about dragonszs, do you? I am descended from a long and illustriouszs line of warriorszs.” He lifted himself up and his voice rang out. “I am the son of the magnificent Thunnor, son of the splendid Snurrt, son of the celebrated Sniggle. Our family motto is Alta pete: Aim at high thingszs. Our family emblem is two dragonszs rampant on an azure field, with a burning—”

  “Of course, of course,” said the owl crossly. He was not accustomed to being addressed in such a tone, and he did not like being reminded that he was the only one amongst his friends who did not have a family motto and emblem. “But I still say that there’s nothing yooou can dooo. The aeroplane is locked up at night, and there’s a guard. Yooou can’t just break in there and expect tooo—”

  “Aim at high things!” cried the dragon in great excitement. His belly was glowing like a hot stove, and sparks flew from his nostrils. “Don’t you see, Owl? It’s deszstiny, that’s what it iszs! I am the one ordained to bring this high-flying monszster to justice and szsave the Land Between the Lakeszs. Aim at high thingszs!”

  The owl (who prided himself on aiming at high things with his telescope and felt himself to be much more experienced in such matters than the dragon) gave a derisive snort.

  “What?” fumed the dragon. Tendrils of sooty smoke curled out of his nostrils. “You don’t believe me?”

  “I will believe yooou,” the owl replied in a lofty tone, “when I see you actually doooing it.” He paused, frowning. “Just what are you planning on doooing?”

  “Don’t rush me,” the dragon said. “I’m hatching a scheme.” He cast a hopeful look at the owl. “I wonder—are there any more sandwicheszs?”

  23

  Miss Potter, Mr. Heelis, and the Letters

  The morning after Jeremy gave her the letter he had copied, Miss Potter sent a note to Mr. Heelis by the early post. By teatime that afternoon, after the aeroplane had finally stopped flying for the day, Will knocked at her door. She was (as I’m sure you can guess) very glad to see him.

  I hope you won’t object if we step away for a moment to give them a little privacy. Every moment together is precious to them, and onlookers are . . . well, we would just get in the way. So we’ll go into the little downstairs parlor, which Beatrix has set out as a small drawing room, with an imposing marble Adam-style chimneypiece, pine-paneled walls, rich mahogany furnishings, and an Oriental-style rug. But we won’t be bored. We can spend a few moments studying the silhouettes hanging beside the fireplace; and the Edward VII coronation teapot, in the corner cupboard with the pink crown lid and the colored pictures of Edward and Alexandra; and the Potter coat of arms that hangs to the left of the window. And an Italian red lacquer box on a rosewood worktable and—

  And shortly, Will is seated at Beatrix’s table with a fresh cup of tea at his elbow and a piece of Mrs. Jennings’ rhubarb pie in front of him, and it is safe for us to return.

  “So,” he said, picking up his fork. “Your note said that you’ve discovered the identity of the poisoned pen.”

  “Yes, with the help of Jeremy Crosfield,” Beatrix replied. She sat down opposite and told him the whole story, just as she had it from Jeremy, then showed him the copied note. “Agnes Llewellyn is the only person who could’ve written this,” she concluded. “Jeremy found the original letter on the table in her parlor. Her husband, Dick, went to Carlisle some time ago to visit his ailing father, and there’s been no one in the house except for Agnes and Jeremy.”

  Will looked again at the note and shook his head. “It’s hard to believe that Agnes Llewellyn would do such a thing. She doesn’t strike me as a very happy woman, but—But why, Beatrix? Why would she want to spoil Grace and the vicar’s happiness?”

  “She’s Hazel Thompson’s cousin,” Beatrix said.

  “Hazel Thompson?” Will asked blankly.

  “The vicar’s cook-housekeeper,” Beatrix replied. “Perhaps you’ve met her, when you were having dinner at the vicarage.”

  Will thought. “Ah. I remember that she once served a roast lamb that—” He made a face. “But it’s best to let bygones be bygones. So you’re guessing that Agnes Llewellyn must have expected Mrs. Lythecoe to discharge Mrs. Thompson and bring in her own cook.” He smiled crookedly. “Probably not a bad idea, come to think of it. The vicar was terribly embarrassed by that roast lamb, as I recall. And he’s complained about Mrs. Thompson listening at doors.”

  “Yes,” Beatrix said. “I think that Agnes Llewellyn wanted to derail the marriage, hoping that might save her cousin’s employment.”

  “It all seems very illogical to me,” Will muttered.

  “It is illogical, entirely,” Beatrix replied. “But that’s the point, of course. Logic goes out the window when passions run high. And Agnes Llewellyn must have felt passionately that her cousin ought to stay at the vicarage.” She paused. “The irony of this is that Mrs. Thompson is planning on handing in her resignation.”

  “She is?” Will asked in some surprise.

  “I spoke to her yesterday. She told me that she had just made up her mind to go to Ambleside to take care of her mother. Once Grace and the vicar are safely married, they will be free to employ whomever they choose.” Beatrix paused, glancing at Will. “But now that we know who wrote the letters, Will, what do you think should be done?”

  Will chuckled. “I think I know what you think should be done, my dear.”

  She had to smile at that. “Ah. You know me so well that you can read my mind?”

  “Rather,” he said, and chuckled. “I imagine I’m going to have a talk with Mrs. Llewellyn.”

  She sobered. “Would you mind, Will? I would be glad to do it, but Agnes Llewellyn will be much more likely to listen to a man than to a woman—and to a man of the law, rather than a neighbor. You can put on your stern solicitor’s face and frown your dar
kest solicitor’s frown, and tell her that if Mrs. Lythecoe ever receives another of those ‘anonymous’ letters, it will go very badly for her.”

  He smiled affectionately. “Perhaps I should threaten to haul her before the justice of the peace and get Woodcock to read her the riot act before he turns her loose? And what about the vicar? What should we tell him?”

  “I don’t believe that having the captain lecture Agnes would accomplish anything useful. But I do think she should be required to beg Mrs. Lythecoe’s pardon. Poor Grace has been beside herself these last few weeks, worrying about this business—she deserves to hear Agnes say she’s sorry. We can leave the vicar out of it, at least for the moment, since Grace doesn’t want him to know. And I don’t think it would be well to mention Jeremy, either.”

  Will nodded. “A wise course of action, my dear. I will go to see Mrs. Llewellyn, and then escort her across the way to Rose Cottage to apologize to Mrs. Lythecoe. It won’t be enjoyable, but I’m sure that Mrs. Lythecoe will be glad that the mystery of the letters has been solved.”

  “Thank you,” Beatrix said gratefully. “And now I’ve something to tell you, Will. I’ve written my own letter, of a very different sort.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Really? What sort?”

  She opened the drawer of the table and took out a piece of paper. “This is a copy of what I wrote to my parents.” She laughed ruefully. “Poor Bertram. I can just imagine the scene he will be forced to witness. I’m sure it will not be very pleasant.” She pushed the letter across the table and watched his face while he read.

  When he was finished, he looked up. The lines of his face had softened, and he was smiling. He stood, went around the table, and kissed her cheek softly. “Thank you, my love,” he whispered. He sat down again. “How did they find out?”

  “Bertram said that a Mr. Morrow, a solicitor from Hawkshead, told them. Do you know the man?”

  “I do,” Will said with a sigh. “Morrow’s had dealings recently with our law firm. I took the liberty of telling my partner about our engagement a few weeks ago. I’m sure that’s how Morrow learned about it.” He looked repentant. “I’m sorry, Beatrix. I shouldn’t have said anything to anyone.”

  “I’m not,” Beatrix said firmly. “I’m not one bit sorry, Will. Once I got through the difficulty of actually putting the words on the paper, I felt very good about it. It’s right that Mama and Papa know, and it was high time that I told them. Secrets are a terrible burden. I was very tired of keeping this one to myself.”

  Will’s face lightened and he reached for her hand. “What a joy it is to hear you say that, my dear.” He picked up her hand and kissed it. “My own very dear.”

  I don’t know about you, but I do not especially care to witness Agnes Llewellyn’s guilty embarrassment when she learns that her secret has been discovered (Will was able to avoid mentioning Jeremy’s role in the matter), and I don’t really want to watch her squirm like a beetle on a pin when Mr. Heelis lectures her in his sternest solicitor’s manner, or look on as she apologizes, abjectly, to Mrs. Lythecoe (who accepts her apology with graciousness and a great deal of relief). Suffice it to say that when the discovery of her guilt was presented to her by Mr. Heelis, Agnes immediately saw the error of her ways and promised that she would never again do anything so foolish.

  So I think we can bring this chapter to a close and with it one of the plots of this book, with special thanks to Jeremy Crosfield, our very own Miss Potter, and her dear Mr. Heelis for solving the mystery of the poisoned pen letters.

  Excuse me. I’m sorry—what’s that?

  Oh. Oh, yes. How could I forget?

  And Tabitha Twitchit, too, of course.

  24

  The Storm

  It was a dark and stormy night.

  The dark was the usual sort of dark, only darker and deeper, since the moon and the stars were completely covered with an ominous blanket of storm cloud. The storm, however, was rather stormier than usual, even for March, for it was carried along by a tempestuous north wind. The storm began swirling somewhere in the lap of Lapland, and was then swept south by the wind across the Arctic Circle and Sweden and Norway and the icy North Sea, happily howling and shrieking as it passed over the Orkney Isles and danced down the mountainous spine of Scotland’s highlands. The storm was enjoying itself so thoroughly that it didn’t feel like stopping at the border (what storm ever does?), but whistled across the western fells and the Pennines and skipped into Wales and on across the Lizard and into the Channel, where it blew itself out before it got to France. It snowed in some places, sleeted in others, and rained in the rest, everywhere hurling lightning bolts as carelessly as a boy throws darts and scattering thunder claps in its noisy wake. Yes, indeed, from the northernmost, rockiest tip of Scotland to the southern-most cities of Falmouth and Dartmouth, it was truly a dark and stormy night.

  In the Land Between the Lakes, the little villages of Near and Far Sawrey sat squarely in the storm’s path. There, the houses turned their backs against the roguish, high-spirited north wind and huddled as close together as they could get without stepping into the next-door gardens, whilst the barns and sheds locked their doors and shut their windows tight and held on as best they might to the slates and shingles on their roofs.

  Inside the barns, the cows and horses and pigs were grateful for the steamy warmth of their friends’ and neighbors’ bodies. As it always does, the devilish wind wanted to get in where she shouldn’t, so she knocked at the door and rattled the window sash, whilst Mesdames Boots, Bonnet, and Shawl pressed close together on their roost, convinced that the wind was going to get inside and pluck out their pretty feathers. Meanwhile, the ducks snuggled the younger ducklings under their wings, quacking and clucking in a comforting way about the other just-as-stormy nights they had managed to live through, just as they would live through this one, too, you wait and see if we don’t.

  Outside the barns, in the gardens and on the hills around the village, the grass and trees and shrubs had no choice but to yield to the unruly wind as it lashed them from side to side, but they clung fast to the earth and felt very grateful for the roots that pushed down deep and held them in their proper places. This wasn’t true for limbs and branches, though, and the trees found that they couldn’t hold on to all of them and might as well let the wind have the ones they were no longer quite so attached to. On the distant fells, the ewes sought refuge behind low stone walls, where they sheltered their little lambs from the boisterous, blustery gale, whilst in the rookeries, the rooks clung to tossing branches and wished that the wind would get tired of whipping them around and go somewhere else to play her rowdy games.

  Out on Lake Windermere, the storm was having even more fun, for the waves had joined forces with the wind with such a lively, playful rough-and-tumble of foam and froth that you could not tell which was wind and which was wave. Indeed, the lake was having a jolly old time of it, the water sloshing about and the waves dancing gaily from the north to the south, working themselves up into higher and higher crests as they went, so that by the time they reached Newby Bridge, they were as wildly frothy and foamy as they had ever been in the whole life of the lake, which (it must be said) is a very long life indeed. And then they tried to crowd all at once into the narrow mouth of the River Leven, so that there was a grand and glorious and gleeful melee of wild waves, just as there is at a football match when the home side has won and the people all begin to push toward the exits, shoving and shouting happily.

  Speaking for myself, I should be quite happy, on such a tumultuous night, to be indoors and out of the wind—beside Miss Potter’s glowing hearth at Hill Top Farm, for instance, or in the library at The Brockery, listening to Hyacinth read aloud to Bosworth from the History, with a nice glass of elderberry wine at my elbow and a plate of Parsley’s tea biscuits on the table.

  But that is not where our story takes us. We are going out into the storm on an adventure, so I must ask you to put on your mackintosh and rubbers
. I’m afraid an umbrella would do you no good—the wind would have it inside out in an instant, for she loves to flip umbrellas nearly as much as she loves to twist the limbs off trees. However, if you have a rain hat that ties on securely, do bring that, and a muffler might be nice, for the wind likes to go down necks, as well. Of course, you may choose to stay indoors by your own fireside and read about this adventure, but you are likely to miss a great part of the fun of what is about to happen. Wouldn’t you rather be there?

  So. One way or another, we are going up to the top of Oat Cake Crag, where we will join two of our friends: Thorvaald the dragon and Professor Galileo Newton Owl. It is much too stormy for anyone (besides us, that is) to be out looking for dragons, and even if they were, it is very dark, so Thorvaald does not have to disguise himself as a bush. He is sitting on his haunches, studying the opposite side of the lake through the owl’s binoculars, whilst the owl hunkers down close beside him, in the shelter of one of his dragon wings. There is no moon, for the storm has blanketed the whole sky with billowing black clouds, but on the other side of the lake, the dragon can see a pinprick of light near the airplane hangar. It bobs around the hangar, disappearing when it goes behind, then reappearing shortly after.

  The dragon lowered the binoculars. “There’s a guard. It appears that he is patrolling the aeroplane hangar. He’s going around and around is the way it looks.”

  “Of course there’s a guard,” the owl said crossly. “I told yooou as much. Yooou won’t be able to get inside, if that’s your plan.”

  The dragon sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t really have a plan. Not yet, anyway.”