The Tale of Hill Top Farm

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Indeed,” Grace said. She folded the letter and put it into the pocket of her brown skirt. “Shall we go?” she asked briskly, thinking of the supper waiting for her on the back of the kitchen range.

  Miss Potter hesitated. “Don’t you think that someone should be notified? About the missing Constable, I mean.”

  “Yes, of course,” Grace said. “Well, perhaps our village policeman.” John Braithwaite kept the peace and dealt deftly with troublesome daytrippers, but she did not have a great deal of confidence in his ability to trace the whereabouts of a stolen painting.

  Miss Potter cleared her throat. “I was thinking of Miss Tolliver’s solicitor, rather than the police,” she replied hesitantly. “You said this morning, if I remember correctly, that there is a will.”

  “Why, of course,” Grace exclaimed. “Why didn’t I think of that? Mr. Heelis, in Hawkshead, was Miss Tolliver’s solicitor. I’ll send a message to him straightaway, and leave the entire matter to him.” Satisfied that they were making the very best of a bad thing, she picked up the empty cake box from the table. “We should be going now, don’t you think?”

  “I do,” Miss Potter said, and cast one last look at the spot on the wall where the Constable had hung. “I’m afraid there isn’t much more to be learnt here.”

  8

  Charlie Hotchkiss Has News

  October in the Lake District brings variable weather, with early snows almost as likely as late summer sunshine, and there is always a great rush to get the last vegetables in from the garden before winter begins in earnest in November. But there had not yet been a frost this autumn, and although the air was crisp, the rising sun and clear sky offered the promise of a warm day.

  Beatrix got up and took her rabbits and hedgehog into the garden at the first light of dawn. The sky was serene and cloudless, the fells across Esthwaite Water were turning from smoky gray to lilac, and the hill behind Belle Green was brushed with a dewy sheen. The robins practiced their sunrise chorale in the sycamore tree, the rooks cawed lustily, and the farmyard roosters crowed in a raucous chorus. It was a lovely morning, Beatrix thought, turning to glance toward the woods, where the beeches and larches paraded in their gold-and-bronze autumn finery. A splendid morning to go down to the lake and draw.

  Beatrix settled Josey, Mopsy, Tom, and Mrs. Tiggy in the new pen that Edward Horsley had built for them behind the chicken coop, gave them each a bowl of their favorite food, and went in to breakfast. She was in such good spirits that she even managed to ignore George Crook’s brusque greeting as she sat down to a bowl of hot oat porridge, with milk and a sprinkling of sugar. Charlie Hotchkiss was more cheerful than usual, too, for he had picked up a bit of intrigue at the pub the night before.

  “What dust tha think, George?” he asked, sitting down at the table across from Beatrix. “Seems like Miss Tolliver might’ve been poisoned. Foxglove, ’tis said.”

  Beatrix stared at him. The question of poison had not been far from her mind since Rose Sutton had mentioned it during Dimity Woodcock’s tea party. Poisonings weren’t terribly unusual, of course, and one read about such dreadful accidents in the newspaper every now and then. Foxglove, she knew, contained something called digitalis, which acted on the heart in ways that weren’t very well understood. Beatrix somehow didn’t think it was likely that Miss Tolliver would have been careless with foxglove, which was well known to be dangerous. But when the inhabitants of a village began gossiping, what counted was what people thought to be true, rather than the truth itself.

  “Poisoned!” Startled, George Crook looked up from his eggs and rasher of bacon. “Why, I nivver in t’ world would’ve thought it!”

  Mathilda came to the table with a basket of warm bread in one hand, a pot of tea in the other, and a look of disapproval across her narrow face. “Tha ought not t’ say something like that, Charlie Hotchkiss, unless tha knows it for a pure fact. There’s enough talk about poor Miss Tolliver as ’tis, without addin’ to it. Bread, Miss Potter? There’s honey in that jar.”

  “Thank you,” Beatrix said. Mathilda Crook might have her failings—her caution to Charlie was definitely hypocritical, given her penchant for passing along any little tidbit that came her way—but her breads were without fault and her honey was deliciously reminiscent of elder flowers in the spring.

  “But it’s true!” Charlie said, defending himself. “Constable Braithwaite told me. Seems Miss Tolliver took foxglove for her heart.” He picked up his spoon and attacked his bowl of steaming porridge. “He said not to tell nobody, though,” he added importantly, with a warning glance at Beatrix. “T’ matter is still under” (he dropped his voice) “investy-gation.”

  “Miss Potter and me was at Tower Bank House yesterday, to tea,” Mathilda said importantly, with a nod to Beatrix. She wiped her hands on her apron and sat down at the table. “There was talk of poison then. Rose Sutton mentioned it, as I recollect.”

  “I nivver,” George said again, leaning back. He blew out an incredulous breath. “Well, if tha heard it at Tower Bank House, there must be something in it, Tildy. Cap’n Woodcock bein’ Justice of t’ Peace, and all, I mean. There’s not a thing in this village goes on what he doan’t know.”

  “T’ cap’n weren’t there,” Mathilda said. “It was Rose who brought it up.”

  “But bein’ t’ wife of t’ veterinary,” Charlie said judiciously, “Rose Sutton ’ud be one to know all ’bout poisons, I reckon.”

  “And Desmond Sutton is a friend of Constable Braithwaite, which is likely where t’ news come from. Out of t’ horse’s mouth, so to say.” George, now satisfied that he had traced the information to its source and found it to be true, went back to his eggs.

  “ ’Tis a bad business,” Mathilda said, shaking her head sadly. “But if Miss Tolliver died from poison, it had to’ve been a mistake. Mappen she weren’t wearing her spectacles when she mixed it up.”

  Charlie leaned forward. “Constable says it could’ve been foul play,” he reported in a very low voice, with the confidential air of a man who has had access to official secrets and has been warned against passing them on.

  Beatrix gave him a surprised glance. George well-I-NIVVER ed for the third time, Charlie added that the nephew from Kendal had been very ugly to Mrs. Lythecoe about the key to Anvil Cottage, and Mathilda said she hoped that Constable Braithwaite and Captain Woodcock would talk to the magistrate in Hawkshead about their suspicions, “ ’cause it was appalling to have such unfortunate goin’s on in t’ village, with new folk comin’ in and all.”

  And with a meaningful glance at Beatrix, she began to talk about the School Roof Fund, to which Lady Longford had with amazing generosity contributed a gold Young Victoria sovereign, and which Dimity Woodcock had handed over to Miss Crabbe the day before, so that the roof could be mended before the next rain.

  “ ’Cause if it isn’t,” she concluded, dolloping honey on her bread, “Miss Crabbe is likely to have a breakdown over it. At least, that’s what Bertha Stubbs says.”

  And having cited the ultimate authority on events at Sawrey School, she settled down to her breakfast.

  9

  Myrtle Crabbe Makes a Dreadful Discovery

  Miss Crabbe herself was already on her way to school, hurrying a bit more than usual. She had just remembered that she had forgotten to put the envelope containing the School Roof Fund collection into her purse the night before and was anxious to retrieve it from the desk drawer where she had left it. She was walking quickly across the bridge over Wilfen Beck when she saw Bertha Stubbs just ahead.

  Bertha had been the school’s caretaker for nearly as long as Miss Crabbe had been headmistress, which would soon be a full quarter-century, and, at sixty, she was getting a bit too old to be doing the hard work around the school. Miss Crabbe had pointed this out on occasion, and had recently spoken to the vicar about giving Bertha notice and hiring someone younger and less cantankerous. But the vicar had replied that Bertha still seemed capable of doing the work
, which involved stoking the stoves several times daily during stove season, cleaning out the cinders every morning, hauling buckets of water twice a day, scrubbing the floors weekly, and washing the windows monthly. He had added, deferentially, that he hoped that Miss Crabbe would allow Bertha to keep the job as long as her performance was up to scratch.

  Hearing footsteps on the gravel, Bertha turned and waited for Miss Crabbe to catch up to her. “Well, then!” she said in an amiable tone, “What dust tha think of our Miss Potter?”

  Miss Crabbe frowned crossly. “I shall keep what I think to myself, and I advise you, Bertha, to do the same. It is not a good idea to gossip about one’s neighbors, especially if they are political.”

  “Ain’t a neighbor yet,” Bertha remarked with an enigmatic lift of her eyebrows. “May not be, if Becky Jennings has her way.” She glanced up at the sky, sniffing. “Shouldn’t be surprised if we don’t get some rain. Could come down smartish by afternoon. Pity that roof ain’t got fixed yet.” She gave Miss Crabbe a toothy smile. “Guess we’ll need to put that rain-bucket on thi desk. Pity it makes such a racket. Plink-plinkety-plink, all afternoon. Enough to addle thi wits, I’d warrant.”

  Miss Crabbe, who had the feeling that Bertha was baiting her, picked up her pace. It was true that the roof could not be repaired by the afternoon and that she should have to endure the maddening plinking, but she could certainly see to it that the work got underway immediately. She would send one of the older boys with a note to Joseph Skead, the sexton at St. Peter’s, who handled the major repairs to the school. Barring misfortune, the roof should be mended by next week, and that horrible rain-bucket would be a thing of the past.

  Miss Crabbe set her mouth in a thin, hard line, thinking that if she had been successful in securing the Bournemouth position, she would not have had to deal with any of these difficulties. Bournemouth, where the sun shone brightly even in the winter, and where the warm southern breezes meant that there was a great deal less rain and hardly any snow. And where she could have had a small cottage to herself, without the clattering nuisance of her sisters, well-intentioned, both of them, but nuisances just the same. She and Pansy and Viola had lived together all their lives, but recently it had become more and more difficult to tolerate their silly meddling, always giving her this advice and that, as if she were a child instead of their older sister and due a proper deference and respect. If only she had got the Bournemouth position, she could have put all this behind her.

  But Bournemouth was not to be. Despite her pleadings—really, she had lowered herself quite appallingly, to the point of shameless begging—Abigail Tolliver had refused to sign the letter of reference she had helpfully typed out for her signature. And why, Miss Crabbe simply hadn’t a clue. It had all been infuriating, really, to abase herself in such a way, when Abigail refused to tell her why she would not sign the letter, and even threatened to write and tell the school council that she was not suitable for the position! And as she had stood beside the flower-heaped coffin, listening to the vicar drone on and on about Abigail’s contributions to village life and how much she would be missed, Miss Crabbe had had to suppress a small, mean smile. She might not be going to Bournemouth, but Abigail Tolliver wasn’t going anywhere.

  Miss Crabbe squared her narrow shoulders. She would have to put all that behind her, the small regret about Abigail Tolliver, the larger and more persistent bitterness about Bournemouth and the new beginnings that might have been. She would see to it that the roof repairs were completed as soon as possible, which would put that annoyance out of the way. Her sisters . . . well, they were another matter. She would have to think about how to deal with them.

  But Miss Crabbe’s plan for the repair of the school roof was destined to be thwarted. For when she reached Sawrey School, went to her room, and opened the drawer of her desk, she saw to her horror that the envelope that Dimity Woodcock had given her—the envelope that contained one bright gold sovereign, two half-crowns, three florins, and nine shillings—was gone.

  She was still standing at her desk, staring uncomprehendingly into the empty drawer, when Margaret Nash came into the room carrying a stack of song-sheets and a large box of drawing pencils.

  “Why, Miss Crabbe!” Margaret exclaimed, seeing the look of consternation on her headmistress’s face. She set down the things she was carrying and went to the desk. “Whatever is the matter?”

  “The School Roof Fund is gone,” Miss Crabbe whispered faintly, and dropped into her chair, as if her legs could no longer hold her. “It’s been stolen.” She buried her face in her hands.

  “Stolen!” Margaret exclaimed, bewildered. “But how? All three of us—Bertha, you, and I—left at the same time yesterday afternoon. We locked the building behind us, and it was still locked this morning when I arrived.” She cast a quick look at the room’s windows. “None of the windows have been broken, and there’s no sign of a forced entry.”

  “Of course there’s no sign of an entry.” Miss Crabbe’s voice was flinty, her face very white, her lips pressed into a thin, hard line. “There’s no sign because there was no break-in. That boy took it.”

  “That boy?” Margaret asked blankly.

  Miss Crabbe’s mouth twisted. “The child who was left alone here.”

  “You can’t mean little Jeremy Crosfield!”

  “What other boy was alone in this room yesterday?” Miss Crabbe demanded furiously. “I went out to the schoolyard to tend to his tormenter, you went to get some water and soap to wash his face, and he was here alone—with the money lying right there, in an envelope.” She pointed to a spot on the desk. “I can see it all now, as clear as a picture. I didn’t put the money into the drawer, after all. I left it on the desk, and he took it!”

  “But Jeremy was still sitting in his seat when I—”

  Miss Crabbe’s voice rose. “Are you prepared to swear that he didn’t have time to jump up and pocket that money? The Crosfields are poor as church mice. It would be a fortune to him.”

  Margaret swallowed. “Well, no, of course I couldn’t swear. But how he could have known there was money in the envelope?” She took a deep breath. “Miss Crabbe, this is a very serious accusation. We don’t have any proof that Jeremy is a thief. We—”

  “We have all the proof we need.” Miss Crabbe rose from the chair and stood, rigid with rage, rapping her knuckles in an irregular tattoo on the desk. “Go out to the gate and wait. I want the boy brought to me the instant he puts in an appearance. And don’t you defend him, Miss Nash! You are far too soft on these dirty little urchins. This child needs to be taught a lesson, and I am going to administer it!” Her voice became a half-hysterical quaver. “And when I am through, I intend to turn him over to Constable Braithwaite. He’ll see to it that we get the school’s money back.”

  “But Miss Crabbe—”

  “I will not tolerate impertinence!” Miss Crabbe cried, now completely beyond remonstrance. “Do what I tell you, you wretched creature, or I shall demand that the board terminate your contract.”

  Gulping back sobs, Margaret almost ran from the room. As she closed the door behind her, she found herself face-to-face with Bertha Stubbs. Finding Bertha outside a door was not unusual, of course, since it was her habit to listen to as many conversations as she could. Usually, she was embarrassed by being caught; now, though, her face was red as a beet. She was plainly angry.

  “I believes in speakin’ my mind, Miss Nash,” she said gruffly. “ ‘Speak t’ truth and shame t’ devil,’ is what I allus say. And that auld she-devil in there ought to be ashamed—”

  “Hush, Mrs. Stubbs,” Margaret said, trying to pull herself together. She straightened her shoulders and managed to calm her voice. “Miss Crabbe is under a great deal of strain just now, and—”

  “A girt deal o’ strain is purely reet,” Bertha Stubbs said grimly. “She’s strainin’ t’ rest of us to death, she is, with her unperdictamus tantrums. Week afore, it was t’ attendance book in t’ map locker—an
d her accusin’ me of takin’ it! Now it’s t’ Roof Fund, and she’s blamin’ that poor little boy.” She narrowed her eyes. “What’re tha aimin’ to do?”

  “Do?” Margaret asked, with a helpless shrug. “I’m going to wait at the gate for Jeremy, that’s what I’m going to do. Miss Crabbe may be wrong but she is, after all, my superior.”

  “Well, she may be thi superior but she ain’t mine, not no more,” Bertha said with a dark significance. She jerked off her coverall apron and threw it on the floor. “I’m givin’ in my notice, is what I’m goin’ to do, and reet this verra minute, too. It’s a matter o’ principality!”

  This was not a new threat, of course. Bertha threatened to give in her notice every few weeks, and usually with a loud declaration of principle. But this time, her words had the ring of conviction. Margaret shook her head wordlessly, feeling the weighty burden of daily buckets of coal and clinkers added to the burden of Miss Crabbe’s capricious wrath. Trying hastily to compose her face so that the children in the schoolyard would not glimpse her apprehension, she hurried out to the schoolyard gate to wait for Jeremy.

  Miss Crabbe, however, was to be thwarted yet again. The yard filled with children from Far Sawrey and Near Sawrey and the surrounding cottages and farms. But although Margaret lingered until the last assembly bell had pealed across the yard, Jeremy Crosfield did not appear. Her feet dragging, she went inside, picked up Bertha Stubbs’s coverall apron from the floor where she had flung it, and told Miss Crabbe that their thief was now a truant, and that they would have to find someone else to look after the stoves and scrub the floors.

  Then she pasted a falsely cheerful smile on her face and went to greet her children.

  10

  Miss Potter Faces Facts