The Tale of Hill Top Farm

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Margaret shook her head. “I suggested it, but Miss Crabbe didn’t feel it necessary.” She was placing herself in a terribly awkward position, of course, tittle-tattling (or so Miss Crabbe would certainly call it) on her superior. But if she took no action, the situation would almost certainly worsen. And of everyone in the village, these were the men in whom she should confide. The vicar was not only connected with the school, he was also Miss Crabbe’s spiritual adviser, while Captain Woodcock was Justice of the Peace and served on the Council School Board. Everything of importance that went on at the school eventually came before him.

  The captain drew on his pipe and blew out a stream of aromatic blue smoke. “I see,” he said. “Well, then, perhaps you and I should conduct a search, Miss Nash.”

  “Yes, of course, we can do that.” Margaret took a deep breath and forged ahead. “But while the missing money is bad enough, I’m afraid it’s not the only problem. One doesn’t like to criticize or carry tales, and one is certainly grateful to Miss Crabbe for all she’s done. But—”

  She bit her lip, feeling almost overwhelmed by her disloyalty. Whatever Miss Crabbe’s faults, the two of them had taught together for nearly ten years. The vicar was so kind that he wouldn’t attribute any ulterior motives to her, but mightn’t the captain (who was much more a man of the world) think that she was deliberately undermining Miss Crabbe’s authority, or, far worse, angling for Miss Crabbe’s position?

  “But what?” prompted the captain gently. “Come, come, Miss Nash. If you have anxieties, this is the time and place to be frank about them. Whatever you say will go no further. Both Reverend Sackett and I have a stake in our little school, you know, and a responsibility to make sure that things work as they should. And if you’re worrying about being disloyal, don’t. Your duty is to the school, not to any individual.”

  Thus reassured, Margaret felt herself relax. “The thing is, you see, that Miss Crabbe has become . . . well, rather forgetful. Small things, mostly, such as losing her glasses and forgetting that she was supposed to be somewhere or do something. And when she feels she’s not entirely in control, she tends to blame others. She misplaced her attendance book a few weeks ago, and accused Mrs. Stubbs, who gave notice straight off, of course. It took a bit of talking to get her to agree to stay on.” She sighed. “Mrs. Stubbs gave notice again this morning, I’m afraid, when she overheard Miss Crabbe talking about Jeremy. And this time, I think she means it. Of course, she’ll let everyone in the village have her opinion on the matter, which will make it difficult to find a replacement. No one will want to work at the school.”

  “Because of Miss Crabbe, you mean?”

  Margaret nodded wordlessly.

  The eyebrow went up again. “Any thoughts, Vicar?” the captain inquired.

  The vicar stood, clasped his hands behind his back, and took a turn in front of the fireplace, looking troubled. “I don’t like to break a confidence,” he said at last, “but there is something I suppose I should mention. Miss Crabbe herself has acknowledged to me that she’s not entirely happy here in Sawrey. She is seeking another position.”

  Margaret stared at him, startled. Miss Crabbe was thinking of going somewhere else? “But what of her sisters?” she blurted. “Would they go, too?” It seemed unthinkable, really. The three Misses Crabbe had lived at Castle Cottage for decades. And Miss Crabbe must be close to sixty—too old to easily find a teaching position somewhere else.

  “I don’t know about her sisters,” the vicar said. “I must confess that it struck me as . . . well, rather odd.” He glanced at Margaret. “I, too, have been concerned about her frame of mind.”

  “Well,” the captain said. “Is it likely that anything will come of her idea to relocate?”

  “I don’t believe so,” the vicar said slowly. “She thought she had found a place in a school near Bournemouth. But she told me yesterday afternoon—after tea at your house, Captain, where we all gathered to welcome Miss Potter—that she had abandoned the plan. She was not able to get the letter of recommendation she needed from Miss Tolliver.”

  “From Miss Tolliver,” the captain said thoughtfully. “I should like to know the details of that.”

  “I believe that Miss Tolliver knew someone at Bournemouth—someone who might be expected to intervene on Miss Crabbe’s behalf,” the vicar replied. “She is rather older and more senior than most teachers who change schools,” he added, as if in explanation. “I suppose that Miss Tolliver died before Miss Crabbe could ask for the letter, and without it, she did not feel confident in applying for the position. She did not ask me to write, and I did not offer. I . . . well, I shouldn’t have known what to say, I’m afraid.”

  “I really think, Vicar,” Captain Woodcock said pushing himself out of his chair, “that things have come to the point where you and I should have a word with Miss Crabbe. Tonight, if possible. Shall we drop in at Castle Cottage, say, around seven or so?”

  “I suppose we must,” said the vicar unhappily. “Yes, seven will be fine. I’ll come to Tower Bank House, and we can walk up together.”

  The captain turned to Margaret. “Miss Nash, if you don’t mind playing Sherlock to my Watson, I should like to drive over to the school and have a look for that envelope. My gig is around at the back. Will you join me?”

  “Of course,” Margaret said, feeling her ears go pink and thinking that there was nothing she would like better.

  At the door, Captain Woodcock paused, holding his fedora. “I understand that something else has gone missing,” he said to the vicar. “Has the Register been located yet?”

  “The Parish Register?” Margaret asked blankly.

  “I’m sorry to say that it has not,” the vicar said, with a guilty look. He pushed his hands into his trouser pockets. “I’ve ransacked the church, of course, and inquired discreetly around the village. One doesn’t want to raise an alarm.”

  “That makes three,” the captain said.

  “Three?” Margaret inquired, pulling on her gloves.

  “The School Roof Fund, the Parish Register, and Miss Tolliver’s Constable.”

  “Miss Tolliver’s Constable?” Margaret and the vicar exclaimed in unison.

  “So it seems, I’m afraid,” the captain replied, and gave them the details.

  “Oh, my,” said the vicar helplessly. “Oh, my word! I’ve seen that painting any number of times, but I had no idea it was a Constable!”

  “None of us did,” the captain said. “It was Miss Potter who identified it.”

  “A Constable,” Margaret murmured, wondering who could have taken such a thing, and how. “Why, it must be worth hundreds of pounds.”

  “Thousands, I should say. It is one of his miniatures, which are said to be very rare.” The captain put on his hat. “After you, Miss Nash. Vicar, we’ll let you know straight off if we find anything. And I’ll see you this evening, at seven, at Tower Bank House.”

  Still puzzling over Miss Tolliver’s missing Constable, Margaret accompanied the captain to the school. But even though they searched the shelves, the cupboards, the children’s desks, and the lockers in the tiny teachers’ room, the money was not to be found. At last they had to admit defeat—although, Margaret thought, as the captain let her off at her door, smiling and touching the brim of his jaunty hat, she had had a perfectly splendid time not finding it.

  And she felt distinctly better, now that she had put the problem of Miss Crabbe into such capable and understanding hands as his.

  18

  Miss Potter Says No

  The last time Beatrix had received a telegram, it had brought the awful news of Norman’s death, and this one made her heart pound and her knees wobble. No other blow could be as brutal or bitter as that, however. Now that Norman was gone, there was nothing left to lose and no reason to feel afraid. She opened the envelope as she walked up the path to Belle Green.

  It was, of course, from her father, composed in his usual stern, dispassionate style, the telegraphic con
tractions rendering it even sterner and more dispassionate. Beatrix was wanted at home, without delay. The parlor maid had left without giving notice, and Mrs. Potter was suffering from a cold and could not be expected to interview applicants for the position. He himself had had another bilious attack. Beatrix was to catch the earliest possible train tomorrow morning so that she could be home in time for tea.

  Beatrix crumpled up the telegram and thrust it into the pocket of her skirt. It was really too bad that she had to go back to London, she thought sadly, so soon after arriving, and with none of her business settled. She had managed to get a few good drawings done this morning, thanks to Jeremy and his frogs, but she still had no idea of what to do about the Jenningses. She had intended to go to Rydal tomorrow, to call on the Armitt sisters, whom she had not seen for some time. And she had meant to order a pair of clogs from the cobbler in Hawkshead, so that the next time she came, she’d have the proper footwear. There was also the terribly unfortunate matter of Jeremy and Miss Crabbe, which she wanted to see through to the end, and that puzzling business about the missing Constable painting. And she really was curious about the three Misses Crabbe, and what was going on at Castle Cottage. If only she—

  At that moment, completely unbidden, Beatrix heard Jeremy’s voice echoing inside her head. “You are so brave,” he had said, after she had shown Miss Crabbe the door. “I wish I could be brave like you.”

  Brave? Beatrix laughed, feeling a bitter sense of irony. Well, perhaps she could stand up bravely to the Miss Crabbes of the world, to whom she owed nothing, but not to her irascible father or her vexatious mother, to whom she owed deference and respect and a daughter’s duty. No matter how much she wanted to stay here in Sawrey, she should have to swallow her dismay and disappointment and go back to London.

  “Brave like you.” The words came again, stopping her in her tracks. Why should she go home? What could she do that could not be done equally well by others? Parlor maids came and went, and hiring a new one could be left with confidence to Mr. Cox, the family butler. Her mother’s head colds came and went as well, and there was nothing Beatrix could do but fetch cold remedies and hot tea and water bottles. She could do nothing to help her father, either. He was increasingly impatient with physical discomforts, and the least little twinge provoked paroxysms of complaint. He had sent for her out of habit—and most likely also out of pique. If either he or her mother were vexed or uncomfortable, they seemed to feel that it was unfair for Beatrix to be away somewhere, enjoying herself. She should come home and suffer with them.

  Suddenly Beatrix felt a strange, hot defiance pushing up from somewhere deep inside, like a lava stream boiling out of a long-quiet volcano. It was wrong of her parents to treat her as if she were a hired nurse or a housekeeper, rather than their grown-up daughter, and entitled to a life of her own! Yes, she could go home and hire a parlor maid and make their tea and hand round their medicines, and return again to Sawrey when things had quieted down. But it would only happen again, and again, and again. If she did not begin to take a stand—any sort of stand, however modest—against their constant demands on her time and attention, she would never escape from Bolton Gardens.

  Her hands thrust deep into her pockets, her head down, Beatrix turned and began to walk down the lane, mentally composing a telegram as she went.

  URGENT MATTERS REQUIRE ATTENTION HERE STOP WILL RETURN AS CIRCUMSTANCES ALLOW STOP MOST SORRY YOU ARE UNWELL STOP YOUR LOVING DAUGHTER BEATRIX STOP.

  She shivered as she imagined the scolding that would greet her when she got back to Bolton Gardens, the angry accusations that she had put herself and her own desires first, once again, ungrateful girl that she was. But she had always known that she was a terrible disappointment to her parents, not at all the daughter they wanted her to be. And wasn’t it better to endure their anger for a little while than to suffer her own bitter resentment for a great deal longer?

  She squared her shoulders, lifted her head, and walked faster, suddenly noticing that she was going in the direction of the post office. Her feet were taking her where her heart knew she needed to go.

  Ten minutes later, having written out her telegram and handed it over to Lydia Skead, she went back in the direction of Belle Green, walking now with a lighter, more buoyant step. All of her life she had said yes, even to the point of compromising her pledge to Norman by agreeing not to share the news with anyone else but their families. Now, at last, she had said no. She was surprised at how good it felt.

  There was another surprise waiting for Beatrix at Belle Green. She stepped into the house to let Mrs. Crook know that she had returned and would be glad to have a cup of tea. Then she went out immediately to the garden to retrieve her animals, who had spent the entire day in the hutch Mr. Horsley had built for them under the hedge. She found Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and Mopsy Rabbit fast asleep, Josey contemplatively nibbling on a stem of green clover, and two mice—two!—sitting quietly together in a corner, affectionately grooming one another’s fur.

  “Why, Tom Thumb!” Beatrix exclaimed. “Who is this?”

  “Her name is Teasel,” Tom said, looking up brightly. His whiskers twitched. “She’s a country mouse, and we’re engaged. Teasel, this is Miss Potter. She takes care of us.”

  “Pleased t’meet ye, I’m sure, Miss,” said Teasel shyly, bobbing her head.

  “It’s polite for a lady mouse to curtsy,” Tom hissed.

  “I don’t know how,” Teasel said.

  “Well, you must learn,” Tom replied sternly. “In the city, curtsys are taken quite seriously. Hunca Munca had a very pretty little curtsy.”

  Beatrix bent to look closely at the hutch. “I wonder how that mouse managed to get in?” she said to herself, searching around the bottom. In a minute, she found it: a small but conspicuous tunnel dug under one end of the hutch, exactly the right size to admit a mouse.

  “Well, that’s easy enough to remedy,” she said aloud, filling in the dirt and tamping it down with the heel of her boot. “It’s lucky that the rabbits or Mrs. Tig didn’t decide to make the tunnel a little bit bigger. They might have escaped, and I’d never have found them again.” She opened the door and picked up Josey, who opened one sleepy eye and twitched a whisker in greeting. “But I suppose you’re all too lazy to do any digging,” she said, stroking the rabbit’s soft ears. “And you’re probably far too comfortable in this nice hutch Mr. Horsley built to think of wanting to get out.”

  “Oh, of course,” Josey said, and pushed her nose into the crook of Beatrix’s arm.

  Beatrix reached into the hutch and picked up Mopsy as well, meaning to take the rabbits back to her room. Then she closed the hutch and smiled down at the pair of mice, who looked quite contented together. However it had happened, she was delighted that Tom had found a companion, for she knew he’d been terribly lonely since Hunca Munca’s death. She hoped they’d be very happy together.

  19

  Bertha Stubbs Tells All

  Bertha Stubbs lived in the third cottage in a row of three side-by-side stone houses called Lakefield Cottages, just outside the village. Having given in her notice that morning at Sawrey School, she walked straight home at a furious pace and did what she always did when she was angry or perturbed. She put on her apron and began to cook and clean and wash and polish.

  Bertha was known throughout Sawrey as having a light hand with pastry, and she immediately turned to making a rhubarb pie for her husband Henry’s supper, using a jar of the rhubarb she had bottled in the spring and some strawberry jam that Mrs. Lythecoe had given her, made from the strawberries in Betty Leach’s garden at Buckle Yeat. Whilst the pie was baking, she stirred up a batch of gingersnaps and put a pot of oxtail stew on the back of the range. She swept the kitchen floor and washed it, then attacked the ceiling-high oak dresser, built by her grandfather and embellished with his hand carvings, which held her best blue Staffordshire platter and dishes, and the Toby jugs that her aunt had sent her from Dover. Beginning at the very top and work
ing her way to the bottom, she washed each plate and cup and saucer in hot soapy water heated on the range. And all the while she worked, she was muttering angrily to herself. “What a way to treat an innercent child . . . Always one to stand on my principalities! . . . Spilt milk won’t never go back in the jug.”

  Bertha was rinsing the last plate and thinking that she had just about worn herself out with cleaning and was ready to have a bit of a sit-down when she heard a knock at the kitchen door. It opened, and Elsa Grape put her head in.

  “Hello, Bertha.” Elsa never stood on ceremony, and came in without waiting for an invitation. She was accompanied by Tabitha Twitchit, poor Miss Tolliver’s calico cat, who was known to enjoy a saucer of milk in a cozy kitchen. “I was leaving a basket of beans for Mrs. Pritchard, and thought I’d pop in for a bit of a chat.” Elsa glanced up at the oak-cased clock in the corner, which announced that the time was a quarter past three. “Tha’rt home from school early today.”

  “I ain’t goin’ back to that school,” Bertha said grimly, polishing the plate with a fierce vigor that betrayed the vehemence of her feelings. “Not nivver again. Leastwise, not so long as Miss Crabbe is there.” She nodded toward the copper kettle steaming on the back of the range. “Kettle’s hot. Tha’ll have a cup of tea, Elsa? And there’s gingersnaps, fresh-baked.” She glanced down at the cat. “’Spose tha came for milk, eh, Miss Twitchit?”

  “So nice of you to offer,” Tabitha said politely, and curled up in Crumpet’s favorite spot on the hearth rug, her paws tucked under her orange-and-white bib. She knew that Crumpet had gone up to Castle Cottage to talk to Max the Manx, and wasn’t likely to arrive and dispute her possession.

  “I wouldn’t say nay to a cup,” Elsa agreed cheerfully, and settled herself in a chair while Bertha poured hot water over three spoonfuls of tea in her second-best teapot. As far as news was concerned, Elsa felt, today had already proved to be quite remarkable, and she was eager to share what she knew with Bertha. At lunch at Tower Bank House, she had overheard Captain Woodcock and his sister discussing the fact that Miss Tolliver’s will had been read out that morning at the Heelis office in Hawkshead, and that a certain female person from Manchester—a Miss Sarah Barwick, whose mysterious connection to Miss Tolliver could only be guessed at—had inherited Anvil Cottage, whilst the draper from Kendal had got nothing but a box of old letters his mother had written to her sister. And then Miss Barwick herself had arrived with Mr. Heelis (Elsa had seen this with her very own eyes when she went to the village shop to buy a reel of cotton and a half-pound of castor sugar), and had chatted for a short while in the lane with Grace Lythecoe and Miss Potter, and then all four of them had gone together into Anvil Cottage. Elsa had come prepared to relate this interesting tale, and to remark on the scandalous shortness of Miss Barwick’s skirts and the agreeable way that the handsome Mr. Heelis had handed her up into the gig when they left.