The Tale of Hill Top Farm

by Susan Wittig Albert

  But Elsa was already in possession of these entertaining bits of gossip and Bertha looked fair bursting to tell her something else entirely. So she sat back in her chair, took a still-warm gingersnap from the plate on the table, and asked, in an interested tone, “What’s Miss Crabbe gone and done now?”

  “What’s she done?” Bertha cried, putting down a saucer of milk in front of Tabitha. “What’s she done? I’ll tell thi what she’s done.” And she did, in detail, with only one or two slight embellishments.

  “Jeremy Crosfield?” Tabitha said in amazement, licking milk from her whiskers. “I can’t believe it!”

  “Jeremy Crosfield?” Elsa exclaimed indignantly. “Fancy her accusin’ that lit’le boy, and him not able to defend himself. And where’s t’ School Roof Fund got to, I wants to know? Two pounds is a girt lot of money.”

  “A great lot of money indeed!” Tabitha exclaimed, performing a quick calculation. Most of the men in the village brought home only ten shillings a week, so two pounds represented the income of four whole weeks, or two months’ cottage rent, or the purchase of three or four sheep.

  “I’ve no notion where t’ money’s got to,” Bertha said angrily, pouring the tea. “I’ve considered goin’ to t’ vicar, or talkin’ to Constable Braithwaite mesel, or—” She paused, frowning. “O’ course, Miss Nash did tell me to keep it quiet, so I doan’t ’spose I should. And I’ll thank ye to keep it to thasel, too, Elsa Grape. There’s no good causin’ a lot of talk, which’ll hurt nobbut the boy. Tha knows how folk in this village are. They see a mouse, pretty soon it’s a hittopopomus.”

  “Ye’re right, of course, Bertha,” Elsa said, and stirred sugar into her tea. “Not but what there’ll be a girt deal o’ talk anyway, once it gets out that tha’s give notice. People’ll be wonderin’ why, and what am I t’ say?”

  “Just say it’s all along o’ principality,” Bertha said in a righteous tone. “Say that Bertha Stubbs won’t stand to work for somebody as mean and unjustified as Miss Crabbe.”

  And that’s what Tabitha Twitchit told Crumpet and Rascal when they joined one another after dark that evening, in the bushes beside the pub.

  It’s also what Elsa Grape told her cousin, Florrie Stokes, when Florrie dropped into the Tower Bank House kitchen to borrow a cup of sugar while Elsa was cooking dinner for Captain and Miss Woodcock. Florrie took the story home, along with the sugar and the tale of Miss Barwick and her inheritance, to share with her mother and father and her cousin Ruth Birkett, who happened to be visiting the Stokes house that evening. Florrie repeated the tale of Miss Barwick’s mysterious inheritance with a reasonable degree of accuracy and only the usual speculations. But she had theatrical aspirations, and her rendering of the encounter between Miss Crabbe and Mrs. Stubbs (which had particularly caught her fancy) was performed with a great many dramatic flourishes. The plot and dialogue were improved upon, as well.

  “Oh, it was a row, all right!” Florrie reported with great enjoyment, “a row to end all rows! Bertha Stubbs, she was outside t’ classroom door, sweepin’ t’ floor, when she heard Miss Crabbe start accusin’ that pore lit’le boy of stealin’ t’ three pounds t’ ladies collected. She stormed straight in and let her have it, then and there. ‘Leave this school and nivver darken its door again!’ Miss Crabbe screams, and Bertha Stubbs says, very dignified-like, “I am a-leavin’, this verra instant, and I’m nivver a-comin’ back, no matter if tha falls down on them bony knees and begs me!”

  Florrie widened her eyes dramatically, and placed her hand on her heart. “If it’ud been me, o’course, I’d a been so frightened I’d’ve swooned dead away, on the spot. But our Bertha’s not one to be bullied, oh, no! She stands up to Miss Crabbe and shakes her fist in her face and gives her a fair piece of her mind!”

  When Florrie had finished her performance, Mr. and Mrs. Stokes and Ruth Birkett were loud in their praise of the intrepid Bertha, and Florrie herself could not help feeling gratified by the family’s appreciation. They adjourned to the supper table, where they continued the discussion over plates of Mrs. Stokes’s Cumberland sausage, boiled cabbage, and fried potatoes, carrying it on through dishes of treacle pudding and cups of hot tea, until Ruth Birkett declared that it was getting late and she should be starting for home.

  The number of people to whom Ruth Birkett repeated the tale of Bertha’s heroism is unfortunately not recorded. But since Ruth lived with her three unmarried sisters halfway between Near Sawrey and Hawkshead, and since all four Birketts went out for daily work in that market town, it is highly likely that the story found its way into at least four Hawkshead households the very next morning. And it would not be surprising if the School Roof Fund—which had grown to three pounds in Florrie’s version of its disappearance—was enlarged to four, five, six pounds, and even more, in subsequent retellings of the tale, enough to put an entirely new roof on the school and perhaps even a new room, if one had been wanted.

  Miss Tolliver would have been amazed to learn how much money the Sawrey ladies had collected after she was gone.

  20

  Miss Crabbe Meets with an Unfortunate Accident

  Max the Manx was not by nature a hopeful creature, and it had been his experience throughout his life that things never worked out exactly as they were planned. He did not, therefore, think highly of Crumpet’s scheme to keep Miss Myrtle from going to see Constable Braithwaite and telling him to arrest the boy. Oh, the plan was certainly clever enough, but it required him to climb up to the top of the steep stairs to Castle Cottage’s second floor, something Max had never before done, because high places made him queasy. Still, he agreed with Crumpet that Miss Myrtle had to be stopped, and since he had no confidence that Viola or Pansy could get the job done, he promised to think about it.

  Viola Crabbe, for her part, had been deeply distressed by what Grace Lythecoe and Miss Potter had told her earlier that afternoon. Of course, it was very bad that the boy should have been accused, and that Myrtle should have spoken so appallingly to Miss Potter, who seemed a very shy, quiet person who wouldn’t say boo to a goose.

  But what was far more distressing, to Viola’s mind, was the pattern of Myrtle’s behavior over the past several months. Viola acknowledged that she had a dramatic temperament and often exaggerated things. But she was not exaggerating when she said that her older sister—always so strong, so capable, so very firm of intention—was undergoing a mental breakdown, as had their mother only five or six years before. Dear Mama, however, had been in her seventies when the terrible affliction struck, and the fragility of her physical health had meant that she did not have to suffer for many months in the asylum where Myrtle had insisted on placing her. Viola and Pansy had argued against the asylum, wanting to keep Dear Mama at home where they could take care of her, for they had loved her in spite of her mental frailties. But Myrtle had absolutely insisted, and although they had resisted as long as they could, Viola and Pansy had finally given in, for fear of causing further grief to all concerned.

  Now, looking back, Viola had the chilling thought that her sister’s violent insistence might have been a clue, a signal, perhaps, that Myrtle herself was beginning to fear some sort of psychological breakdown, and had reacted by wanting to put Dear Mama out of the way. She could not know this for certain, however, and there was no point in speculating about the past, especially when the present was rapidly becoming intolerable.

  And it wasn’t just the two or three events that Viola and Pansy had mentioned to Grace Lythecoe that afternoon. It was the little things that occurred almost every day now—the abrupt anger over trivial upsets, the groundless accusations of persecution, the inexplicable fits of crying, the subtle changes in physical appearance—that hinted at Myrtle’s deteriorating personality. It was clear that their sister was going to pieces and that Viola—for Pansy was not of much help when it came to a crisis—should have to take charge. But first things first. This evening, Viola had to deal with the most immediate problem, which was to somehow
prevent Myrtle from going to the constable with her indictment of little Jeremy Crosfield, who must be innocent, if dear Grace Lythecoe thought so.

  The tea things were put out as usual, and at tea time the three sisters gathered in the sitting room in front of the comfortable fire. Viola still wore her kimono, but Pansy had changed into a mauve velvet tea gown with lace-trimmed ruffles at the neck and sleeves. Myrtle was, as always, carefully dressed, in a white shirtwaist and black skirt. But the skirt seemed to hang loosely on her and her face looked thin and gaunt. Her gray hair had lost its spring and its silvery luster had faded. She had never been pretty, but the sharp intelligence that had once brightened her expression seemed to have faded as well.

  Viola waited until Myrtle had finished her biscuit and cup of tea, then took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and told her (with as little drama as possible) about the visitors who had called earlier that afternoon.

  “Pansy and I think, Myrtle,” she concluded quietly, “that it is inadvisable for you to bother Constable Braithwaite about this affair. There doesn’t seem to be any proof that the boy stole the money—in fact, there seems no proof that it was stolen at all. Pansy and I would like to go with you to the school and search for it. We can go now, if you like, or first thing in the morning, if you’d rather.”

  “That is totally unnecessary, Viola,” Myrtle said. “The money is not at the school.”

  Viola had expected a tirade, not this extraordinary calmness, and it rather unnerved her. “Then where is it?” she asked uncertainly.

  “Why, it’s at Willow Cottage—or wherever the boy has hidden it,” Myrtle said airily. “You’re not to worry about this, Viola. The child is clever, I’ll give him that—clever enough to get people on his side. But I’m sure the constable will ferret out the truth, and the money.”

  Pansy, always the sympathetic one, put out her hand. “Dearest Myrtle, do consider the possibility that the money was simply mislaid, like the money for the baker’s boy, or Aunt Adrienne’s locket—”

  “Don’t talk nonsense, Pansy,” Myrtle said, with a gentle air of reproving authority. “That wretched child simply took the opportunity to pocket the money when he was left alone in the room, and that’s all there is of that.”

  “But, Myrtle,” Pansy protested, “we really think—”

  “Don’t,” Myrtle said sharply. “Thinking is not your strong suit, Pansy. Nor Viola’s. Neither of you have any experience of the world on which to base any opinion at all. If you will keep your thoughts to yourself, they will not be exposed as foolishness.”

  Pansy looked as if she had been slapped. Her large soft eyes filled with tears that spilled over onto her cheeks.

  “There is no need to be rude, Myrtle,” Viola said. “We are just trying to help avoid a scandal that might damage the child—and you.”

  “I am quite aware of what you are trying to do,” Myrtle said significantly. She pulled her thin gray eyebrows together in a disapproving line and directed a stern frown, first to one sister and then to the other. “I’d like to know what business this is of Grace Lythecoe’s. Just because she was married to the vicar, she thinks she’s an emissary of the Lord, I suppose. And that dumpy, disagreeable Miss Potter, sticking her political nose into matters that she has nothing to do with.”

  “But, Myrtle—” Viola began.

  “It is getting on to six,” Myrtle said, glancing up at the ormolu clock on the mantle and putting down her teacup in a businesslike way, “and if I mean to have a word with Constable Braithwaite tonight, I had better be on my way.” Obviously feeling in command of the situation, she gave her sisters an indulgent smile. “Now, my dears, for the really important question. What are we having for dinner tonight?”

  Viola and Pansy exchanged glances. “Mutton cutlets,” said Pansy in a small voice, “and a Damson pudding.”

  “Excellent,” Myrtle said, standing. “I shall return shortly, and expect dinner at the regular hour.” She set her mouth, looked down her nose, and spoke in a reproving tone. “We will have no more words about this unpleasant business. Do you hear?” When neither of them answered, she repeated it, louder and with a sharp emphasis, as she would in the schoolroom. “Do you hear?”

  “Yes, Myrtle,” Pansy said obediently, and Viola made a silent, sulky nod.

  “Very good,” Myrtle said, and gave them each a vastly forgiving smile. “Stay and finish your tea, dears. I shan’t be gone very long.”

  Feeling that she had kept her temper admirably under quite a trying circumstance, Myrtle swept out of the parlor and upstairs to her bedroom, where she combed her hair, changed into a clean white shirtwaist, and put on her third-best jacket. She pulled on her gloves, pinned on her hat, hung her purse over her arm, and started down the stairs in the direction of the front door.

  But she got no further than the second stair, for that was the point at which she stepped on Max (who, crouched on the shadowy stair, was virtually invisible), and pitched forward, head over heels, giving a wild, piercing shriek. She bumped in a somersaulting tumble down the steep, uncarpeted stairs to the very bottom, where she lay in a heap, un-moving.

  In the sitting room, Viola and Pansy had been conducting an anxious, low-voiced discussion of what was to be done, now that they had failed in their efforts to keep Myrtle from going to the constable. Viola had just said that she was beginning to fear for their sister’s mental balance when she was interrupted by Myrtle’s alarming shriek and a series of thumps. She and Pansy ran out into the hallway and were greeted by the sight of Myrtle, dazed and moaning, at the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes were closed and her face was ashen.

  “Myrtle! What’s happened?” Pansy cried in a horrified voice, kneeling beside her. “Are you all right?”

  Myrtle’s eyelids fluttered. “My right leg,” she moaned. “It hurts. It hurts terribly.” She tried to raise herself but fell back with a little whimper.

  Viola lifted Myrtle’s black woolen skirt, exposing the thin, black-stockinged leg. It was bent above the knee at an odd angle. She dropped the skirt. “I daresay it’s broken,” she said dispassionately. “Above the knee, which makes it much worse.”

  “Broken!” Myrtle shrilled, attempting once again to raise herself. “You and your histrionics! You’re exaggerating the situation, as usual, Viola, for your own purposes. My leg is not broken! I have things to do! I must go and see—”

  “Don’t be a fool, Myrtle.” Viola spoke sharply, feeling a mean sense of triumph. “You’re not going anywhere. Pansy, bring the brandy and a glass, and a blanket.” As Pansy scurried off, Viola straightened and looked down at her prostrate sister, whose face and figure she had never once viewed from this superior angle. “How in the world did you manage to fall?”

  Myrtle turned her head from side to side. “It was Max. He was sitting on the next-to-top stair.”

  “I doubt it,” Viola said, thinking that it was just like Myrtle to blame someone else—in this case, an innocent cat—for something she had done herself. “In all the years we have had that cat, he has never once ventured up those stairs. You know he’s afraid of heights. He’s never even climbed a tree.”

  “But I’m sure it was—”

  “Don’t talk,” Viola instructed. She wouldn’t have admitted this to a soul, not even to Pansy, but she felt this unfortunate accident had occurred at a most opportune time. Myrtle would doubtless be confined to the house for as long as it took the break to mend—six weeks or more, likely. Perhaps, in that time, her mental balance would be restored, and they could go on as they had before. She stopped herself with a little shake. No—not as before. This time, she would be in charge, and some serious changes were going to be made.

  Feeling considerably cheered, Viola reached for her shawl, hanging from the peg beside the door. “I’ll go over to Belle Green and ask Edward Horsley to fetch Dr. Butters,” she said. “George Crook and Charlie Hotchkiss can bring a plank to get you up to bed.”

  “But I want to see Constable Br
aithwaite,” Myrtle cried weakly, her voice thin and tremulous. Her face was contorted, whether with pain or with anger Viola could not guess. “If I can’t go there, you must fetch him, Viola. Bring him to me. I am ordering you!”

  “No, Myrtle,” Viola said in a low, level tone that was all the more dramatic because it lacked drama. “I will not fetch the constable, not now, and not later.” As Pansy appeared with a blanket and the brandy, she added, “Give her quite a large one, Pansy.” To Myrtle, she said, “Lie still and obey instructions, or you’ll cause yourself more pain and us more trouble. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” And with that, she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and went out the door, closing it firmly behind her.

  Crouched in the shadows on the second stair from the top, Max the Manx had watched silently as this fascinating scene unfolded in the hallway below. Miss Myrtle had made life difficult for everyone in Castle Cottage, and he was not sorry (although of course he should have been) to see her have a taste of it for herself.