The Tale of Hill Top Farm

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “I wasn’t sure, at first, what I ought to do,” she said, pouring Dim and herself a second cup of tea and lighting another cigarette. “My father grew up in this area—Hawkshead. But he left when he was twenty and never came back, and I’ve never had any cause to visit the Lake District. I’d no idea it was so beautiful, and of course I’ve never lived in a village. To tell the truth, I was planning to sell this place and use the money to set up a bakery in a city.”

  “But you’ve changed your mind?” Dimity asked.

  Nodding, Sarah settled back in her chair. “It came to me in a flash when I was here yesterday with Mr. Heelis. I’ll open a small bakery and confectioner’s shop right here. Nothing big, of course, not dozens and dozens of loaves every day. Just a bit of fresh bread and cakes, tea cakes, scones”—she glanced approvingly at Elsa’s—“and perhaps a few hot pies. And there’s a hive of bees in the garden, and I might put in another, to have a little fresh honey to sell. I don’t need a great income, you see, just something to supplement what my dad left.” She paused and asked, with an anxious look, “Will it do well here, do you think? A bakery business, I mean?”

  Another surprise for the village, Dimity thought, with a private smile. A woman baker and confectioner, in Miss Tolliver’s cottage? But why not? The kitchen was large enough to accommodate two ranges, if that were necessary. And Sarah would not be the only woman working in her home. Lydia Dowling ran the village shop in the front of Meadowcroft Cottage, just across Market Street. Jane Crosfield was a spinner and weaver, Mrs. Jamison raised chickens, Betty Leach sold vegetables out of her garden at Buckle Yeat, and Agnes Llewellyn, next door at High Green Gate, sold milk and butter from her husband’s cows. So why not a bakery?

  “I think you might do very well, actually,” Dimity replied thoughtfully. “The baker’s boy comes over from Hawkshead once a week, but I’m sure we’d rather buy closer to home. Quite a few families still make their own bread, of course, but some would prefer to buy cakes and pies and such. And there are the day-trippers coming through, and the cyclists, all of whom are good for a bun or two. Yes, indeed, I think you might do very well.”

  “Hurrah, then,” Sarah said, with evident satisfaction, and added, as an afterthought, “I’m sure Miss Tolliver wouldn’t mind. In fact, I mentioned it to her once in a letter—the idea of going into the baking business for myself—and she encouraged me. She said that every woman ought to be able to make her own way in the world.” She tapped her cigarette ash smartly into the saucer. “Of course, I hadn’t an idea in the world that she intended to leave me her house. That came as a great surprise, let me tell you. Practically knocked me off my pins.”

  “You and Miss Tolliver were friends, then,” Dimity remarked, in a tone designed to elicit a response without betraying her curiosity.

  “I wish I could say that we were,” Sarah replied. Her dark eyes grew sad. “We were never able to actually meet, face-to-face, I mean. But I feel that I knew her through our letters. We’d been writing for a year or so, and I used to send her little packages of baked goods. You know, biscuits and sweets and the like. She said she enjoyed them, and sent me back all manner of crocheted and knitted things—doilies and pot holders and gloves. Things she’d made.”

  “But how did the two of you come to start writing?” Dimity persisted. Under other circumstances, the question would have been impertinent and perhaps even rude, but Sarah seemed to want to talk, and Dimity certainly wanted to know.

  “Oh, haven’t I said? Miss Tolliver and my dad were old friends, from the time before he married my mum. As I mentioned, he grew up in Hawkshead. They kept in touch through the years, in a friendly way. And then, after Mum died, Miss Tolliver wrote a very sweet and proper letter, and asked me to tell her about myself, what I liked to read, whether I was a needlewoman, or kept dogs, how I felt about this and that. I wrote back, and after that, she’d write every few months.” She smiled ruefully. “My dad used to say that p’rhaps she was looking for a daughter, since she had none of her own. Never married, he told me, although she wanted to, once. Her father wouldn’t allow it. Thought she ought to stay home and care for him, which she did, I understand, till he died.”

  “I heard something about a sweetheart,” Dimity said, “although I don’t know the full story. I doubt that anybody does, here in the village, I mean. Miss Tolliver was a dear and so very kind. She was involved with everything that went on and we saw her every day. But for all that, we didn’t know her, if you take my meaning. She kept herself to herself.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Sarah said frankly. “To tell the truth, I was hoping that somebody here might tell me more about her.” She got up and went to the sideboard, where she picked up a letter. “I wrote to her, you know, to tell her that my dad was dead. And yesterday, Mrs. Lythecoe, from across the way, said she thought that Miss Tolliver was reading my letter when she had her heart attack and died. I’m afraid that maybe the news about my dad came as a great shock to her.”

  Dimity gave her a wondering look. “You mean, you think that reading about your father’s death actually triggered her own? But why?”

  “Why?” Sarah repeated, frowning. “Yes, that’s what I’ve been asking myself. I mean, I know they were friends, a long time ago. I once asked Dad if they were sweethearts, but he didn’t answer me. And now, I suppose, it will be a mystery forever. I—”

  Sarah was interrupted by a loud rapping at the kitchen door. “Miss Barwick! Miss Barwick!” a man’s voice called urgently. George Crook opened the door and put his head in. “Thi clothesline just fell down. Everything’s in a heap all o’er t’ ground.”

  “Oh, gosh!” Sarah cried, smacking her forehead with her hand. She jumped up. “Oh, stupid me! I should have known better than put all that weight on it, in this wind.”

  “If tha wants, I’ll tie it back up,” George said helpfully. “I—”

  He stopped, staring at Sarah’s trousers, shock and consternation written all over his face. He swallowed. And then he saw her cigarette. His eyes got bigger and bigger until (as Dimity said later to Mrs. Lythecoe) they were as big as partridge eggs, and about to pop out of his head.

  “Oh, could you?” Sarah said eagerly, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray, appearing not to notice the look on his face. “I say, I’d like that awf’lly. I’m such a fumble-fingers—if I did it, the line would be down again in a shake.”

  And then they were all outside in the back garden, the two women gathering up the drapes and curtains and rugs, George Crook fastening up the clothesline and trying not to look at Sarah Barwick’s trousers.

  26

  Miss Potter Puts a Thief out of Business

  As Beatrix kept an apprehensive eye on the sky, Mr. Heelis drove south, toward Lake Windermere. It did not take long to get where they were going, and even though the sky was growing darker and more threatening, still there was no rain. In ten minutes or so, they were stopping in front of a small stone building near the remains of the old Roman fort.

  “This gallery belongs to a gentleman who collects and sells paintings and sculptures,” Mr. Heelis replied, at Beatrix’s questioning glance. “He has a number of interesting pieces on display—one in particular that I should like you to have a look at.” He secured the reins and got out to come around and give her a hand.

  “Did you speak to him about Miss Tolliver’s Constable?” Beatrix asked as she climbed down.

  “I did,” Mr. Heelis said. “Come in, please.”

  Inside, Beatrix saw that the white walls of the little shop were hung with quite a lot of lovely pieces of art—landscapes of the Lake District’s remarkable scenery, watercolors of plants and flowers, photographs of the fells and the moors—and on the shelves were any number of fossils and Roman artifacts that she would have liked to study more closely. But Mr. Heelis was pressing her forward and introducing her to a short, stout, sallow-faced man with a large head of shaggy brown hair, immense mutton-chop whiskers, and the mournful, baggy eyes of
a basset hound—eyes that did not quite meet her own.

  “Miss Potter, this is Mr. Lawrence Ransom, who owns this gallery,” Mr. Heelis said.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure, Miss,” Mr. Ransom said, making a small bow, but still not quite meeting her eyes. His voice was as doleful, Beatrix thought, as his expression.

  “We shall want to get right to it, Mr. Ransom,” Mr. Heelis said, with a quiet authority. “We have some distance to go, and it is beginning to look like rain.” Outside, as if to applaud Mr. Heelis’s astuteness, there was an emphatic clap of thunder.

  Mr. Ransom sighed—a gusty sigh that seemed to be propelled from his toes upward through his rotund torso and finally out of his mouth—and reluctantly took his cue.

  “If you’ll come this way, Miss,” he said, and led them toward a door, which opened onto a small room in the back of the gallery. The room had one narrow window and was piled from floor to ceiling with an untidy jumble of canvases, frames, broken sculptures, odd bric-a-brac, and pieces of pottery. Mr. Ransom went behind a corner screen and came out with a small painting in a gilt frame. He seemed, Beatrix thought, quite reluctant to show it to her.

  “If you wouldn’t mind holding it up, please, Mr. Ransom,” Mr. Heelis said firmly. Prompted, Mr. Ransom held it up, still averting his eyes.

  “Why, it’s Miss Tolliver’s Constable!” Beatrix exclaimed in delight, immediately recognizing the painting. She clapped her hands. “Oh, Mr. Heelis, you’ve found it!”

  “It was your sketch that made finding it possible,” Mr. Heelis replied. “All I had to do was show your drawing to Mr. Ransom, and he recognized it straightaway.” The sardonic glint in his eye suggested that there was rather more to the story than that, but it would have to wait.

  “It’s a great comfort to see that it has suffered no damage,” Beatrix said, with genuine relief. She looked again at the painting, then at the man who held it, and asked the question that was at the front of her mind. “How did you come by it, Mr. Ransom?”

  The little man sighed again, shot a glance in the direction of Mr. Heelis, and licked his lips. “I am holding it for a . . . certain person with whom I have occasionally done business,” he said in a mournful voice, so low that Beatrix had to strain to hear him. “Several of my clients in the area are interested in Constable’s work, you see, and this person approached me with the idea that I might be able to sell it for him.” He coughed delicately and added, “However, now that Mr. Heelis has made me aware that the painting was taken without the permission of the owner—”

  “Stolen, you mean,” Beatrix said tartly. It was annoying when people beat about the bush and did not come straight out with what they had to say.

  “As you wish.” The man coughed again. “As I said, the painting was left with the understanding that I would contact my clients and let them know that it is available. Was available,” he amended hurriedly. “Of course, now that I understand the situation and Miss Potter has positively identified the work, I am quite anxious that it be returned to its rightful owner as soon as possible. Quite, quite anxious, I assure you.”

  “Then perhaps you would like us to return it,” Mr. Heelis suggested.

  “Ah, yes, of course, did I not say so?” Mr. Ransom affected great surprise. “ ’Pon my word, I am sure I said so. You may take it now, if you wish. In fact, that is a very good idea. I beg you to take it now, so that there is no untoward delay. I will wrap it carefully against the weather.”

  Beatrix frowned. “Theft is a serious business, Mr. Ransom, and you surely don’t want to take our word that the painting was stolen. This is a business for the police. I’m sure that Constable Braithwaite would be glad to speak with you about it, or Captain Woodcock, our Justice of the Peace.”

  “Oh, dear, no!” Mr. Ransom exclaimed, his basset eyes widening in alarm. “Oh, no, dear Miss Potter, that will not be necessary, not necessary at all. Now, if you will give me a moment, I’ll wrap the painting for you.”

  Beatrix stared at the man, beginning to understand. There could be only one reason why an art dealer who was holding stolen property would not be willing to discuss the affair with the authorities. It was because he was afraid of being suspected of being a fence, a receiver of stolen goods—or because he actually was a fence. She had read about such people in the newspapers, although she had never thought to meet one. She was immediately glad of Mr. Heelis’ company, for she had the idea that this stout, sad little man might, under other circumstances, be dangerous, not a man to be pressed. Still, there was something she needed to know.

  “Wait,” she said urgently. “Before you wrap the painting, Mr. Ransom, we must know the name of the person who brought it to you.”

  Mr. Ransom’s eyes narrowed and his lips tightened almost imperceptibly. A hard expression crossed his soft face. “I am afraid,” he said in a mournful tone, “that I am not at liberty to—”

  Mr. Heelis leaned forward and put his hand on the little man’s arm. “Mr. Ransom,” he said, tightening his grip, “you will tell us, or you will tell the police. Which will it be?”

  Mr. Ransom looked down at Mr. Heelis’ hand, looked up at Beatrix, and yielded. “His name,” he said in a sullen tone, “is Spry. I don’t have an address for him. He merely stops in. On an irregular basis, that is.”

  A vivid flash of lightning lit the small room.

  “Spry?” Mr. Heelis frowned. “I don’t believe I know—”

  The rest of the sentence was drowned out by a clap of thunder that seemed to shake the very floor. When its reverberating roll had died away, Beatrix spoke.

  “I do,” she said. “I know exactly who he is.”

  Fortunately, the thunder and lightning rolled away to the west as quickly as it had rolled in from the east, and Beatrix and Mr. Heelis—with the precious cargo wrapped in waterproof and stowed in the back of the gig—were soon on their way, with the idea of getting back to Sawrey in time for tea. The rain still came in hard, stinging volleys, however, and even though Mr. Heelis had put up the collapsible gig cover, they would have been quickly soaked if Beatrix had not unrolled her mackintosh (she had visited often enough in the Lake Country to know that a person should not go out for the day without her mackintosh) and draped it over both their heads as they huddled close together on the seat.

  “Well, Miss Potter?” Mr. Heelis asked, as they drove smartly along the Hawkshead Road, the horse’s hooves kicking up little bursts of spray. “Who is this Mr. Spry?”

  “He is Mr. Henry Roberts’ house agent,” Beatrix said. She adjusted the mackintosh so that the rain did not fall on Mr. Heelis’s shoulder. She felt uncomfortable sitting so close against him, and thought with a fleeting shiver of the scolding she would receive from her mother, should she ever be found out. But her companion’s quiet matter-of-factness eased her, and she went on. “Mr. Roberts introduced him to Mrs. Lythecoe and me the day before yesterday.”

  “A house agent!” Mr. Heelis exclaimed, turning to look at her. “What a perfect arrangement for a thief!”

  “A perfect arrangement?” Beatrix asked, puzzled, and then understood. “Of course! As a house agent, Mr. Spry is called in to make appraisals. When he’s in the house, he notes valuable art objects that he thinks might find a ready market. Then he returns to steal them, with confidence that he will not be discovered, since he knows that the house is temporarily unoccupied.”

  “Exactly, Miss Potter,” Mr. Heelis said in a congratulatory tone. “Exactly. I daresay this isn’t the man’s first theft. He’s probably been at this for some time.”

  Beatrix frowned. “But how did you happen to approach Mr. Ransom about the painting? Was it just a lucky chance, or—?”

  “Not quite,” Mr. Heelis said, with a wry grin. “I had dealings with Ransom last year. A valuable Etruscan vase disappeared from the residence of a client of mine in Windermere. I had once admired it—very much as you admired the Constable, perhaps—and then happened, quite accidentally, to see it in Ranso
m’s gallery. The vase was returned after some negotiation, and with an agreement that no questions would be asked. Ransom was the first person I thought of yesterday, when we determined that the painting had been taken out of Miss Tolliver’s cottage.”

  “Excellent work, Mr. Heelis,” Beatrix said approvingly.

  He shook his head. “The work is yours, Miss Potter, and Miss Barwick has cause to be very grateful. If you had not pointed out to Mrs. Lythecoe that the painting was missing, its absence might very well have gone completely undetected. And if you had not already identified the artist, its loss—even if it had been known—would likely have been dismissed.”

  Beatrix felt herself coloring at the compliment, but she only said, shyly, “You give me too much credit, Mr. Heelis. I am only glad that I could be of help.” She paused and inquired, “And what will happen next?”

  “I suggest that we leave the painting with Captain Woodcock,” Mr. Heelis replied. “He can return it to Miss Barwick the next time she comes to Anvil Cottage. And he and Constable Braithwaite can discuss with the magistrate how to deal with this man Spry. I should think that there’s enough evidence for his arrest.”

  “I’m glad of that,” Beatrix said emphatically. “It will be good to have that thief put out of business.” She gave Mr. Heelis a sidewise look. “And what about Mr. Ransom? He’s equally guilty, I should think.”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Heelis said. “I intend to have a word with the Ambleside police about the man, and ask them to keep a close eye on him. I daresay they’ll discover that he regularly receives stolen goods, and not just from this fellow Spry.” He smiled. “You may have put two thieves out of business, Miss Potter. A ring of thieves, perhaps. Please accept my congratulations and profound gratitude.”

  And while it could not stop the rain, that last short, pleasant sentence had the remarkable effect of warming Beatrix, inside and out, during the rest of the drive to Sawrey.