The Tale of Hawthorn House

by Susan Wittig Albert

  The fox gave a nonchalant shrug. “Be that as it may. In the event, Miss Woodcock is keeping the baby whilst the captain investigates the crime. Perhaps two crimes,” he amended. “Kidnapping and abandonment.”

  “Kidnapping!” squeaked one of the hedgehogs excitedly.

  “Abandonment!” shrilled the other, rising half out of his chair.

  “ ’Twas gypsies done it,” said old Templeton Toad, groping blindly for his lemonade. Primrose put the glass in his hand and he drank thirstily. “Bad ’bout babes, them gypsies. As soon steal one as look at it. Why, when I was a lad, gypsies nabbed a babe right out of its pram in Kendal High Street whilst its mother was buying apples.”

  “What happened?” asked Hyacinth apprehensively.

  “A world of fuss was made, but t’ poor babe was never got back. Disappeared right off t’ face of t’ earth. Ever ’body said ’twas gypsies pinched it.”

  He put down his glass and immediately knocked it over, requiring Primrose to dam the lemonade puddle with her napkin.

  “D-d-d-disappeared!” wailed the littlest mouse, who had lost her twin sisters to a cat when she was very young. She began to cry. “How d-d-d-dreadful!”

  “There, there, dear,” Primrose said soothingly, applying her lemonade-damp napkin to the mouse’s eyes. “I’m sure it was got back. Babies may be gone for a time, but they’re always got back in the end.”

  “This ’un never ’twas,” the old toad said stoutly. “T’ Big Folk said that gypsies put it to work, ’long with t’ other babes they stole. Slav’ry, y’know. They pinch ponies, too.”

  The mouse broke into fresh tears. The hedgehogs looked as if they would like to cry, as well, but the fox frowned sternly at them and they subsided into hiccups.

  “The usual suspects, gypsies and foxes,” the fox said darkly. “Big Folk always have to have someone to blame when a criminal act occurs. In case you haven’t noticed,” he added, with a significant look at the toad, who fell into a fit of coughing.

  “What did the gypsies tell the captain about the baby?” asked the badger. He had the uncomfortable feeling that the serious crimes they were discussing were not fit for younger animals’ ears.

  “That they knew nothing about it,” the fox replied. “That’s what they told the captain to his face, and that’s what they said ’mongst themselves after he left, so I suppose we can take it as truth. For once, the gypsies didn’t do it. Nor foxes.” He slanted another dark look at the hiccupping hedgehogs, who stuffed their napkins in their mouths and slipped down in their chairs so that only their little black eyes could be seen above the cloth.

  Parsley appeared with the rum cake on a platter and a dish of sauce. Primrose, catching Bosworth’s meaningful glance, got up from the table.

  “I think,” she said in a motherly tone, “that the youngsters will have their desserts in the kitchen. You, too, Mr. Toad. Your feet must be cold—you can put them up on the fender.”

  “There’s tea in the kitchen, too,” Parsley added helpfully. “And everyone may have an extra spoonful of cream. Come along, now.”

  Suddenly recovered from their grief by the anticipation of cream, the little animals trooped out, and the toad groped after them. The badger, the fox, and young Thorn were left with the rum cake, and elderflower wine succeeded the lemonade.

  Badger, now very serious, said, “But whose babe can this be, Fox? I’ve not heard of any born in the Land Between the Lakes in the past fortnight. I’m usually told, for the record.” By the record, he meant the History, of course, which included births and deaths.

  “Ah, whose? That’s the mystery, isn’t it?” said the fox, leaning back in his chair.

  “Might be an off-comer’s child,” Thorn suggested.

  “Next thing you know,” the fox added bitterly, “Captain Woodcock will come looking for me, wanting to know whether I did it.”

  Badger chuckled. “Oh, come, now, Fox. If it were a chicken or duck gone missing, they might think of you. But I don’t suppose anyone will imagine that a fox stole that baby and left it on Miss Potter’s doorstep.”

  The fox laughed and changed the subject. “With regard to ducks—you mentioned earlier that Jemima Puddle-duck is starting a new family. I understand from another source that she’s been confined to quarters—probably that collie is keeping her close. Any idea where she might be?”

  The badger shifted uneasily. While in his view it was not a crime for a fox to eat a duck (such was, after all, the nature of foxes and ducks), he was not inclined to be an accessory before the fact. On the other hand, there was the Third Badger Rule of Thumb, generally thought of as the Aiding and Abetting Rule: One must be helpful to one’s fellow creatures, large and small, for one never knows when one will require help oneself. (We humans observe a similar maxim, although mostly in the breach. We call it the Golden Rule.)

  And the badger did have some information, as it happened, for a pair of mice had recently dropped in for tea on their way to Tidmarsh Manor, where they had been invited to move in with friends. At the table, they mentioned that they had spent the previous night in the Hill Top barn, where a certain misguided duck had been sitting for weeks and weeks on a clutch of eggs that showed no signs of hatching.

  But as Bosworth hesitated, trying to frame a diplomatic reply, Thorn took the matter into his own paws. “You might have a look in the Hill Top barn,” he suggested helpfully.

  “The barn?” the fox asked eagerly. “Where in the barn, exactly?”

  Bosworth cleared his throat. “Could be anywhere,” he replied. “The mice who told us didn’t have any specific information.” Under the table, he gave Thorn a warning kick in the shins. “And if I were you, Fox, I’d keep a sharp eye out for that collie. Kep is said to be a first-rate watchdog. That old yellow dog still has some life in him, too.”

  Thorn dropped his head quickly, coloring, and the badger knew that he understood. And later, when Reynard had gone and Bosworth had returned to the library to have a quiet smoke before bed, the young badger tapped on the door.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Thorn said. “I just didn’t think.” He sighed. “He’s such a pleasant fellow. I completely forgot that he’s a fox. He probably has designs on that duck.”

  “I understand, young Thorn” Bosworth said sympathetically. “But there’s some truth in what he says about foxes and gypsies. When something happens, they’re always blamed first. I doubt Fox intends any harm. I shouldn’t worry about it, if I were you.”

  Thorn bit his lip. “But it was my fault. If anything happens to that duck, I shall be very sorry.”

  “I understand your feelings, dear boy,” Bosworth said. “They testify to your honorable spirit. But you must remember the Eighteenth Badger Rule of Thumb: If a fox (or any other predator) is intent on helping himself to a sitting duck (or any other prey), there’s nothing of consequence a badger can (or should) do about it.”

  “I suppose,” Thorn said dubiously. He paused. “Are the Rules of Thumb always right?”

  Bosworth frowned, for he had never considered the question. “Well, it is only a rule of thumb, I suppose—that is, a method derived from practice or experience, without any basis in scientific knowledge.”

  “So it could be wrong?” Thorn persisted. “Not to be disrespectful, sir, but if you had obeyed this rule, you would never have organized the Great Raid, and my mother and sister would both be dead.”

  Bosworth was a simple badger, and had no head for moral conundrums. In a soothing voice, he replied, “That may be, my boy. That may very well be. But this is not something we’re going to solve tonight. So pull up a chair and I’ll read a chapter from the History while you roast a few chestnuts in the fire.”

  And that’s what they did, Bosworth and Thorn together, in a cozy, companionable sort of way. But while they said nothing more about the fox or the duck, a cloud of gloom seemed to have settled over the both of them, and the joy had gone out of the evening.

  Each of them felt that Jemi
ma Puddle-duck’s death warrant had been signed and sealed at their dinner table that evening, and both of them felt very sorry.

  11

  Captain Woodcock Consults

  The next day (that would be Tuesday) dawned clear and fair, with the promise of a bright summer morning and a fine afternoon. Miles Woodcock drove his Rolls-Royce along the narrow road to Hawkshead. It was a short trip and uneventful, except when he pulled his motor car onto the narrow verge to allow the horse-drawn brewery wagon from Ambleside to pass. His right front wheel struck a sharp rock and the air went out of his tyre. This dismaying event became even more dismaying when the captain opened the boot and discovered that he was not carrying a spare.

  It was a warm day, and by the time Miles had patched the punctured tyre and pumped it up with his hand pump, his shirt and waistcoat were drenched with sweat and he wished fervently that he had ridden his horse. The trouble was the road. There was a great deal more traffic these days, and the right-of-way should be widened and paved. But that would require removing several stone walls and hedges and any number of trees. There was considerable opposition to that. Most of the local people resisted the cutting of trees, an attitude that Miles attributed to their general resistance to any kind of progress.

  As the captain resumes his journey, I will take a few moments to tell you about his destination: the quaint little market town of Hawkshead. If you visit today, you will find it much as was on the day of our story, and several hundred years before that. It was established by a Norseman named Haukr in the ninth century, which makes it a true medieval village.

  And like other medieval villages, Hawkshead is not built around a green. Instead, its narrow streets dart off in all directions, higgledy-piggledy, under the beneficent gaze of St. Michael and All Angels, the church that crowns the hill overlooking the town. One of these streets bears the descriptive name of Rag, Putty and Leather Street, so called for the tailors, cobblers, and painters who had businesses there. It is also called Wordsworth Street, for the poet William Wordsworth boarded in Anne Tyson’s home there, whilst he was attending the local grammar school. The cottage is now a bed-and-breakfast, but at the time of our story (or shortly before) it housed Tyson’s Shop, where our Miss Potter once bought two striped petticoats.

  Miles drove across the bridge over Black Beck, left his motor car near the old grammar school, and made his way along the cobbled main street to Red Lion Square, to the office of the legal firm of Heelis and Heelis. The two solicitors, cousins, handled a great many of the legal transactions in the district, and could be counted on to know what was going on at any given moment.

  Miles was just approaching the Heelis office when the door opened and Will Heelis stepped out, his bowler hat on his head and a leather briefcase in his hand.

  “Why, hullo, Miles,” Will said with a grin. He was a tall, athletic, good-looking man, a bachelor, and although he was painfully shy with women, he was less so with men and not at all with longtime friends. “You’re out and about early this morning.”

  “I’ve come to see you, Will,” Miles said. “Have you time for a cup of tea? P’rhaps we might go to the tea shop round the corner.”

  A few minutes later (it takes only a few minutes to get anywhere in Hawkshead), the two men were settled at a table beside a white-curtained window looking across a cobbled street to Thimble Hall. The proprietress brought them two china cups, a pot of tea, and a plate of seed wigs— small, sweet cakes covered with caraway seeds—hot from the oven.

  “Well, Miles,” Will said, stirring his tea. “How did the fête go on Saturday? I wanted to come and dance with the Morris men, but the Hawkshead bowlers had a match in Appleby, and I was obliged to take part.”

  “We got a good drenching,” Miles replied. “No one complained but the trippers who forgot their umbrellas. The rest of us were glad of the rain.” He paused. “Who won the match?”

  “Oh, we did, of course.” Biting into his seed cake, Will added, “Haven’t been in Sawrey for some time. Your sister is well, I trust.”

  Miles nodded, brightening. “Yes, Dimity is well, indeed. In fact, we are having a small dinner on Saturday night. We’d both like you to come.”

  “Saturday night,” Will said in a thoughtful tone. “I’m rather afraid that I have a prior—”

  Miles picked up his cup. “Miss Potter is coming, as well. It will be a small party, just the four of us.”

  “I believe I’m free, after all,” Will said. “I should love to come.”

  Miles was pleased. For the past year or so, he had been trying to arrange things so that his sister and his best friend would fall in love. He couldn’t understand why Dimity was so slow at recognizing what a comfortable life she would have with Will Heelis. She couldn’t argue that Will was unattractive. Athletic, fit, and trim, he had firm features, fine eyes, and thick brown hair that fell boyishly across his forehead. His character couldn’t be faulted, either, for his good judgment, his amiability, and the steadiness of his temper were remarked by everyone who knew him. He was keen on fishing, bowling, golf, and cricket, and followed the local hunt as often as he could spare the time. (All of this endeared him to Miles, of course, who loved nothing better than an afternoon with gun or rod.) All round, in all ways, no man in the district was more respected or better liked than Will Heelis. Christopher Kittredge couldn’t hold a candle to him.

  Miles frowned when he thought of that wretched Kittredge, who had so completely monopolized Dimity at the dance on Saturday night. Kittredge, whose family had lived at Raven Hall for a great many years, had lost an eye and an arm and got his face badly scarred in the war. Miles could scarcely object to that, of course—Kittredge was brave enough. What he objected to was the man’s appalling want of judgment. He had had the bad sense to marry a woman (an actress!) who turned out to be the worst sort of adventuress, and the cloak of scandal had clung round him ever since. No sensible woman—Dimity most of all—should have anything to do with him after such a disgrace. To ally herself to this fellow would be to associate herself with his shame. It was, of course—of course!—entirely out of the question.

  With this in mind, after the dance, Miles had spoken to his sister about the impropriety of Kittredge’s attentions. She had listened thoughtfully, and to his relief, had not raised any objection. But then, he had always found Dimity sweetly compliant. There had never been a serious disagreement between them, and there never would. So, in a celebratory mood, he had proposed a dinner party, with Will Heelis and Miss Potter as their guests. It was high time his sister found herself a suitable husband.

  Will, for his part, had not a clue that his friend had it in mind to turn him into a brother-in-law. He was happily enjoying his tea and seed wig when Miles put his hand into his waistcoat pocket.

  “I want you to have a look at something, Will.” He took out a small object, wrapped in a bit of tissue, and handed it to Will. “Ever seen anything like this?”

  Will put down his cup, unwrapped the tissue, and was surprised at the weight of the signet ring he held in his fingers. The ring was gold, with a setting of twisted gold wire. The stone was a large orange-red cornelian, carved with strange-looking hieroglyphics.

  “I’ve seen other pieces of jewelry made from Egyptian scarabs,” he said, studying it, “but none nearly so fine.” He held it up so that the sunlight through the window gave the cornelian a mysterious glow. “How did you come by it?”

  “It came from Miss Potter,” Miles said. “It was in the basket with the baby.”

  Will stared at his friend incredulously. “Miss Potter has a baby?” He was accustomed to surprises from Miss Potter, whom he liked very much—but a baby was rather shocking, especially since he had not heard that the lady was married. He had not seen her for some months, though, and he supposed that anything was possible. He was conscious of a sharp disappointment, but only barely. Will Heelis, like many other British men, was not always aware of his feelings.

  Miles chuckled dryly. “Ye
s, the lady has done it again,” he said, and told about the baby girl Miss Potter had found on her doorstep and brought to Tower Bank House on Sunday morning. “Dimity is having the time of her life,” he added, with a significant look. “My sister likes nothing better than playing mother, you know. Pity she has no children of her own.”

  Will was not thinking of his friend’s sister’s maternal ambitions. He was thinking of Miss Potter and (although he was only vaguely aware of this) feeling very relieved to learn that she was not married, after all. In his estimation, she was observant, forthright, and very sensible.—Pretty, too, with a shy, quiet softness that he found unusually appealing, although there was no point in thinking that way about her. (If we were to look deeply into Will’s thoughts at this moment, however, we would most likely find that he had no clear idea of what “that way” meant. He was not even aware that he regretted the fact that Miss Potter’s heart still belonged to the fiancé she had lost a few years before.)

  He pulled his attention back to the ring. “You said this was found in the basket. Any idea where it might have come from?”

  “Miss Potter caught a glimpse of the old lady who left the baby at Hill Top. Might be one of the gypsies camped at the foot of Broomstick Lane. And the child is dark-haired and dark-eyed—she could easily be a gypsy baby. With that in mind, I spoke yesterday with Taiso Kudakov, the Romany chief.”

  Will nodded. “Ah, yes, Kudakov. A shrewd man. Very able.”

  “You know him, then?” Miles glanced up. “Is he truthful?”

  “I know him. As to truth—” Will chuckled. “Perhaps it’s best to say that he’s true to his purposes, whatever they may be.”