“Well, you’re definitely right on that score,” Rascal replied, “although you mustn’t forget that I’m a terrier, and rats and foxes and such are my speciality.” He got up and stretched, forelegs first, hind legs after. “But I think I have an idea about a few friends who might help out. Let me do some checking, old girl, and I’ll get back to you.”
“But who?” Crumpet asked. She picked up the list of names she had discarded earlier and glanced through it. “I’ve tried and tried, and I can’t think of anybody who—”
“Later,” Rascal said, on his way to the door. “Don’t do anything until you hear from me.”
15
Rats!
I once had a white rat called Sammy . . . a dear; but he was a bit of a thief. I used to find all sorts of things hidden in his box. Once I found a stick of red sealing wax & some matches, just as if he had intended to write a letter and seal it carefully.
—Beatrix Potter to a child named Dulcie
Whilst Crumpet and Rascal were trying to come up with a plan, the rat in question—Jumpin’ Jemmy, who had stolen Mrs. Pemberton’s best cheese, peppers, and scone—had made his way through the back gardens and shrubbery and up the hill to the Castle Farm barn, where Rooker had installed his gang of rats.
When the rats took up residence in Miss Potter’s barn a few days before, the hideout was a dismal place, just a large cavern under the floor, with a trapdoor in the roof but no special amenities. It hadn’t stayed that way, however. Old Rooker’s gang was energetic, innovative, and well organized. They were used to moving into a place and making themselves at home. In this case, they had done some additional digging, so now their hideout under the barn floor featured a suite of quite comfortable rooms: one large room for rest and relaxation, a bunkroom, and a smaller room for a headquarters, where Rooker could meet with his lieutenants.
In fact, it was all quite cozy, especially the headquarters room, which was carpeted with a large piece of woven fabric from Bertha Stubbs’ sewing box. There was also a map table fashioned of a smooth strip of board set up on large wooden spools. It was lighted by a hanging oil lamp fashioned from a small bronze cup taken from the village shop and the chain from Mr. Leach’s gold watch. The watch itself, properly wound and hung on the wall, served nicely for a timepiece.
And of course, since these were thieves, there was a large bowl for the deposit of the money they had stolen and the empty silver snuffbox (taken from Mr. Dowling) for the deposit of jewelry. Mrs. Crook’s crystal pendant was there, along with a several rings, a set of studs, and a gold locket. The badgers’ silver spoons were there, too, waiting to be traded or sold.
Indeed, that would be the fate of most of the “hard goods,” as the rats called the money, jewelry, and other fine trinkets they picked up. Sully the Screed (a screed, in their parlance, is a writer or scrivener) kept the gang’s account books, carefully noting what each rat brought in and giving him credit for his booty. Once the rats had established themselves in an area, they contacted members of the local underworld (there always is one, you know) and began to sell and trade. Every so often, Sully sat down and counted up what they’d brought in, then divvied the proceeds equitably, every rat getting his share of the profits, based on what he had contributed. Even edibles were counted, since the provisions kept the gang going strong. “An army travels on its stomach,” Rooker was fond of saying. “We ain’t no diff’rent from an army, boys.”
In the bunkroom, along two walls, there were tiers of bunk beds where the rats slept when they were off duty. The beds were padded with wads of soft cotton pulled from village mattresses and yarn and half-finished socks taken from knitting baskets all over the village, and there was a rug on the floor made from Mrs. Crook’s dishcloth (which she has not yet missed).
In the common room, there were tables where the rats could play cards and eat and drink, a few makeshift benches, and a couple of upholstered chairs stolen from Mrs. Braithwaite’s daughter’s doll house. There was a dart board on one wall and a long shelf where food and drink were set out as soon as they were brought in by the foragers. They had sausages and marrows from Lydia Dowling’s village shop, nuts from the pub bar and cheddars and goat cheeses from the pub kitchen, sticky buns from the bakery. There were meat patties and pickled pigs’ feet and ham croquettes (stolen from Elsa Grape’s larder), and apples and pears and nuts and raisins. The air was thick with cigarette and cigar smoke, several of the rats were singing a raucous ditty, and from the corner could be heard the clink of a game of pitch-and-toss.
There was a celebratory mood in the headquarters room, too, where Rooker and three of his henchmen were gathered around the table, under the overhead lamp. They were passing around a bottle of red wine, and chunks of cheese and pieces of scone littered the table. (Rats are not known for their tidy eating habits.) Jumpin’ Jemmy had just brought in the loot he had stolen from Mrs. Pemberton’s kitchen, along with a report on the three cats who had watched him from the shed.
“One was old, one was fat, and only one—gray, with a red collar—looked halfway fit.” He gave the self-congratulatory chuckle of a rat who was mightily pleased with himself. “Ye should’ve seen the look on the gray cat’s face when I tossed her a wink and a few choice words. She thought she’d come after me, too, she did, but I squirted right between the boards of the fence.” He hooted. “An’ her too big to squeeze thro’ the gap an’ not near nimble ’nuf to hop over the top.”
“Well, if that’s the top quality of cat hereabouts,” Firehouse Frank said judiciously, “we’ve lucked into a sweet spot to hang out for a while, boys. Fat cats, old cats, slow cats—just the kind o’ cats we like to see.” Frank, like Jemmy, was a young rat, but he’d had a bad run-in with a tomcat in a dark alley and was lucky to get away in one piece. He wore a rakish black patch over his right eye—quite a handsome beast, I must say, if a bit piratical.
“Aye, but did ye hear that Big Bill Bolter got nabbed last night?” Rooker asked somberly, puffing on a long-stemmed clay pipe. “Worst luck fer ’im, I’m afeard. He’s gone, boys. Big Bill Bolter’s gone.”
“The devil ye say!” cried Jumpin’ Jemmy, suddenly sobered. He picked up the bottle of wine and tipped it up. “Where’d it ’appen? ’Oo done it? Not a cat, was it?”
“’Appened at the chicken coop at Hill Top,” Rooker replied. “Him and Nick the Knife was there, with their eyes on a tasty little yellow chick they thought to snatch for a midnight meal.” He reached for the bottle, shaking his rattish head. “Nay, ’t weren’t no cat, Jemmy. ’Twas two dogs did fer ’im. But Nick said Big Bill held loyal an’ true right to the end. Never chirped on us, not a word. Wouldn’t say where we’re holed up, although they twisted ’is tail ’n’ ears right off ’im, poor old sod.” He lifted the bottle. “’Ere’s to Big Bill, boys. No finer rat never lived than Bill.”
“No finer rat!” they echoed, as Rooker drank. There was a moment’s silence as they reflected on the bravery of Big Bill Bolter, who had loyally refused to yield up their whereabouts. They were used to losing one or more of their number every now and then—rats who chose to live an outlaw life lived on the razor’s edge. But the loss was always felt with a pang, and a sharper one, this time, given the appalling violence of Bill’s end. And there was the terrible thought, in every rat’s mind, that he might have been in that chicken coop when the dogs came. Would he have died so valiantly, without chirping on his pals?
“Two dogs, ye say?” Firehouse Frank asked nervously. “We got us a dog problem, do we?”
“Nick says that one of ’em—the big yellow dog—is so old ’ee could barely see,” Bludger Bob replied, tipping his black felt bowler to the back of his head. Bob, a scrawny brown rat with one missing front tooth, had been with the Rooker gang longer than any of them. His opinion was always listened to with respect. “It’s the other we got to watch out for. Rascal, ’is name is. A Jack Russell.” He said this deliberately, looking around the table to make sure they took his point.
“Them Jack Russells is allus trouble,” Firehouse Frank agreed very seriously. He took out a packet of tobacco and a packet of papers and began to roll a cigarette. “They never know when to quit. Stubborn as the devil hisself.” He had tangled with one once, and the encounter had seared itself into his memory. “Any more terriers in town, Bob?”
“Not that we’ve heard.” Bludger Bob handed Firehouse a match. “Mostly, just old slow dogs, tho’ there’s a few young sheepdogs, without any trainin’ or interest in rat-catchin’.” He shook his head. “Don’t seem like we’ll run up against any we can’t handle. But pass the word to keep a close eye peeled for that Rascal. Nick the Knife says ’ee’s trouble with a big T.”
“Well warned, then.” Rooker straightened up and glanced from one to the other of the rats around the table. “Yer all set to go out agin tonight and clean up, boys?”
“Yessir,” the rats answered in an eager chorus. “All set, sir.”
“I got my eye on that bak’ry,” Jumpin’ Jemmy asserted. “The lady wot runs it never locks her cash box. And ’er sticky buns ain’t half-bad, neither.” He elbowed Frank with a playful grin. “Ye can go with me if ye want, Firehouse. Wouldn’t mind somebody watchin’ the door for me, now, would I?”
“Not me,” Frank replied warmly, pulling on his cigarette. “I’m headed for the pub. I’ll be glad if ye can go along wi’ me, Bludger Bob. Between the kitchen and the bar, there’s work for two an’ then some.”
“I’m yer man, Firehouse,” said Bludger, with a conscious irony. He yanked his bowler hat down over his eye, rubbed his paws together, and grinned evilly. “We’ll clean ’em out, we will. Won’t be nuffin left fer breakfast when we gets finished with ’em.”
“Looks like rain out there t’night,” Jumpin’ Jemmy added, grinning. “It’ll keep the folks in by their fires. ’Speshly the cats an’ dogs,” he added.
“Aye,” Rooker agreed. “Rain is right for the likes o’ we.” He knocked the bowl of his pipe onto the floor. “One more thing. If ye see somethin’ ye fancy—plate or a picture or fine tool—and it’s too big to be dragged through the trapdoor, don’t let that stop ye. Ye can stash yer swag under that pile of hay on the floor up there.” He nodded in the direction of the ceiling of their hideout. “The barn ain’t in use right now, so nobody’s goin’ to find it.”
Rooker was led to say this because his rats were in the habit of dragging in swag of various sizes. Some of the booty—rings and studs, for instance—was quite small, whilst some of it was larger, such as the cream jug that Firehouse Frank had lifted from Mrs. Braithwaite’s sideboard and the miniature silver frame containing the wedding photograph of Captain and Mrs. Miles Woodcock that Bludger Bob copped from the Tower Bank library. The photograph was obviously of little value, Bob thought, but the silver frame might be worth as much as a crown. (Actually, Dimity Kittredge had paid double that at the expensive shop in London where she’d bought it. There are all kinds of thievery.)
Or the very curious book that Rooker himself had stolen.
Now, it must be said that our larcenous friend is not much of a book reader (his taste runs to racing forms, theater playbills, and sensational penny-sheets). But even if he were a reader, he could not have read this unusual book. It wasn’t written in English, and even though the letters looked tantalizingly familiar, he couldn’t make heads nor tails (so to speak) of the words. It wasn’t printed on paper, either, as most books of his acquaintance were. The letters appeared to be written in ink (some of it slightly smudged) on soft, supple pages that felt very much like (Rooker shuddered) animal skin. One or two of the pages contained no writing at all, but only a brightly colored design that looked something like a Turkish carpet.
It was not the pages of this book that caught Rooker’s attention, however, nor was he particularly interested in what was written on them, or who wrote it, or when. What had attracted him (and the reason he had nicked the thing in the first place) was its remarkable cover, which was devised of leather and hammered gold and studded with what looked to Rooker like rubies and emeralds and sapphires. Of course, they might be just bits of polished glass, but Rooker didn’t think so.
Rubies and emeralds and sapphires, indeed! And unless the old rat missed his guess (which he almost never did, for he had the eye of an accomplished thief), this curious book would be worth quite a bit in the underworld art market.
Which was why he had hidden it under the pile of hay on the floor of the Castle Farm barn.
16
Speaking of Books . . .
When we took leave of Lady Longford at the end of Chapter Six, she had been nearly bowled over by the news that her husband’s collection of moldy old books was worth the tidy sum of ten thousand pounds sterling. But as you will recall, Mr. Depford Darnwell, who appraised the collection, made it clear that this amount did not include the Revelation of John, which was listed in Lord Longford’s book catalog but was not on the shelves with the rest of the collection. Mr. Darnwell had informed her ladyship that even though the book was unfinished and consisted of only eight pages, it might be ten times more valuable than the collection as a whole. Where was it? Might he see it? Her ladyship, chagrined, had to confess that she had never seen the book and knew nothing about it. It had apparently gone missing.
Remembering this (and putting two and two together), perhaps you have concluded that Rooker Rat has broken into Tidmarsh Manor and stolen this valuable book. But I must tell you, straight off, that this is not what happened, so that you will not waste your valuable time attempting to follow this particular red herring.
But is it not true, you quite reasonably ask, that the book hidden under the pile of hay in the barn at Castle Farm is the very same book that Lady Longford is searching for?
Yes, indeed. It is the same book—or at least I feel that it must be, for Mr. Darnwell has said that there is not another such book in the world, except for the Lindisfarne Gospels, which the British Museum holds firmly in its proprietary grip and which you can see if you visit the museum. And which Beatrix herself had seen on numerous occasions when she visited the museum with her father and Bertram—had seen and admired and no doubt remembered.
Well, then, I hear you asking, if Rooker did not steal the book from Tidmarsh Manor, where did he get it? You will learn the answer to that question in good time, if you will contain your soul in patience for a little longer. Or at least I think you will, for stories generally provide the answers to important plot puzzles, of which this is certainly one.
Therefore, we shall return to Lady Longford and the missing book.
Her ladyship is particularly anxious to find it, I am sorry to say, not because she values the Revelation as an object of art and rare antiquity but because of what Mr. Darnwell has said it will fetch when it is sold. And she has another reason, too, even less laudable than this. She is deeply and painfully mortified by the idea that something that belongs to her has disappeared and cannot be accounted for. You may be acquainted with people like this, who have an exceedingly strong proprietary sense and value a thing not because it is fine or beautiful or ancient or otherwise desirable, but chiefly because it is theirs.
This is the case, I am sorry to say, with Lady Longford, who is not only chagrined that the book has gone missing but is deeply annoyed at poor Lord Longford, whom she suspects of having carelessly mislaid it.
Now, when Lady Longford began her search, she had the idea that the book would be found quickly and without a lot of trouble. She began by searching the rooms adjacent to the third-floor box room where the books were kept, then extended the search to the servants’ sleeping quarters and the old nursery and schoolroom, unused for many years, all on that same floor. Did she search the servants’ bureau drawers? Yes, quite naturally she did, for didn’t the rooms belong to her, and the drawers, and the servants, as well? And after that, she moved up yet another flight of stairs, to the dark and dusty attics.
> I daresay you are laughing up your sleeve at the futility of all this rummaging around, for you know where the book is—and that it is not at Tidmarsh Manor. But Lady Longford does not know this and is driven by an extraordinarily intense and greedy desire to find it. She is not doing any of the searching herself, of course. She is merely supervising the work that is carried out by Maud Bloomsdale, the upstairs maid. But she is supervising very carefully, making sure that Maud does not “accidentally” slip the book or anything else (a cuff link, say, or a silk handkerchief or a tortoiseshell comb) into a pocket of her frilly white apron.
However, whilst this search was conducted both expeditiously and intensively, it was carried out under a substantial handicap, for Lady Longford stubbornly refused to tell Maud Bloomsdale what they were looking for. When Maud asked, her ladyship would only say, “Never mind, Maud. I shall tell you what we are looking for when it has been found.” She did condescend to add that the object was some ten inches by twelve inches and perhaps an inch thick, from which Maud might have inferred that they were looking for a box or a stack of papers or a piece of wood or even a book. But beyond that generality, her ladyship would not go.
Now, this meant that the contents of every bureau drawer and shelf and every nook and cranny in every room (and of every box and bag and bundle in all the attics) had to be turned out onto a table, and when her ladyship had gone through it, it must then be put back in its proper place. Since Tidmarsh Manor contained twenty-two upstairs rooms, that was a great deal of turning out and putting back, as you can well imagine.
The Tale of Castle Cottage Page 18