The Tale of Castle Cottage

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Five minutes later, he was scowling at her penciled figures. “You’re sure about this, Beatrix?”

  “I’ve double-checked it, and then checked it again. The invoices aren’t exact duplicates, but there’s enough overlap so that I can see that I’ve been double-billed for nearly half of the materials at Castle Cottage.” She sat down on the other side of the table. “And it’s not just the numbers—that’s circumstantial. There’s evidence. Sarah Barwick says that Henry Stubbs bought a pair of brass-plated door handles that were meant for Castle Cottage.” She took one of the invoices off the stack and pointed to an item. “Probably these.”

  “That wretched Biddle!” Will exclaimed, looking at the invoice. “I took a quick look at his materials list, and I didn’t think he’d doctored it.” He picked up his teacup and drank. “I thought he was too smart to try his little game with you, but it looks like I was wrong.”

  “Biddle?” Beatrix asked, frowning. “His little game?”

  “Yes, Biddle,” Will said, putting his cup down. “He cheated Captain Woodcock and three of my clients. Harold Grimes, Mrs. Moore, and Mr. Kirkby, at the Grange.” His voice hardened. “It’s this very same swindle, Beatrix. Materials double-billed, half of them not delivered—or delivered and stolen. It’s hard to tell.”

  “So I’m not the only one,” Beatrix said mildly.

  “Right. But in this case—” Will gave her a grin. “To tell the truth, I am delighted to hear that Henry Stubbs bought your door handles. If that turns out to be true, it’s all the evidence we need to nail Biddle.”

  “But I don’t think it’s Mr. Biddle,” Beatrix said, frowning. “I’ve had my problems with him over the years, and I know that he is not the best and most attentive manager in the world—especially these days, when he has other fish to fry. But I don’t think he’s a swindler.”

  Will pulled his brows together. “Not Biddle? Then who the devil is doing it, Bea? And what’s this about ‘other fish to fry’?”

  Beatrix picked up one of the invoices and pointed to a very small initial in one corner. The initial M. “These bills are initialed by Mr. Maguire, Will. And Sarah said that Bertha Stubbs told her that it was Mr. Maguire who sold the door handles to Henry Stubbs. Sarah wondered whether he might have stolen them from Castle Cottage and thought to warn me about it. But looking at these invoices, I’d say that the problem is bigger than a pair of brass door handles.”

  “Maguire?” Will sat back in his chair and blew out his breath. “Maguire!”

  “Don’t you think that makes sense?” Beatrix asked. “He’s in charge of ordering materials and supplies on Castle Cottage. Mr. Biddle has several crews at work on various projects and divides his time among them. So it would be easy for Mr. Maguire to take whatever he wants and simply put in a duplicate order. I’m sure he’s counting on people being too busy to check their invoices. And he’s probably counting on Mr. Biddle to be too . . . distracted.”

  “Yes, that makes sense,” Will replied thoughtfully. “Maguire, eh?”

  Beatrix took a sip of tea. “It was imprudent of him to sell those handles here in the village—and especially to Henry Stubbs. Henry’s wife, Bertha, is the biggest gossip in town. Henry hadn’t had those handles for half a day before Bertha was telling all her friends that both her front door and her back door were about to have new brass handles, which her husband had bought at a very good price. Two for the price of one, she said.” She chuckled wryly. “But Mr. Maguire isn’t from Sawrey. He probably had no idea that Bertha’s door handles—my door handles!—would soon be the talk of the village. It was a reckless mistake.”

  “I see,” Will said quietly, thinking about everything that Beatrix had said and what he had learnt from his clients—and several other things as well. A picture, and not a pretty one, was beginning to emerge.

  “Yes, I do see.” He narrowed his eyes. “What’s this about Biddle having other fish to fry, Beatrix?”

  “Other fish?” Beatrix laughed. “Why, haven’t you heard? Mr. Biddle is sweet on Ruth Safford, the new barmaid at the Tower Bank Arms. In fact, he’s spending most of his time at the pub, just to be near her.” She leant closer and lowered her voice theatrically. “I know, because Mrs. Rosier told me so.”

  Will laughed helplessly. “Gossip,” he said, and threw up his hands.

  But he knew very well that there was almost always more truth in gossip than anyone suspected, and that the wisest man in any village was the man who kept his ear to the ground.

  18

  Mrs. Woodcock Goes Mushroom Hunting

  I’m sure that you have hosted many dinner parties and will readily understand what has been on Margaret Woodcock’s mind for most of the day. She had to make sure that every minute trace of dust was removed from every flat surface in the library, the drawing room, and the dining room. She had to oversee Elsa Grape’s sometimes erratic cookery. She had to make sure that the table was correctly laid with the wedding china, crystal, and silver. And she had to cut and arrange the flowers for the table and the other rooms. It had been a very busy day—especially when she considered how much time those mushrooms had cost her.

  And then there was the question of what to wear. Margaret knew that Miss Potter would likely wear a blouse and skirt, that her sister-in-law Dimity always wore something very sweet and simple, and that the hostess must never be dressier than her guests. So she finally decided—for sentimental reasons—on the same pink-and-white crepe de chine blouse that she had worn on the day that the captain proposed marriage to her, with a flounced gray skirt, and a lovely pink-and-white cameo on a gold chain around her neck, a Christmas gift from her husband. In my personal opinion, this was a happy choice, for the pink of the blouse reflected the pink in Margaret’s cheeks and complemented the rich brown sheen of her hair.

  Finally, it was time to fuss at her husband, who (still wearing his smoking jacket) was standing in the library doorway, reading a message that had just been delivered by Constable Braithwaite, who had ridden his bicycle over from Hawkshead and was now on his way home to his supper.

  “Miles,” Margaret said sternly, “you really must get dressed, my dear. Our guests will be here in another half hour.”

  There was no answer. Frowning intently, the captain was engrossed in what he was reading. Margaret tried again.

  “Miles, please. I’ve laid out your fresh shirt and tie and jacket. Whatever it is you’re reading, it can surely wait until after our guests have gone.”

  Miles looked up at her, his forehead creased. “It was murder,” he said in a hard voice.

  Margaret blinked. “Murder?” Her hand went to her mouth. “Who? What? What in the world are you talking about?”

  Miles held up the paper in his hand. “The constable just brought this from Dr. Butters. It’s his autopsy report. Adcock was struck above the right ear, hard enough to render him unconscious. And then the poor fellow was strung up like a dead fish, in an effort to make it look as if he had committed suicide.” He pulled in his breath. “Damn!” he exclaimed. “Damn and blast!”

  “Oh, dear,” Margaret said faintly, and the captain recollected himself.

  “I’m sorry, Margaret,” he said apologetically. “I ought not to swear. And I oughtn’t to have upset you with this.” While the captain kept his office in the library, he always tried to separate his professional work as justice of the peace from his family life. He wasn’t always successful, however, for his wife was an active participant in village life and often knew as much as he did about what was going on.

  “I was just thinking of poor Mrs. Adcock,” Margaret said sadly. “Her boys attended Sawrey School, you know, when I first taught there, years ago. She was always most conscientious, wanting to be sure that they behaved properly and always did their lessons. This will be so hard for her. But no more difficult than the alternative, I suspect. Suicide is an ugly thing.” She took a deep breath and let it out again. “Murder! Who could have possibly—”

  “Bid
dle,” the captain muttered, half to himself. “It was Biddle, that’s who it was. That’s the only answer.”

  “The man who renovated our stable?” Margaret cried, clasping her hands. “That’s terrible! Why would Mr. Biddle do such a horrible thing? Why would anybody do it?”

  “Adcock must have got on to Biddle’s swindle with the building supplies and threatened to tell the constable,” her husband said. “Maybe Adcock even tried to blackmail him.”

  “Mr. Biddle, a swindler?” Margaret asked breathlessly, her eyes growing large.

  “A swindler and a murderer.” The captain shook his head. “Fishing,” he said with a snort of disgust. “Well, he’s going to find out that fishing is no alibi at all, when I get through with him. I know how to make people talk.” Which is true, for (as we noted earlier) the captain had been in Military Intelligence, and he prides himself on his interrogation skills. We should probably not inquire too narrowly into details of means and methods, but I have no doubt that, given enough time with Mr. Biddle—or anyone else, for that matter—the captain could wring out a confession.

  “Fishing?” Margaret asked. “That’s his explanation—his . . . alibi—for where he was when Mr. Adcock died?”

  “Yes. Would you believe it, my dear? Adcock was killed sometime between ten this morning, when his wife last saw him, and eleven thirty, when she found him dead. When I questioned Biddle this afternoon about his whereabouts for that hour and a half, the man had the temerity to claim that he was fishing at Moss Eccles Tarn. Fishing!” Captain Woodcock exclaimed, and smashed his fist into his palm. “All alone, he said. Ha! If that fellow was fishing, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”

  Margaret squared her shoulders. “Oh, but he was, my dear. Although he was not alone. And he wasn’t fishing when I saw him.” She cleared her throat. “That is, not exactly.”

  Astonished, the captain stared at his wife. “He wasn’t . . . what? When did you see him? Where?”

  “Well, you know that we are having stuffed mushrooms as one of our starters,” Margaret said briskly. “Or perhaps you didn’t know. But yes, we are, although I could not be sure of getting any good ones—the greengrocer in Hawkshead has had none at all for nearly two weeks, and I was on the point of deciding that I should plan on something else, some of those lovely tinned Morecambe Bay shrimps, perhaps, put into ramekins and served with toast points, or—”

  “Margaret,” her husband barked. He did not appreciate feeling like a monkey’s uncle and was perfectly willing to take it out on her. (If you are married, perhaps you understand his reaction. I know I do.)

  She took a deep breath. “Yes. Well, anyway, Elsa told me that Hannah Braithwaite’s eldest boy had been up to Moss Eccles and had found a great many fine mushrooms on the south side of the lake, under that lovely large oak tree.” (This is very near the spot where Bailey Badger was rescued from near-incineration by his young dragon friend. You may remember the story from The Tale of Briar Bank.) “I was wanting a walk anyway,” Margaret continued, “so I took a basket and went up to the tarn—it really isn’t that far, you know, scarcely a mile. And when I got there, I found the mushrooms, just where Mrs. Braithwaite’s eldest boy said they were, near the oak tree, and quite a nice lot of them, growing very well. I filled my basket quite easily and—”

  The clock struck, interrupting her. Margaret’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh, dear! It really is time to dress, Miles. Our guests will be here in a very few moments and you’re still—”

  “Not yet,” the captain said, very firmly. “I must hear this. Get on with it, Margaret. You filled your basket and—”

  Margaret sighed. “I filled my basket and turned to look across the lake and that’s when I saw them. Mr. Biddle and his . . . friend.” She was blushing. “They were . . . kissing. Oh, quite properly,” she added hurriedly. “It was very sweet, really, Miles. The old green rowboat that people use there was moored at the edge of the lake, and they had been fishing in it, and then he started kissing her and she wasn’t objecting, not one bit. In fact, I’m sure she was enjoying it.” She smiled. “I had heard he fancied her, but he has been a widower for a while, and somehow one does not think of an older man as a suitor for—”

  “Margaret,” the captain said in a warning voice. By this time he was very serious indeed. “Who does Mr. Biddle fancy? Who was in the rowboat with him? And what time was this?”

  “What time? Oh, dear. Well, I’d say around ten or a little after. I left here at nine fifteen and . . .” She glanced up and saw her husband’s frown and added quickly, “It was Ruth Safford who was with him.”

  “Ruth Safford?” Miles asked blankly.

  “You don’t know her? She’s the new person Mrs. Barrow hired at the pub a few weeks ago. She helps Mr. Barrow behind the bar when he’s busy and works in the kitchen with Mrs. Barrow when he’s not. She’s pretty, in a mousy sort of way, and rather shy, but very fetching. I should think she would make a good wife for Mr. Biddle, although I’m sure Mrs. Barrow will be put out about it, since she’s just got her trained and—”

  “Margaret.” The captain put both hands on his wife’s shoulders. “You mean to tell me that you are corroborating Biddle’s alibi for the time of Adcock’s murder?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose I am,” Margaret said, rather flustered now. She did not like the look on her husband’s face. “That is, if poor Mr. Adcock was killed this morning. I first saw the two of them around ten—and they were still there when I left, about fifteen minutes later. I mean, it’s at least two miles from the tarn to Far Sawrey, isn’t it? I hardly see how Mr. Biddle could be kissing Ruth Safford at ten fifteen, and be murdering Mr. Adcock at . . . what time?”

  “His wife found him dead at eleven thirty.”

  “Eleven thirty. Well, then, my dear, I don’t see how it could have been done, do you? But you don’t need to take my word for it. If Mr. Biddle won’t tell you all about it, I’m sure that Ruth Safford will.”

  “Yes,” Miles said glumly. “Yes, she probably will. I shall have to see her right away. She works at the pub, you say?” He was turning away, as if to go.

  “Oh, no,” Margaret said, grasping his arm in alarm. “Not now, Miles! You need to get dressed right away. Our guests will be here any—”

  She was interrupted by the peal of the doorbell.

  19

  “We Few, We Happy Few, We Band of Brothers”

  When we last saw poor Crumpet at the end of Chapter Fourteen, she was at her wits’ end. She had been trying to come up with a plan to deal with the renegade rats who had invaded the village and were stealing the villagers blind—and not having any luck. Crumpet knew what ought to be done, of course, and what ought not to be done. For instance, it would be utterly foolish to expend a great deal of energy in attempting to stalk and kill individual rats, one at a time. It would be far better to set up surveillance at the half-dozen or so places where the whole gang of rats might have their hideout and watch to see where they were coming from. Once the location of the headquarters was pinpointed, she could come up with a feasible plan of attack.

  But who could manage the surveillance? More importantly, even if it was known where the rats were holed up, who could she send in to rout them out? The cats in the village were completely undependable. They were either too old and fat (the venerable Tabitha Twitchit) or too full of delicate sensibility (Felicia Frummety) or too soft-hearted (Max the Manx) or too maternal (Treacle, with her kittens). There were other cats, of course, a great many of them, but they all fell into one of these categories. There were also plenty of village dogs, but most were lazy, undisciplined creatures or superior hunting dogs who would never condescend to take orders from a cat. They might obey Rascal, but Crumpet was the president of the Cat Council and felt that she had to take overall responsibility for this effort. It wasn’t something she could delegate.

  And, like any good general, she instinctively knew that launching untrained, unprepared troops into the field was inviting disaste
r, especially with such formidable foes as Rooker’s gang. She could depend only on herself—and Rascal, of course, who knew exactly what ought to be done with a bad rat. His great-grandfather on his mother’s father’s side had been a small but fierce rat terrier who had gained an enormous notoriety in rat pit fighting in Liverpool. His master had won a great many wagers by betting that his terrier could kill a dozen rats in three minutes. Rascal was confident that—once he found where the filthy creatures were hiding—he would do his great-grandfather’s memory proud. He’d slaughter the whole lot of ’em in less than three minutes!

  But first the rats had to be found, and there were only Crumpet and Rascal. It was physically impossible for the two of them to be everywhere at once. Despairing, Crumpet had said as much to Rascal.

  “Well, you’re definitely right on that score,” Rascal had replied ruefully. He cocked his head. “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.”

  Crumpet picked up the list of names she had jotted down earlier and glanced through it. “Who do you have in mind?” she asked, feeling hopeless. “I’ve tried and tried and I can’t think of a single cat who—”

  “Later,” Rascal said, on his way to the door. “Don’t do anything until you hear from me.”

  We last saw Hyacinth at the end of Chapter Three, where she was deeply annoyed at herself for not keeping a closer eye on The Brockery’s silver spoons, which had been bagged by the wily Rooker. In fact, she had spent the entire day fretting about the theft, getting angrier and angrier and vowing to retrieve those spoons, although she couldn’t think how in the world she was going to accomplish this. For one thing, she had no idea where to find the thief. For all she knew, Rooker might be in Ambleside by now, or on his way to Carlisle. He might even have ridden a lorry to Morecambe Bay and taken ship on a freighter, with The Brockery’s spoons in his pocket, to be gambled away in one card game or another.