“Heard wot?” Mathilda demanded, hands on hips. She had gone to help a niece with a new baby on Saturday and hadn’t got back until late the previous night. Obviously, something important had happened while she was gone—something Agnes knew and she did not. “Heard wot?” she repeated sharply.
Agnes pursed her lips. “Aboot t’ Applebeck Footpath. Mappen thi doan’t know, after all, Tildy.”
“Wot aboot t’ Applebeck Footpath?” cried Mathilda, by now feeling desperate. “Tell me, Agnes!”
“Mr. Harmsworth has closed it off,” Agnes replied briskly. “Satiddy mornin’, ’twas. Bertha Stubbs and me went to t’ church to do t’ flowers fer Sunday, and t’ gate was gone. There was a tangle of barbed wire and wood stakes, all poured o’er wi’ tar, an’ laid reet across t’ path. ’Twere put there by Mr. Harmsworth, we reckoned. We had to go t’ long way round, by Church Lane.”
“Barbed wire?” Mathilda was aghast. “But he can’t. That’s a public footpath!”
“Well, he has. Both ends o’ it. Oh, and there’s t’ Applebeck ghost, too.”
“T’ ghost!” Mathilda exclaimed, by now almost beside herself. “Has somebody seen her again?”
“So says Auld Dolly. Which is a sign o’ evil to come, o’ course. T’ ghost nivver shows hersel’ unless bad times is comin’. Who knows wot’ll be happenin’ next? Another fire? Mebee t’ church or t’ schoolhouse this time? T’ ghost is al lus right.”
“Now, Agnes,” Mathilda said in a comforting tone. Agnes, the village doomsayer, was always imagining one disaster after another. “Likely it won’t be that bad.”
But Agnes was paying no attention. She was scowling at Sarah Barwick and her green bicycle, as Sarah whizzed down Market Street on her way back to her bakery, her brown hair loose from its pins and flying.
“Jes’ look at them trousers and that wild hair,” she muttered darkly. “These mod’rn women. ’Tis a disgrace to t’ whole village. Near as bad as Grace and t’ vicar.”
It was tempting to digress to the subject of Grace Lythecoe and the vicar of St. Peter’s, but Mathilda went back to the subject at hand. “Well, I doan’t know about t’ ghost, but somebody ought to do somethin’ aboot t’ path. It needs to be opened up, that it does, and straightaway. I’ll march reet to t’ smithy and ask my George what’s best to be done.”
Agnes picked up her empty basket. “No cause to bodder yer George aboot it,” she said loftily. “My Dick has gone to take Captain Woodcock his milk. They’ll manage t’ problem, ’tween ’em.” She looked over Mathilda’s shoulder and widened her eyes. “Why, Tildy,” she said, with a mournful relish. “Such a shame. And yer best ’broidered, too. It’ll nivver be t’ same agin, t’ poor thing.”
Mathilda turned. To her dismay, she saw that her finest embroidered tea towel had fallen from the line and was draped across the blackberry bush, a large, juicy purple stain spreading across its snowy middle.
Dick Llewellyn made it a regular practice to take a bottle of fresh milk from the High Green Gate cows to the Tower Bank House kitchen twice a week, where he gave it to Elsa Grape for Captain Miles Woodcock’s breakfast. This morning, however, the kitchen was dark and Elsa was nowhere to be seen. Dick ventured to put his head into the dining room to interrupt the captain, who appeared to be breakfasting on bread and jam and coffee. With him was Mr. Will Heelis, a well-respected local solicitor.
“Elsa’s gone away again,” Captain Woodcock said, in response to Dick’s question. Dick understood and commiserated. He, too, went without hot meals when his Agnes was off visiting her sister in Carlisle. “This time, she’s taking care of her niece, who’s just had a baby,” the captain went on. “What’s more, she gave the maid the day off. Just leave the milk in the kitchen, Dick. I’ll put it away.”
“I’ve summat to tell thi, Cap’n,” Dick said, and told his story. “I saw t’ barrier m’self,” he added. “Means bus’ness, it do. Noboddy can get on t’ path without rippin’ it down, an’ that woan’t be easy, I wager.”
“Ah, yes,” the captain remarked thoughtfully. “Lester Barrow spoke to me about this last night at the pub. He was quite incensed about it.” To Mr. Heelis, he said, “Barrow is a member of the Claife Heights Ramblers Association, y’know. He says there may be trouble over the matter.”
“I wudna be s’prised,” Dick said wisely. “Summat’s got to be done afore sumbody tears t’ barricades down or Mrs. Stubbs heaves a rock through Mr. Harmsworth’s window, as she’s promisin’ to do. And cert’nly afore next Sunday, when ever’body’ll have to walk t’ extra way to church.”
“Right,” the captain remarked thoughtfully. “Well, it’s probably got to be done sooner than that.”
Miles had been justice of the peace for Sawrey District for nearly ten years now. He’d lived here longer than that, of course, ever since he had retired from Her Majesty’s Army in Egypt in search of a quiet life in a green country under a sun that did not blister the hide off a fellow. He had chosen Sawrey for its peace and quiet, although he had to admit that there hadn’t been much of that lately. His position put him into the thick of things, requiring him to certify deaths, deal with disturbances, witness documents, and uphold property rights.
And footpaths were an especially sore subject these days. Almost every time a piece of land changed hands, either the seller or the buyer made a determined effort to close off any footpaths through it, to which the Claife Ramblers—a group of fell-walkers who advocated free access to all the countryside—took immediate offense. There was nothing new about any of this, of course, especially in the Lakes, where walkers flocked to cross the wild moors and climb the fells. The poet William Wordsworth had flung down his pen and destroyed a wall blocking a path between Ulls water and Lowther Castle. And just twenty-three years before, in the summer of 1887, some 500 people stormed a blocked footpath at Fawe Park, near Keswick, not forty miles away. To hearten themselves, they sang their own version of “the Lion of Judah,” with the stirring words, “The Lions of Keswick will break every chain, and open the footpaths, again and again!”
The captain was necessarily involved with this sort of thing because Parliament had passed a law, back in 1815, giving the justice of the peace the authority to determine whether the “highway, bridleway, or footway” in question should remain open or be “stopped up and disposed of.” In the past three years, Miles had been called to rule on four other footpaths in the district. Since he himself was an advocate of open access to fields and fells, he had in every case but one ruled in favor of keeping the footpath open. It was a devilish tricky business, and it all fell on his shoulders.
“Seems to me you’d better get on it right away,” Will Heelis said. A solicitor who lived in the nearby market town of Hawkshead, Will was a tall, athletic-looking man with fine eyes, a strong jaw, and a shock of thick brown hair that fell boyishly across his forehead. He remained a bachelor, in spite of Miles’ efforts to pair him with his sister, Dimity. Instead, Dim had defied her brother and married Christopher Kittredge. “It will soon be the anniversary of the Keswick affair,” Will added, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “We might be listening to Ragsdale and his Ramblers singing ‘The Lions of Sawrey will break every chain.’ ”
Miles shook his head glumly. “We certainly don’t need that,” he agreed.
Will frowned. “I wonder what Harmsworth has in mind by closing the path. So far as I know, Applebeck Farm isn’t for sale.” In his legal work, he usually happened across all the land transactions in the district. He knew what was for sale or what had recently sold, and for how much.
“This bis’ness will do nothin’ but cause hard feelin’s,” Dick Llewellyn said dourly, as he took his leave. “Thi’ll speak wi’ Mr. Harmsworth today, Cap’n?”
“As soon as possible,” the captain promised. When his neighbor had left, he said to Will, “I don’t suppose you’d like to go with me to call on Harmsworth, would you? This afternoon, p’rhaps?” He was not exactly eager to make the call by himself. Not that he was afraid of the man, of course. But Harmsworth was known to be of intemperate moods. He might be less likely to go off the handle if Will came along.
“I would, of course, but I don’t think it’s my place,” Will said seriously. “I’m known to be a supporter of the Freedom to Roam Bill.” Member of Parliament James Bryce had first introduced the bill more than twenty years before, with the idea of restoring open access to the countryside for any who wanted to walk there. It was reintroduced every year, and although it wasn’t likely to pass anytime soon, its friends kept trying. He paused, adding thoughtfully, “There’s no merit in this closure, I don’t suppose.”
“I’ll have to investigate before I can answer that,” Miles said grumpily. Longing for his usual bacon and eggs, he buttered another slice of bread. “So far as I know, that path has been in regular use for decades. It saves quite a distance for both churchgoers and schoolchildren. P’rhaps the vicar knows something of its history.”
Will looked thoughtful. “Why don’t you think of forming a footpath committee, Miles? The vicar could serve on it, perhaps, and three or four villagers—people with good heads who can be counted on to make a fair recommendation. It would take some of the burden off your shoulders.” He grinned. “I shouldn’t like to be the one to tell Adam Harmsworth to unstop that path. But if I had the weight of a committee behind me—”
Miles nodded approvingly. “Jolly good idea, Will. I’ll see to it right away.” He cocked his head. “Will you serve?”
“I shouldn’t like to,” Will said with a twinkle. “The committee might have to rule on a property that belongs to one of my clients. But you might consider asking Miss Potter. She’s one of the steadiest people I know.” He took out his watch and glanced at it. “I’d best be off. I’m headed for Windermere this morning.” Frowning, he pocketed his watch. “You’ve heard about the hydroplane factory that’s proposed for Cockshott Point, I suppose. A few of the local landowners are trying to find a way to stop it from being built. They’ve asked me for advice.”
The captain stood. “No, I hadn’t heard. Cockshott Point, you say?” He frowned. “I’m all for the aeroplane, you know. The machine of the future, in my view. I suppose you heard that Charlie Rolls made a nonstop flight across the Channel and back in only ninety-five minutes. Ninety-five minutes—imagine that!”
“Indeed,” Will said, raising one eyebrow. “And then crashed his plane and died just a month later.”
Miles nodded regretfully. “I’m all for the aeroplane,” he said again, “but I’ll be the first to admit that Windermere isn’t the place to fly them.”
“Agreed,” Will replied. He shook his head. “But times are changing, Miles. The king’s death, the land tax that’s supposed to pay for naval armament, two new German dreadnoughts operational—I fear we’re in for difficulties. Without Edward’s steady hand at the helm, we’ll be lucky to avoid a war.”
King Edward VII had died just two months before, after an attack of bronchitis. He had not begun his reign as a beloved monarch. In fact, when he took the throne in 1901, on the death of his mother, Queen Victoria, he had been greatly belittled as a “playboy” king. But in the brief decade of his rule, he had come to be admired and even loved, and his passing was widely seen as the end of a period of strength and stability. Uncertainty about the capabilities of the new king, George V, taken with unrest across the Empire, labor strikes at home, women’s suffrage, foreign competition, the constantly increasing German threat—all in all, most people felt that the ship of state was not sailing on an even keel.
“It’s not like you to be pessimistic, Will,” Miles said, getting up to see his friend to the door. “You know what my sister is always saying to me. ‘Take a wife, Miles. It will improve your outlook on things.’ ”
Will chuckled. “Who would have a crusty old bachelor like one of us, Woodcock?” He paused. “But of course, there’s Butters. He’s found himself a wife, and a pretty one at that. P’rhaps there’s hope for us.” He went to the door, then paused and eyed his friend. “Speaking of Miss Potter, I have been hearing that you and she may be—”
“No,” Miles said definitively. “That’s been settled for some time. We remain good friends, of course, but she’s devoted to the memory of her fiancé, who’s been dead since before she bought Hill Top Farm. And to her books. And her parents. Oh, and her farms.”
Miss Potter was a much-admired children’s author and illustrator who lived mostly in London but made frequent visits to the farm she owned—two farms, actually, for she had just last year bought Castle Farm, at the top of the village. Some months before, Miles had got it into his head that Miss Potter might be a suitable wife and mistress of Tower Bank House, and he had made one or two determined efforts in that direction. But to his disappointment, and not a little irritation, the lady seemed determined to remain a spinster for the rest of her life.
This was really too bad. Since his sister had married, his housekeeper, Elsa Grape, considered herself to be the mistress of the house and came and went pretty much as she pleased, sometimes leaving important duties undone—such as had been the case this morning, when the captain discovered that there were no clean collars and cuffs in his shirt drawer. The Tower Bank household would run smoothly again only when there was someone to look after Elsa. The captain was in want of a wife.
Miles pursed his lips. “And you, Heelis? I believe I recently heard that you and Miss Nash—”
“You’ll hear all manner of things if you listen long enough.” Will shook his head ruefully. “This is the worst village for gossip I have ever seen. I’m an admirer of the way Miss Nash manages Sawrey School, and I helped her and her sister untangle a legal problem last winter, having to do with a little money from their father’s estate. But that’s as far as it goes. Anyway, Miss Nash has her sister to care for, you know, which complicates her life.” He turned the doorknob. “And now I really am off. Cheerio, Woodcock. Good luck with that footpath business.”
When his friend had gone, Miles took his coffee and newspaper and went down the hall to the library, where he filled his pipe and settled in for a comfortable morning smoke and the paper. But he found it difficult to concentrate on the
Times
, which was just as well, really, for it seemed to be full of nothing but bad news. He was thinking of Adam Harmsworth, whom he had met only once, during a dispute over a horse. In that case, Harmsworth had been rude and irascible, but even the most petulant of landowners didn’t stop a footpath unless he had a very good reason to do so. Usually, it was done only when the landowner thought that no one would notice—which in this case was certainly not true.