There was a little cry, and the rustle of silk skirts, and then the sound of running footsteps. After a moment, Mr. Thexton began to whistle, tunelessly. He must have walked away, for shortly, Beatrix could hear nothing at all.
She sat very still for quite a long time, thinking what she ought to do. There were two crimes afoot here, involving several different people. Reluctant as she might be to meddle in people’s private affairs, she knew she could not simply go home and forget what she had heard. But what should she do? Confront Mr. Thexton or Mrs. Kittredge—or Mrs. Waring, or whoever she was—with what she had heard, and demand that they do the right thing? Take her story, instead, to Major Kittredge, whom she barely knew, or to the constable, or to Captain Woodcock, the Justice of the Peace? The whole affair was very complicated, and it was difficult to know what was best to do.
At last, she got cautiously onto her knees and peeked over the top of the rock, to be sure that the garden was empty. Then she gathered her pack and her walking stick, put on her hat, and set off.
She did not like to be the bearer of bad news, but Mr. Thexton could not be permitted to blackmail anyone. And Major Kittredge must be told that there was a serious question about the legality of his marriage. She shivered, feeling suddenly apprehensive. There was altogether too much duplicity and deception in this world. Appearances could not be trusted: people were not always who they pretended to be. And even though the sun continued to shine and the sky was just as blue as ever, the day seemed suddenly darker.
And back at Fern Vale Tarn the red squirrel, chittering happily, jumped off the willow branch and scampered across the mossy glade until he came to Miss Potter’s fairy garden-house, where he paused and peered under the canopy. He took one of the berries off one of the acorn plates and nibbled it appreciatively, then skipped across the glen and disappeared under the root of a very large oak tree.
28
Ridley Finds a Fifteen Percent Solution
As you no doubt know by now, Ridley Rattail is by nature a timid, irresolute, and definitely unheroic individual. Throughout his life, he has placed his personal comfort and safety above all other things, above family, friendship, and the society of other rats. Not once in his life has he put someone else first, or exerted himself in any way on another’s behalf, or—I am especially sad to say—offered a helping paw to a rat in need. Ridley has spent his entire existence caring nothing for anyone but Ridley and getting as much for Ridley as he possibly could, and making Ridley’s life as comfortable and convenient as possible. There it is, I’m afraid: we would be hard pressed to find a more selfish and self-satisfied rat in all of the Land between the Lakes—indeed, perhaps in all of England—than Ridley Rattail.
But fate has a mysterious way of offering us opportunities to redeem ourselves, and this occasion has now come to Ridley. A scheme for disposing of the Cat who was wreaking such havoc in the Hill Top attic had been sent to him in a dream—a gift from whatever deity guards and guides the rats of this world—and Ridley now knew what he had to do. The thought of confronting the Cat, of coming anywhere within striking distance of those horrific claws and fangs, might make him feel dizzy and faint, but he knew he could not give in to his fears, or allow himself to delay even one moment. There was no way of predicting how long the Cat was likely to sleep after last night’s battle. Ridley had to act now, and act fast.
So the rat left the sanctuary of Farmer Potatoes’ barn and ran as fast as he could back to Hill Top Farm. But instead of entering Miss Potter’s part of the house, he ducked through a hole in the masonry under the main room of the Jenningses’ addition, a hole made by the rats so they could have easy access to both the old and the new parts of the farmhouse. It was Sunday, and Ridley was well aware that Mr. and Mrs. Jennings and all of their children would be spending the morning attending worship services at St. Peter’s Church in Far Sawrey. In fact, Sunday mornings had always proved an excellent time to raid the Jenningses’ cupboards and pantries, and since Ridley knew his way around the place, he wasted no time in going about his business.
On this particular morning, however, Ridley was not headed for the pantry or the bread shelf or the potato bin. He went straight to the bedroom, and the shelf beside Mrs. Jennings’s side of the bed, where she kept a flat brown bottle of something that Dr. Butters had prescribed to help her get a good night’s rest. The medicine was potent and she did not use it often, for it made her sleep so soundly that she did not hear the children crying or her husband getting up, and she worried that she might even sleep through a fire, if nobody woke her up. The bottle had two labels on it. On one label, there was a cautioning notation:
Not to be administered to infants
And on the other was written:
Laudanum
Ridley could read (hadn’t his dream come from his reading of Miss Potter’s little book about Samuel Whiskers and Anna Maria Rat and Tom Kitten?), but his vocabulary was not very large and while he might be able to sound out a word (
laud-a-NUM
), he did not always know its meaning. He did not, for example, know that laudanum was a solution of opium poppies prepared with alcohol, usually in a fifteen percent solution, or that it was one of the most powerful narcotics available. He did not know that bottles of the stuff sat on the shelf of almost every household in the country, or that colicky infants were regularly given doses of it (in spite of the caution on the label), or that such famous people as Queen Victoria, Charles Dickens, Lewis Carroll, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning had been addicted to it, or that it was a socially acceptable way of taking opium, which most people recognized as a dangerous drug.
But Ridley
did
know that whatever was in that brown bottle sent Mrs. Jennings into such a sound sleep that a rat could run across her chin and never wake her, which made it the perfect potion for his purposes. So he stole it, by the simple expedient of chewing a length of string from the string ball Mr. Jennings kept on the mantelpiece, wrapping it three times around the neck of the bottle, taking the free end in his teeth, and pulling the bottle along behind him like a sled—a very clever trick for a rat whose brain was not the biggest.
Dragging the bottle, Ridley went through a hole in the wainscot and into Miss Potter’s part of the house, and from thence made his way up the spiral staircase to the attic. He pushed open the attic door, and stood stock still. Prepared as he was by the stories he had heard from the surviving rats, he was still struck dumb by the sight that met his eyes. As far as he could see, the attic floor was littered with what remained of Custard’s Last Stand: bodies of the dead and wounded, broken lances, snapped cutlasses, splintered cudgels, empty slings, torn flags, bloodied banners, and loose marbles. And everywhere there were the mourners, crying and wailing and bemoaning their losses, picking their way through the rubble to find their loved ones.
Ridley was still staring stunned and speechless at the carnage, when Rosabelle marched up to him, pushed her face up against his, and snarled, in an ugly tone:
“What do you think you’re doing here, Ridley Rattail?”
Rosabelle was joined by her sister Bluebell, whose left ear was torn and bleeding.
“Yes, why are you here, Ridley?”
she cried passionately.
“Have you come to celebrate our defeat?”
Ridley was jolted to the bone.
“Celebrate?”
he cried.
“You can’t think that of me, Bluebell! Surely you can’t!”
“Surely we can,”
Rosabelle said bitterly.
“Now, get out, Ridley. You don’t live here anymore.”
Ridley bowed his head.
“I know I don’t,”
he said in a voice of great humility.
“You were right to evict me, Rosabelle. There is nothing I can say or do that will in any way atone for posting that advertisement. I am a thoroughly wretched rat, a rat of no redeeming virtues. But I can get rid of the Cat who has caused this horror, and I mean to do it.”
By this time, they had been joined by other rats, who—when they heard Ridley’s assertion—burst out in mocking, malicious laughter.
“You?”
Bluebell scoffed.
“Ridley, the greatest coward who ever wore a tail, thinks he is going to get rid of a Cat who is as fierce as a ferret and strong as an ox? What utter nonsense!”
“You?”
cried Bluebell’s friend Maybell.
“What can you do to save us? Why, you couldn’t even save yourself, you ridiculous rat!”
And even Rosabelle had to agree, although she said it in a kindlier tone.
“Don’t be foolish, Ridley. This isn’t your fight now. You’re no match for that cat, any more than we are. Get out of here, and let us mourn our dead in peace.”
But Ridley knew that if he did as he was told, Rosabelle, Bluebell, Maybell, and all the others would shortly be dead. So, ignoring the sneers, jeers, taunts, and teasing that rang in his ears, he began to work at putting his plan into action. To do so required making several more trips down to the Jenningses’ kitchen, first for one thing and then for another.
And finally, on the third trip, he returned with Mr. Jennings’s ball of string. He was ready now to put his fifteen percent solution into operation.
The Cat Who Walks by Himself was in a very fine temper that Sunday morning. After the Battle of Hill Top Attic (as he thought of it), he had come downstairs, washed his paws and ears, and jumped up onto Miss Potter’s featherbed. She tried to push him off as she had the previous night, but he resisted, for while all places were alike to him, any Cat who had a ha’p’worth of sense would prefer a featherbed to a floor.
So, curled into a contented ball of fur, well fed and delightfully warm, the Cat slept a deep, dreamless sleep for the entire night. He didn’t bother to wake when Miss Potter got up, straightened the covers, dressed, and went out for the day. He finally roused himself at midmorning, yawned, stretched, scratched, and jumped up on the windowsill to see what sort of day it was.
The weather was truly glorious, with the sun spilling across the garden, the green hill rising steeply beyond, the sheep grazing contentedly, the animals in the barnyard going busily about their appointed tasks, and everything just right with the small world of Hill Top Farm. It was the sort of day on which a Cat Who Walks by Himself might prefer to go out into the fresh air, have a bit of a dig in the soft earth of a flower bed, relish a tasty green grass salad, sharpen his fine claws on a wooden post, climb a tree, catch a bird, admire his reflection in a puddle, and amuse himself by chasing the mother hens and their baby chicks in the barnyard.
The Cat sighed. Yes, he might prefer any or all these things—and he was entitled, wasn’t he, after the splendid work he had done during the Great Battle of the night before? But all places were alike to the Cat Who Walks by Himself, who knew that he was duty-bound to fulfill his obligations before he enjoyed his pleasures. In this case, he had undertaken to exterminate all of the rats in the Hill Top attic, and what the Cat undertook, that was what he would do, preferences or not.
So he took one last look at the pleasant morning, leapt lightly from the windowsill onto the floor, strode up the attic stairs, and pushed the door open. He knew that it would not be easy to catch the remaining rats, who would surely not be so stupid as to array themselves before him
en masse,
as had the army. So he was prepared to begin a thorough, methodical search of all the nooks and corners and crannies and cubbies, killing every rat he found, large or small or in between. It would be tedious work—slow, hard, and dusty—and not nearly as much fun as the Great Battle, where he could wipe out ten or a dozen rats with a single swipe of his paw.
Which was why the Cat was so pleased to find, just inside the door, that someone had thought to leave him a dish of tempting rabbit stew, swimming in tasty brown gravy and enriched with delicious bits of potatoes and carrots. It was, no doubt, a tribute, offered with the hope of placating him or buying him off.
Well, it wouldn’t do them any good, he thought, gobbling up the bits of rabbit. They could offer all the tribute they wanted, but when all was said and done, the only rats left in the Hill Top attic would be dead rats. He polished off the meat and vegetables and licked up the gravy. There would not be a single living rat in the attic, for when the Cat Who Walks by Himself undertakes to do a job, he does it, to the bitter end.
For the next ten or fifteen minutes, the Cat prowled around the corners of the attic, searching methodically under boxes, cartons, broken furniture, old curtains, and stacks of newspapers. At first, he worked swiftly and surely, catching here a cowering rat, there a rat napping, and every now and then a cockroach, cricket, or spider. But it was dull, monotonous work, and as the moments wore on, the Cat found himself feeling unaccountably muzzy-headed. This was very odd, since he was not usually a cat who needed a great deal of sleep, even after great exertion, and he had enjoyed such a comfortable night’s sleep on Miss Potter’s featherbed. He could not explain it, but definitely felt himself wanting a quick forty winks. He fought off this desire as long as he could, but finally, with a weary sigh, decided that since all places were alike to him, one place was as good as another for a bit of a lie-down.
And that was the last conscious thought the Cat would think for quite a time, for within the next instant, he had fallen fast asleep. And since that bowl of tasty rabbit stew had been generously laced with laudanum—the opiate that made Mrs. Jennings sleep so soundly—there was no doubt that he would sleep for a very long time.
Ridley’s fifteen percent solution had done the trick.
29
The Vicar Hears a Story
It was nearly teatime when Beatrix returned to Hill Top Farm. She had made up her mind what she had to do, and despite the fact that she was not at all looking forward to doing it, she was hungry. She ate several slices of bread-and-butter, with a piece of cheese and an apple, and drank two cups of strong tea. Thus fortified for what was likely to be an unpleasant interview, she went upstairs and changed from her walking clothes into a skirt, jacket, shoes, and hat suitable for attending Evensong, noticing with some relief that the cat was nowhere in evidence. Then she set out on her second walk of the day, down the footpath that led across Wilfin Beck and Sawrey Fold, a large meadow shared by a flock of sheep and a dozen black-and-white cows.