Two of the rats—the ones who had jeered the loudest when Ridley announced that he intended to capture the Cat—stepped forward without hesitation. One of them, a Cockney rat named Brutus, snatched off his hat respectfully.
“We’ll ’elp, Mr. Rattail, sir. You just tell us wot t’ do, and we’ll do it.”
“Us’ns too,”
chorused several others.
“You’re a right rum chap, Mr. Rattail. You give the orders, and we’ll carry ’em out.”
And then, without any prompting, they all broke into a round of applause and cheers and a chorus of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”
Enormously touched by their admiration and respectful address, Ridley almost wept. And when Rosabelle suggested that, since the danger was now past, they should all sit down together and share a meal of thanksgiving, he got up the courage to say, with a huge hope rising in his heart,
“Does that mean I’m not evicted, Rosabelle?”
“That’s what it means, Ridley,”
Rosabelle said, and gave him a generous hug.
“You’ve saved us from certain destruction, and we’re enormously grateful. Now let’s all have some lunch.”
So that night, when Miss Potter had blown out her candle and gone to sleep, Ridley gathered the rats together. Following his instructions, they lined up along the sleeping Cat’s length and began rolling the creature across the floor to the top of the spiral stair, just as though he were a rolling pin. And then, on the count of three, they gave the Cat a very hard shove. He rolled and bounced and thumped all the way down to the bottom, still fast asleep. The rats rolled him across the floor, out the door, and down the starlit hill to the pub, where they gathered in the back garden.
“Now what, Mr. Rattail?”
Brutus asked, dusting his paws.
“Wot’s t’ be done with the ’orrible creature?”
Ridley pointed to a wooden ale keg standing, empty, beside the back door.
“We’ll turn that keg on its side,”
he directed,
“take off the lid, and roll the Cat into it.”
Two dozen pairs of paws made light work, and the task went smoothly. In five minutes, the keg was upright again, with the lid on. But it was no longer empty. It contained a Cat.
Which is why, when the brewer’s draymen arrived with their horses and dray early on a very wet Monday morning to deliver two full kegs of ale to the pub and take away two empty ones, the bewildered Cat (by this time beginning to wake up, his mouth parched and his head throbbing), found himself wound completely round with string, bouncing up and down in the bottom of an empty keg which smelt so much like ale that it nearly intoxicated him. Somewhere along the way, the lid of the keg popped off. Now, you might think this was unfortunate, and so, no doubt, did the Cat, since by this time the gray skies had opened and a cold rain was pouring down and there was a good chance that the Cat might drown before he got wherever in the world he was going. As things turned out, however, the loss of the lid was a bit of good fortune, for when the draymen reached the brewery and began to unload their dray, one of them glanced into the Cat’s keg.
“Well, I’ll be blowed,” he said to his partner, taking his hat off and scratching his head. “It’s a wet cat, trussed up like a roly-poly puddin’. Guess some boys done it for a prank, eh? What kids’ll get up to these days is a wonder.” He took out a knife and cut the string, freeing the Cat. “Be on your way, you,” he said, tossing him out of the wagon. “We got all t’ cats we need round here.”
A moment later, the Cat Who Walks by Himself could be seen running away from the brewery as fast as he could, out into the woods and up a tree and from thence onto a roof, exactly like the cat in Mr. Kipling’s tale:
“Then he goes out to the Wet Wild Woods or up the Wet Wild Trees or on the Wet Wild Roofs, waving his wild tail and walking by his wild lone.”
And if you had asked him whether he would like to return to Hill Top Farm and have another go at the rats in Miss Potter’s attic, he would have given you a very nasty piece of his mind, in language that I should not have wanted to include in this book.
But if he were to be perfectly honest, he would reflect that all places are no longer quite alike to him.
31
Dimity Woodcock Cooks Breakfast
MONDAY, 29 APRIL
Captain Woodcock’s breakfast was a little later than usual on Monday morning. Elsa Grape’s sister-in-law, who lived in Windermere, had just given birth to a new baby, her seventh. Elsa (the Woodcock’s cook and housekeeper) had gone across Lake Windermere on the Saturday evening ferry to help out, but the Monday morning ferry was prevented by the very same rainstorm that drenched the Cat. The wind whipped the waves and the lightning flashed and Henry Stubbs, the ferryman, wisely decided to beach the ferry until the storm passed.
So Dimity Woodcock (who would be the first to admit that she was not a very good cook) found herself in the kitchen at Tower Bank House, frying bacon and eggs and making toast. Things were going fairly well until she put the toast too close to the fire and it burnt to a cinder. Since there was no more bread in the house, she sent Jennie, the kitchen maid, running down the garden through the rain to Sarah Barwick’s kitchen door and back again with a plate of Sarah’s finest, freshest, tastiest sticky buns.
“Just look at that!” Miles exclaimed with satisfaction, when Dimity appeared in the dining room at last, flushed and with her hair all awry but bearing a handsome tray of bacon, eggs, kippers, and fragrant sticky buns. “Dimity, you’re a wonder! The cook’s out of commission, but the eggs are just as I like them. And fresh sticky buns as well. Thank you very much, my dear.” He picked up a bun and took a bite. “Delicious!”
“Thank you,” Dimity said modestly, failing to mention that Miss Barwick should, by rights, receive praise for the buns. “I’ll just get the orange juice and coffee and—” She was interrupted by the doorbell. “Oh, dear,” she lamented. “Not company so early!”
“It’s already gone nine,” her brother observed, putting down his napkin and rising. “You get the coffee, Dim. I’ll get the door. Whoever-it-is will have to wait until we have finished our breakfast.”
But when Dimity got back to the breakfast room with a pitcher, she found that whoever-it-is was Vicar Sackett and Beatrix Potter, and that Miles had seated them at the breakfast table. They were protesting that they had already eaten at home, but Miles was urging them to sample his sister’s buns.
“Elsa is stranded on the other side of the lake, but Dimity came to our rescue,” he said proudly. “She baked the buns fresh this morning, before breakfast. They’re delicious. Please have one.”
“Oh, yes, do,” Dimity heard herself saying, as she put down the coffeepot and went to the sideboard for more cups. “And hot coffee, too. That rain is coming down in buckets, and there’s thunder and lightning. You must be wet through.”
“It is very damp,” the vicar admitted, and helped himself to a bun. One bite, and he was beaming. “My dear Miss Woodcock! These are every bit as good as Sarah Barwick’s, and that is saying a very great deal.”
Flushing, Dimity could think of no convenient way to say that they
were
Sarah’s buns. Instead, she asked hastily, “You’ve really eaten, have you? Wouldn’t you care for some kippers and—”
“We’ve breakfasted, thank you,” Beatrix said quickly. “But coffee would be very good.” Her expression was somber. “We’ve come about a rather unfortunate matter, I’m afraid.”
“If this is Justice of the Peace business,” Dimity said, “you’ll want privacy.” She turned toward the door.
“Nonsense, Dim,” Miles said firmly. “You just sit right down and eat. After all that baking this morning, you must be hungry.” To their guests, he said, “If you don’t mind, Dimity and I will just go on with our breakfast while you tell us what’s brought you out on this rainy morning.”
Beatrix and the vicar did not object, so Dimity poured two cups of coffee for their guests, and one for herself. Then she helped herself to bacon and eggs, sat down at her usual place nearest the hallway door, and began to eat.
The vicar cleared his throat. “I think Miss Potter should be the one to tell you what has transpired,” he said uneasily. “She was a witness.”
Dimity was indeed hungry. But when Beatrix started to talk, she forgot all about the food on her plate. And when Beatrix finished her story, she cried out in horror, “Oh, how shocking! Poor Christopher! Poor, sweet Christopher!” and burst into a storm of tears.
At the opposite end of the breakfast table, Captain Woodcock was also horrified by what he had just heard, and troubled by his sister’s unusual show of emotion. Surely she couldn’t harbor any affection toward Kittredge. But this wasn’t the time to go into that. He applied himself to the matter at hand, beginning with the obvious question.
“You’re sure, Miss Potter? You realize that you might have to testify to this in court.”
“In court?” Dimity asked, aghast. “Oh, Miles, surely Christopher won’t have to parade his private troubles before the whole—”
“Hush, Dimity,” her brother said sternly.
“I should not like to testify,” Miss Potter replied, “but if I must, of course I shall. I have an excellent memory. The conversation was just as I have related it to you.”
Miles felt apologetic. He was aware that Miss Potter had a first-rate memory—Dimity had told him that she had memorized almost all of the plays of Shakespeare as a girl. He also knew that she had an amazingly acute observational ability, and could see and understand things that others did not. He did not doubt that she had heard exactly what she said she had heard. But it certainly did raise a host of problems, and left him wondering where to start.
“Well, then,” he said, feeling very much at sea. “I suppose we must—” He was interrupted by the doorbell.
“I’ll go,” Dimity said in a strangled voice. A moment later, Will Heelis was standing in the breakfast room door.
“Mr. Heelis!” Miss Potter exclaimed, smiling. “I’m glad you were able to come, in spite of the rain.”
“How could I not?” Will asked with a shake of his head. “Poor Kittredge. This is a frightful business.”
“Yes, indeed,” Dimity said distractedly. “Poor Christopher. It will kill him. Sit down, Will, and let me pour you some coffee. Have you eaten?”
“I doubt it will kill him,” Will replied, pulling out a chair. “But it’s going to be deuced unpleasant. Coffee, please.”
Miles looked from Miss Potter to the vicar. “Would someone please tell me how Heelis got into this? Not that I mind, of course,” he added. “It’s just that—”
“Mr. Jennings had to take the butter and eggs to Hawkshead very early this morning,” Miss Potter explained. “I took the liberty of sending a note to Mr. Heelis, with a brief explanation of the situation. I knew him to be a good friend of Major Kittredge, and hoped he might agree to speak with the major about this delicate situation. After Mr. Thexton has been interrogated,” she added, to Miles. “One has to begin there, of course.”
“Oh, of course,” Miles said. He stared at her. “You’ve sorted it all out, have you, Miss Potter?”
“Well, it does seem rather logical, wouldn’t you say?” Will said, taking the cup Dimity handed him and helping himself to sugar and cream.
“Yes, it does,” put in the vicar. “Miss Potter has thought it out completely. If Captain Woodcock were to question Mr. Thexton, he could ascertain the truth of the charge against Mrs. Kittredge.” He paused uncomfortably. “I suppose I should call her Mrs. Waring—that is, assuming that Mr. Thexton’s charge is true.”
“Which must be determined,” Miss Potter said, “before anything else.”
“Yes, I see,” Miles said. “Yes, you’re right. That should be the first step.”
“Once Mr. Thexton has been persuaded to reveal the whereabouts of Mr. James Waring,” the vicar continued, “Captain Woodcock could telegraph the gentleman and ask him directly whether he is Irene Waring’s husband—and request that he provide a photograph of his wife.”
“And then,” Miss Potter said, “if the photo proves that she is also Diana Kittredge, perhaps Mr. Heelis might have a conversation with the major and lay the entire matter before him.” She paused sympathetically. “It is all so difficult, and delicate. It does seem that Major Kittredge should know as soon as possible—and from a friend.”
“I very much agree,” Will said gravely. “While I’m not eager to be the bearer of this appalling news, I think Kittredge would rather hear it from me than from anyone else. He is a client, as well—and there are some legal knots to be untied here.”
Dimity looked up quickly. “Untied?”
“Of course, we do not yet know the facts in the matter, Dimity,” Will said in a quiet, steady voice. “But if Mr. Thexton’s allegation is true, Major Kittredge’s marriage cannot be valid.”
Miles turned his head just in time to catch the look of rosy gladness that passed over his sister’s face. Surely she wasn’t—He was stopped from pursuing this thought by the vicar, who spoke with the air of a man steeling himself to something unpleasant.
“I am willing to accompany you, Captain Woodcock,” he said, “to speak with Mr. Thexton. He is, after all, a guest in my home.”
“And a relative,” Miles said regretfully. “This must be difficult for you, vicar.”
“I am glad to say that he is
not
a relative,” the vicar replied, with unaccustomed firmness. “The Lessiter side of the Sackett family tree has been carefully examined, and Mr. Thexton’s branch cannot be found.”
“Oh, well, then,” Will said, in a joking tone, “if he’s not one of yours, Vicar, we’ll just toss him in gaol and throw away the key. And while he’s there, we’ll get to the bottom of this Waring business, once and for all. If Kittredge isn’t well and truly married, we should know it shortly.”
Dimity picked up the platter of buns. “Please, Will,” she said, in an extraordinarily cheerful voice, “wouldn’t you like a sticky bun? Everyone says they’re delicious.”
Miles stared at his sister, an uneasy thought taking an uncomfortable shape in his mind.