The Tale of Holly How (18 page)

“I don’t want to hear anything from you, either, Maribel,” Lady Longford snapped. “I am tired of being pushed around. I’m going to bed. Send Emily to help me. And go down to the kitchen and tell Mrs. Beever that I want a cup of ginger tea and another slice of that ginger cake. And if she has any candied ginger, she can send that up, too. Right now!”

As Miss Martine rushed from the room, Mr. Heelis stood. “I am sorry to have been the bearer of bad news,” he said. “The trustees would not have disappointed you except for a very good reason.” As he looked down at her, Lady Longford saw the concern written on his honest face. “If you will forgive me,” he went on quietly, “I can see that your ladyship is not well. When I left the village, Dr. Butters was there. Shall I send him up to see you?”

“No,” Lady Longford said, and then, as Emily came into the room to help her out of her chair, she changed her mind. “Oh, very well, Heelis. Send him up.” To herself, she muttered, “Wherever on earth can the child have gone?”

Mr. Heelis went to the door. “I shall be returning,” he said, “as quickly as I can, with a team of searchers.”

“Yes, searchers, Heelis, by all means,” Lady Longford said. “Emily, mind my shoulder, you wretched girl!”

23

Miss Potter Presents a Clue

Miles Woodcock was at the typewriter in his study, finishing a report on the action the trustees had taken that afternoon and thinking with some puzzlement about the interview with Dr. Gainwell. He had not wanted to make a point of it with the other trustees, since it was clear that there was no contest between Miss Nash and Lady Longford’s candidate, but he had felt that the interview left some major questions unanswered. Dr. Gainwell had, for instance, been surprisingly vague about his studies at Oxford and unclear about the circumstances of his missionary work. What’s more, he hadn’t seemed prepared to deal with questions about the school curriculum or his philosophy of education, although he did have certain views on discipline. In fact, one would almost have thought—

But it did not matter. The man was not their choice, and they had interviewed him only as a courtesy. In the report, it was sufficient to say that the trustees had considered two candidates and selected Miss Nash, whose work was well known to all. He rolled the paper out of the typewriter, signed the report, and blotted his signature. There. That was done, and Miss Nash could get on with her planning for the year.

He heard a light tap at the door, and his sister put her head through. “Miles, my dear, forgive me for interrupting you, but Miss Potter is here. She says she has something she needs to show you, and urgently.”

Miles stood. “Not an interruption,” he said. “I’m all finished.” He smiled. “Hello, Miss Potter. Come in, do. Dimity, why don’t you bring us a cup of—”

“No tea for me, thank you, Miss Woodcock,” Miss Potter said. Dimity, with a tactful nod, left the room, closing the door behind her.

Miles had originally shared the view that many of the male villagers held of Miss Potter: that a city woman had no business taking on a working farm, especially one that needed so much attention and improvement. But he had changed his mind last October, when she had helped to recover the Constable painting stolen from Anvil Cottage, and through the months after that, as he witnessed the steady, no-nonsense determination with which she dealt with challenges at Hill Top, and with people like Bernard Biddle, the building contractor who was notorious for causing trouble on his jobs. Beatrix Potter, Miles had decided, was a rare and unusual woman, and he was glad that she had come to Sawrey.

As he went to greet her, Miles noticed that Miss Potter’s round cheeks were even pinker than usual, and under her straw hat, her brown hair was in disarray. Her clothing showed signs of being recently wet, and she was carrying something that looked like a pair of long-handled metal tongs.

“Thank you for allowing me to barge in,” she said, in her light, high voice. “I won’t take up much of your time. But I do think it’s important, you see. It’s about the death of Mr. Hornby.”

“Of course,” Miles said gravely. He gestured to a chair. “Sit down, please, Miss Potter. What’s that you have in your hand?”

Instead of sitting, she put the tongs down on the desk.

“Miss Barwick and I went to Holly How to look for the sheep I’ve bought from Mr. Hornby. After a brief encounter with Isaac Chance—”

“Ah. You’ve met the man, then. What do you think?”

Miss Potter pressed her lips together. “I think,” she said decidedly, “that I should not be at all surprised to find my sheep at Oldfield Farm. Of course, I have no proof, only a suspicion. But I intend to have a look.”

“I hope you won’t go unaccompanied,” Miles said, in a warning tone. “I suspect that Chance put a match to the Holly How barn last winter. And he might have been responsible for what looked like an accidental poisoning of Hornby’s milk cows. But there was never enough evidence to charge him.” He looked squarely at Miss Potter. “Do say you won’t go to Oldfield alone.”

Instead of replying, Miss Potter pointed to the items on the table. “Miss Barwick and I climbed up the hill to the spot from which Mr. Hornby fell. The Crooks’ terrier was with us, and he nosed out the tongs lying amongst the brambles about thirty paces away. It looked as if someone had slung them there. I must confess that I’m at a loss about these tongs. They look rather like fireplace tongs, but—”

“But they’re not,” Miles said distastefully. “Look at those sharp points. They’re badger tongs.”

“
Badger
tongs?”

“Designed to catch and hold badgers.”

“Oh,” Miss Potter said, adding, in a matter-of-fact tone, “By badger diggers, I suppose.”

Miles raised both eyebrows. “You know about that?”

“I know that the badger sett at the rock quarry on Hill Top property was recently destroyed,” she said grimly. “Now that you’ve told me what these tongs are used for, I wonder if their owner might have been planning to dig the sett at Holly How. Mr. Jennings says that Lord Longford wouldn’t allow the sett to be meddled with, and Mr. Hornby continued to follow his wishes.” She frowned. “I wonder—do you think perhaps Mr. Hornby might have confronted a badger digger on Holly How, and there was some kind of altercation? Perhaps Mr. Hornby grabbed the tongs and flung them away, and then fell, or was pushed, over the edge.”

Miles stared at her, thinking of the welt across old Ben Hornby’s shoulders—a welt that might have been raised by a pair of badger tongs. “By Jove, Miss Potter,” he said at last, “you might be right.”

“I imagine I am,” Miss Potter said. She looked down at the tongs. “Is there any way of knowing whose these are?”

“There might be a tool mark,” Miles said, picking them up and reaching for the magnifying glass that lay on his desk. “Many countrymen mark all their tools. If somebody makes off with a hammer or a rake, it’s easy to prove who owns it.”

Miss Potter sniffed. “I shouldn’t think a badger digger would want to advertise his ownership.”

“It’s against the law to bait badgers,” Miles replied, “but it’s not against the law to capture them. Where badgers are concerned, I’m afraid that Lord Longford was an exception, rather than the rule. Generally speaking, farmers don’t like the animals, because they think they destroy crops and gardens. So they’re trapped and dug and generally harassed. And there it is!” he exclaimed triumphantly, having found what he was looking for. He put the tongs on the desk and handed Miss Potter the magnifying lens. “Look at the joint where the handles are bolted together.”

Miss Potter bent over, studying the tongs. “It looks like the letters J and O.”

“Indeed,” Miles said, setting his jaw. “And I think I know who—”

The door opened once more and Miles glanced up. A tall figure was framed in the doorway, his bowler hat under his arm. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Will Heelis said. “Miss Woodcock told me to come on in.”

“Hullo, Heelis,” Miles said. “Have a look at Miss Potter’s clue. She discovered this pair of badger tongs on Holly How, lying in the briars not twenty paces—”

“Thirty,” said Miss Potter. “How do you do, Mr. Heelis?”

“Very well, thank you, Miss Potter.” Heelis smiled. “It’s good to see you again. How are you getting on with Mr. Biddle?”

“Not at all well,” Miss Potter said, with a hint of a smile. “If things don’t improve soon, I fear I shall have to take drastic action.”

“Not thirty paces away from the cliff-top where Hornby fell,” Miles went on, in a louder voice. He held out the magnifying glass to Heelis. “The tool-mark is there,” he said, pointing. “The letters J and O.”

Heelis took the magnifying glass and bent over the tongs. “My word,” he muttered, after a moment. “So it is.” He straightened, frowning. “Found on the cliff-top, you say? So you’re thinking that—”

“—That the owner of these tongs knows how Ben Hornby died,” Miles said. “What do you say?”

“It sounds likely,” Heelis said slowly. “Quite likely, I must say. And it doesn’t take much to guess at the identity of their owner. Miss Potter, you are to be complimented on your find. You may have solved our mystery.” He cleared his throat, looking first to Miss Potter and then to Miles. “I have other news, however. And not good news, I’m afraid.”

Miles frowned. “You’re not about to tell me that Miss Nash rejected the trustees’ offer, I hope.”

“No, no, nothing like that. She’s quite pleased. And I delivered our rejection to Lady Longford.”

“So the trustees have decided in favor of Miss Nash, then?” Miss Potter put in eagerly.

“Yes, we did,” Miles replied. To Heelis, he said, “How did her ladyship take the announcement?”

“She’s angry, of course. And rather seriously ill, I think.” Heelis frowned. “But that’s not the point. The point is that the girl is gone. Caroline, I mean. Lady Longford’s granddaughter.”

“Gone?” echoed Miss Potter, her blue eyes opening wide. “Gone . . .
where
?”

“Nobody seems to know.” Heelis threw up his hands. “I’m told that they’ve searched the Manor, and that Beever is out now, searching the woods. But Lady Longford is too ill to take much notice, and Miss Martine doesn’t seem greatly concerned. And to tell God’s honest truth,” he added, in a burst of feeling, “I don’t trust that woman to have Caroline’s best interests at heart.”

“I agree with you, Mr. Heelis,” Miss Potter said gravely. “I spoke with Caroline this morning. She said that Miss Martine pinches.”

“She . . . pinches?” Miles asked, at a loss.

Miss Potter’s lips tightened. “It is a method that governesses use to discipline headstrong young women. I know of it from my own experience, for I was exceptionally headstrong, as a girl.” She looked anxiously from Miles to Heelis. “But we mustn’t stand here talking, when Caroline may be lost!”

“Yes,” Heelis said, turning to Miles. “Remember that little boy who wandered away from the Sawrey Hotel? I think we had better assemble the men and dogs, without delay.”

Miles put down the tongs. He remembered that lost child very well. They had called out every man in the district to help search, and had found nothing. Somewhere, up there . . . he shuddered. “I agree,” he said soberly. “The wood is a wild place. I shouldn’t like to spend the night up there, myself.”

“To make matters worse, there’s another storm coming,” Heelis put in. “Thunderheads are piling up in the west. We’ll have rain by sunset—a hard rain, from the look of it.”

“Oh, dear,” Miss Potter said. And then, with determination, “Caroline
must
be found! As quickly as possible!”

“We’ll go over to the Arms and ask Mr. Barrow to ring the bell,” Miles said.

“Right,” Heelis agreed, already heading for the door. “That’ll bring everyone out in a hurry.”

Mr. Barrow had two children of his own, and the idea that the young Miss Longford might be lost somewhere in Cuckoo Brow Wood was enough to galvanize him into action. He pulled a hand bell out from under the bar, ran out on the steps, and began to ring it as hard as he could. Within the next few minutes, the villagers spilt out of their houses and gathered in front of the Arms to find out what had happened. Hearing the news and realizing the urgency of the situation, the men rushed home to collect rain gear and lanterns, whilst the wives (since the men would miss their suppers) hurried to make meat-and-cheese sandwiches and brew jugs of hot tea to be taken along. Thirty minutes later, about three dozen men were on their way out of the village by horse and cart and on foot, heading in the direction of Cuckoo Brow Wood.

Will Heelis had been wrong about the rain, however. The storm did not wait until sunset—or, rather, the hour at which the sun usually set, for dark clouds had completely covered the sky, and the evening was as black as the blackest night. A fierce eddy of wind swept up dust and sticks and dried leaves and sent them whirling through the air, and there was a rushing sound in the great beech trees as the coming storm whipped their branches. A jagged streak of fire split the dark sky over Esthwaite Water.

And just as the men started up Stony Lane, the heavens opened and the rain came down with a crash and a roar.