The Tale of Holly How Page 15

  “You and Jennings were t’ ones who found poor auld Ben, I understand,” Chance said in an offhand way. “Wonder how he come to fall off that bit of cliff. Strange thing, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Beatrix said, turning to Sarah. “Miss Barwick, are we ready?”

  “Whenever you are,” Sarah replied, handing Beatrix her hat and squashing her own firmly on her head.

  Chance reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a worn tobacco tin. From a shirt pocket, he produced a small folder of cigarette papers. Taking a loose pinch of tarry black tobacco from the tin, he began to roll a tidy cigarette. He licked the paper, stuck the cigarette in his mouth, and lit it, lifting his leather boot to strike a wooden match against the sole.

  “Up there lookin’ for your sheep when you found him, was you? Heard you bought some of Ben’s Herdwicks.” He dropped the match into the dirt and pulled on his cigarette, waiting for Beatrix to answer. When she did not, he added, in an ingratiating tone, “I’ve some verra fine ewes m’self, y’ know, miss. If you can’t locate them that Ben sold you, mappen you’ll have a look at mine.”

  “Why, you rogue!” Racal barked, jumping up and down stiff-legged. “I wouldn’t put it past you to—”

  “Watch out who you’re callin’ a rogue,” Mustard growled. “Want me to come out there and take a nip out of your tail?”

  “Gooseberries,” Rascal replied sardonically, knowing full well that Mustard didn’t dare come out from under the wagon, for fear of another hard kick from his master’s boot.

  “Come on, Rascal,” Beatrix said. Have a look at his sheep, indeed! By now feeling greatly put out at the man, she looked up at Holly How, rising behind the farmhouse. “Goodbye, Mr. Chance. Shall we, Miss Barwick?”

  Chance pushed himself away from the cart, looking alarmed. “You’re not goin’ up there alone, are you?”

  “I am not alone,” Beatrix pointed out reasonably. “Miss Barwick is with me.”

  “And me,” Rascal said.

  “For what that’s worth,” Mustard growled. “You could protect ’em from a mouse or a rabbit, but not much else.”

  “Is that right?” Rascal snapped. “You just stick that ugly snout of yours out here and—”

  “Rascal,” said Beatrix sternly. “Stop that and come along.”

  Chance frowned. “It’s lookin’ like thunder any minute. And the fell’s not a safe place for ladies. Might tumble down and hurt yourself, like auld Ben.” He paused. “Where the de’il is Jennings, anyway? Why isn’t he with you?”

  With a dry humor, Beatrix said, “Mr. Jennings stepped off the porch and sprained his ankle last evening.”

  Chance gave a harsh laugh. “Well, that settles it. I’ll go up there with you ladies and help you look for those sheep.”

  “No, thank you.” Beatrix was polite but firm. “We don’t want to take you from your work.” She glanced pointedly at the wagon. “You’ll want to get your tools home before it rains, I’m sure.”

  The frown became a scowl. “I still say you shouldn’t go up there alone.”

  “You don’t have anything to say about it, Mr. Chance,” Beatrix said crisply. “Goodbye.” And with that she led the way up the path, Sarah following behind, Rascal dancing at their heels, barely able to contain his glee.

  “That was a bit of all right, I’d say, Miss Potter,” he barked happily. “Shan’t be bothered by him again, I fancy.”

  “I say, Bea,” Sarah said in an admiring tone, “you quite surprise me, talking back to that fellow.” She shuddered. “Not a very nice man, if you ask me.”

  “Rather reminded me of a stoat,” Beatrix said quietly. “Let’s not talk about him, shall we? It’s likely to spoil our walk. And let’s do keep our eyes open for those sheep.”

  As they climbed up Holly How, Beatrix noticed that the clouds had thickened and turned gray, a low haze veiled the farther fells, and the western breeze had freshened. Both she and Sarah were strong walkers and they climbed swiftly, with firm, sure strides, taking the same narrow, zig-zagging sheep’s path that Beatrix and Mr. Jennings had used the afternoon before.

  As they climbed, they seemed to Beatrix to be going farther and farther from all human settlements, into a wilderness that they shared only with the elements and the animals of the moors. There was a wild, free feeling about being up here, with the wind blowing her skirts and lifting her hair. The green slope around them was pocked with rabbit burrows, and occasionally she could see the twinkling of a white tail and the tip of a pink ear. The dry, fine grass whispered under her feet. A cricket chirruped, and high above, beneath the lowering blanket of gray clouds, the sky was traced with the spiraling flight of curlews, and she could hear their plaintive call, curl-ee, curl-ee. Beatrix held her head high, savoring the sharp sweetness of the breeze that carried with it the scents of earth and water and growing things, of wild thyme and lichen and moss and heather. The rounded top of Holly How rose above her, with the stone-walled sheep fold off to the left. But the green hillside was disappointingly empty of sheep, and sheep, she reminded herself, were what they had come to find.

  “I don’t see the sheep anywhere,” Sarah said behind her. She was beginning to sound a little breathless. “I suppose that means we’ll have to climb to the top, doesn’t it? Perhaps they’ve gone down the other side.”

  “I doubt it,” Rascal remarked. “I don’t think we’ll find them.” It was a known fact that sheep were curious, and of all the breeds of sheep, Herdwicks were amongst the most curious. If they were anywhere on Holly How, they would have already come over to see who was walking across their fell and ask what they wanted.

  “There’s somewhere else I want to look before we climb to the top,” Beatrix said, over her shoulder. A few moments later, they had reached the stone-fenced fold, and above, on the shoulder of the hill, she could see the place from which Ben Hornby must have fallen. She pointed.

  “Over there,” she said. “There’s a beck at the bottom of that slope. It’s steep, but an easy climb for sheep. They might have gone down for water.”

  “Lead on,” Sarah said cheerfully, wiping the sweat off her forehead with her sleeve. “Although I’d like to suggest that when we get there, we might sit down for a moment or two. You’re a much better walker than I am, Bea, and to tell the truth, I am jolly tired.”

  In a few moments, they reached the spot where Beatrix had stood the afternoon before and looked down to the foot of the steep slope. Ben Hornby’s body was gone, of course, and Beatrix could see little sign of its ever having been there. There were no sheep, either. The little stream skipped and leapt amongst the rocks, chattering cheerfully to itself and paying no attention to anyone. On the opposite side of the stream there were a few larches and shrub willows, and then the ground sloped upward again.

  “That’s where we found him,” Beatrix said, pointing down. “I thought, of course, that it was an accident, until Constable Braithwaite explained about the tobacco pipe Mr. Hornby was holding in his hand. The constable was sure he didn’t smoke, you see,” she added. “So it began to seem as if the old man might not have been here alone.”

  “And this is where he fell from, I suppose,” Sarah replied. She sat down on a large rock and looked around curiously. “I imagine the men must have searched this place rather thoroughly, especially if they thought someone else was up here with Mr. Hornby.” She paused, frowning down at the ground. “They didn’t find anything, I don’t suppose? No sign of a struggle or anything like that?”

  “If they did, they didn’t mention it in my hearing,” Beatrix said. “Of course, I wasn’t up here with them.” She smiled ruefully and seated herself on a rock. “Once I was down there, it was easier to go farther down than to climb back up.”

  “I believe it,” Sarah said, looking down the slope. “I don’t see how you ever got down there safely.” With a smile, she looked down at her skirt. “An argument for wearing trousers, if you ask me.”

  For a
moment, the two of them were silent, whilst Sarah contemplated the steep slope beneath them and Beatrix studied the area around them, trying to imagine what had happened that might have resulted in a man’s death. One man here alone, enjoying a pipe of tobacco, or two men together? A slip of a heel on a rock and an accidental fall? Or an argument that flared out of control and ended with an angry, impulsive shove? Or something else altogether?

  But if there was a tale here, there was nothing to tell it. Thick clumps of low bramble bushes grew out of the tumbled rocks, and the stretches of scuffed earth between them were too hard and stony to bear human footprints—or even the hoofprints of the many sheep that had come this way, judging from the tiny tufts of white wool snagged on the sharp thorns. Although Beatrix searched carefully, she could find nothing that suggested what might have happened in this place.

  And then Rascal—who had been scouting the area, tracing with his clever nose the many tantalizing tracks and trails that are completely invisible to Big Folk but so immediately evident to dogs—seemed to find something of interest, lying hidden amongst the thicket of briars about twenty feet distant.

  He raised his head and began to bark. “Over here!” he yipped urgently. “Miss Potter, Miss Barwick, come here!”

  “What do you suppose that little dog has found?” Sarah asked curiously. “He’s certainly excited about it.”

  “I’ll go and see,” Beatrix replied, gathering her skirt close around her. “You’d better stay here. Those brambles will tear your clothes.” Paying no attention to Sarah’s objection, she plunged into the bramble thicket. A moment later, she had returned, somewhat breathless, holding up a pair of long-handled, black metal tongs. “Here it is!” she exclaimed. “This is what Rascal found.”

  “Yes, but what is it?” Sarah asked, puzzled.

  “I have no idea,” Beatrix said, turning it over in her hands. “Fireplace tongs? But the points are sharpened, as if they’re meant to catch and hold on to something, not just lift it. And they’re heavy.”

  Rascal had followed her out of the briar patch. “It’s a pair of badger tongs, that’s what it is!” he said excitedly, pressing his nose to the tongs. “They’re used to catch badgers. Mr. Crook makes them at his forge.”

  “Look at Rascal,” Sarah said wonderingly. “He acts as if he knows exactly what this is.”

  “He probably does,” Beatrix said. “I’m always surprised by what animals seem to know—and they always seem to want to tell us, too. It’s such a pity we can’t understand what they’re saying.” She paused, looking curiously at the tongs. “These might belong to Ben Hornby, I suppose, but—”

  “No, no, NO!” Rascal cried, bouncing up and down. “Old Ben hated badger-digging with a passion. Old Lord Longford insisted that the sett not be disturbed, and Ben didn’t like the idea of people coming around, bothering animals on land that he was responsible for.”

  “—But perhaps not,” Beatrix went on, raising her voice over Rascal’s excited yelping. “At any rate, the constable and Captain Woodcock obviously missed this when they were making their search. Although, to give them credit, they would have had no special reason to search those brambles.”

  There was a rumble of thunder not far away. She glanced up to see that the sky had grown even darker, and a finger of lightning danced across the fells to the west. “We’d better start back,” she said. “I left my umbrella in the pony cart.”

  “But I thought we were going to the top of Holly How,” Sarah objected. “What about the sheep?”

  “They’ve waited this long, they can wait a little longer,” Beatrix said practically, and pointed toward the darkening west. “If we don’t hurry, we’re going to get very wet.”

  “We’ll get wet even if we do hurry,” Rascal observed, lifting his nose to the wind. “That rain is only a mile or two away.”

  Rascal’s prediction turned out to be true, and with one additional complication. When the three of them reached Holly How Farm, Winston and the pony cart were nowhere to be seen.

  “Oh, blast,” Sarah groaned. “The pony’s gone home without us.”

  “But I know I tied him securely,” Beatrix said. She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t suppose Isaac Chance turned him loose, do you?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him,” Rascal growled. “He’s a thoroughly bad fellow, you can take my word for it.”

  “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know,” Sarah said with a sigh. A few raindrops began to spatter down. “How far is it to the village, do you think?”

  “Only about three miles,” Beatrix said. “Come on.”

  “Only?” Sarah said, with a laugh. “I just wish that pony had thought to leave the umbrella for us.”

  As it happened, Winston had not gone far. When they turned off the farm track onto Stony Lane, they saw him waiting for them under a large beech tree and ran toward him with happy exclamations. The rain began in earnest just as Beatrix and Sarah climbed into the cart and Sarah put up the umbrella, which was large enough to cover the both of them.

  “I’d give a lot to know whether that awful man let our pony go,” she said.

  “It’s too bad Winston can’t tell us,” Beatrix said, picking up the reins and clucking to the pony.

  “Well, he can tell me,” Rascal replied. He ran alongside the pony, who was trotting briskly downhill, as anxious as the others to get home before the hard rain came. “What happened, Winston? Did Isaac Chance turn you loose?”

  The pony tossed his head. “You don’t think I pulled myself free, do you?” he asked huffily. “I am a well-bred, hardworking pony, and I know my job. When I am told to go, I go. When I’m told to stop, I stop, sunshine, snow, or thunder. But when I’m whipped—”

  “So it was Chance, then? He let you loose and whipped you until you ran away?”

  “It was Chance,” Winston said through his teeth. “A thoroughly unpleasant fellow. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  And with that, he picked up his hoofs and stepped even more smartly down the lane.

  20

  Caroline Overhears a Conversation

  Caroline was introduced to Dr. Gainwell at luncheon. When Miss Martine told her that the man had been a missionary in the South Pacific before coming to Sawrey to manage the school, she had been rather interested in meeting him. Her parents had known several missionaries and a few had come to the sheep station to visit—adventuresome men and women, sunburnt, with work-hardened hands and eyes that seemed to see great distances, and interesting stories to tell about places they had been and people they had met, all sorts of people, unchristian heathens and heathenish Christians.

  But Dr. Gainwell was not like any of those missionaries. He was a handsome man with a great deal of long, reddish blond hair that he seemed to be constantly flinging out of his eyes, and his hands looked soft, as though he had done no work at all. And if he had any exciting tales about narrow escapes from savage jungle headhunters, or missionaries who had been boiled and eaten by cannibals, he didn’t share them at luncheon—although perhaps such stories were too gruesome to be told at table here in England.

  In fact, Dr. Gainwell said very little about himself, which made Caroline wonder, since it had been her experience that people who traveled to exotic places usually wanted to rattle on and on until you were sick of hearing them. And although he was all smiles and pleasantries when her grandmother glanced his way, he was something else altogether—something much more watchful and observant—when Grandmama wasn’t looking. He spoke to Caroline once or twice, in a soft, slick voice that made her feel uncomfortable. So instead of answering his questions, she pressed her lips together and said nothing.

  Miss Martine leaned forward and said, very coldly, “I’m afraid that it is of no use to concern yourself with the child, Dr. Gainwell. She has been sullen and disobedient ever since her arrival in this house. A truly incorrigible young person.”

  Dr. Gainwell looked down his long nose at Caroline, then back to M
iss Martine, and then to Caroline’s grandmother. “Oh, no, not incorrigible, Miss Martine,” he remonstrated, with a gentle shake of his head. His hair flopped in his eyes and he pushed it back. “No child is truly intractable. The appropriate discipline, firmly and regularly administered, will call forth the desired behavior.” The corners of his mouth curled up and he reached out to give Caroline’s hand what might have been meant as a reassuring pat. “I do not exaggerate when I say that in my experience with children, I have been quite successful in disciplining even the most unruly.”

  Caroline pulled her hand back. She did not like the ominous sound of the words “appropriate discipline,” and wondered how it might be administered. With a ruler across the knuckles, the way Miss Martine did it?

  Lady Longford put down her fork. “Spoken like a true teacher,” she said in a brittle voice. “I daresay you shall want to discuss your disciplinary methods with the school trustees, who will be very interested.” She patted her pale lips with a napkin and pushed her plate away. “I regret that I am not feeling entirely well today. You will excuse me.”

  “Oh, dear, oh, dear,” Miss Martine said with an immediate concern. She left her chair and went around the table. “Shall I help you to your room?” she asked solicitously. “Would you like me to send for Dr. Butters?”

  “That will not be necessary,” Lady Longford replied stiffly, reaching for her carved wooden cane and pushing herself up out of her chair with what seemed like a great effort. “You must entertain our guest, Miss Martine, and see that he gets off in good time to meet the trustees. I daresay I shall feel better after a nap.”

  After her ladyship had gone, Miss Martine turned to Caroline. “You may go to your room as soon as you have finished eating, young miss,” she said thinly. “You will not be required again until teatime.”