The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood Page 6

  Deirdre slanted her a reproachful look. “Ye’re doubtin’, aren’t ye?” And then she suddenly straightened and said, with intensity, “Well, then, Caroline Longford, ye’re in for a surprise. May Eve is comin’ up next week, an’ that’s the very best time t’ see fairies. So we’ll just go out on May Eve, and we’ll find us some fairies.”

  Deirdre’s seriousness—her eyes were narrowed and her mouth was screwed up tight—was almost comic, but Caroline knew that if she laughed, she’d lose a friend forever. And there were all those books about fairies, and the authors behaving as if every single word they wrote was true. If she couldn’t actually believe in them, she would pretend she did, which as far as Deirdre was concerned, was as good as believing.

  “Where shall we go?” she said.

  Deirdre pushed out her lips. “You know the land here- abouts better ’n me, I reckon. Fairies like oak trees an’ beech trees ’cause they’re ancient an’ magical. Mossy hummocks, too, an’ ferns an’ clear running water. An’ hawthorn, o’ course.”

  “Well, there are lots of oaks and beeches in Cuckoo Brow Wood,” Caroline replied, trying to sound encouraging, yet feeling cautious and unsure. Cuckoo Brow Wood was not a very comfortable place. In fact, she was forbidden to go there—although that shouldn’t matter very much, since she was forbidden to go anywhere with Deirdre.

  She took a deep breath. “And there’s moss, big cushiony pillows of it, and quite a few clear springs, and everything looks very green and dim and magical, as if you’d stepped back in time. It’s wild, though.” And scary, she added to herself, as they reached the stile that climbed over the stone fence, where the path to Tidmarsh Manor began.

  “The wilder the better,” Deirdre said definitively. “Fairies don’t like t’ be around Big Folk. We’ll go t’ Cuckoo Brow Wood. It’s best t’ go at twilight, o’ course.”

  “At twilight?” Caroline didn’t like the idea of wandering through Cuckoo Brow Wood after dark, although she didn’t want Deirdre to think she was a coward, like Harold. She tried to think of something. “But . . . but won’t you have work to do?” was the best she could manage.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll find a way,” Deirdre said with a careless shrug. “We’ll need some wild thyme an’ rue an’ hawthorn—thyme an’ rue t’ help us see fairies an’ hawthorn t’ keep us safe. An’ I’ll hunt up some yarrow. Rosemary would be good, too.”

  Caroline nodded. “We have rosemary in our garden. I’ll bring some.” She hesitated, trying to sound casual. “It might be better to find the right place beforehand, so we don’t waste time on May Eve. We could go scouting first.” Deirdre might decide that a twilight expedition wasn’t necessary, depending on what they found. Of course, it wasn’t that she was afraid of going out at night, Caroline told herself. But her grandmother would never allow it. She would have to sneak out of the house, and then sneak back in, which wasn’t as easy in real life as it was in books, where children were always climbing out windows and going off at night and getting back in again without anybody knowing.

  “Jolly good,” Deirdre said approvingly. “Saturd’y afternoon? Mrs. Sutton lets me off from two to seven.”

  “Saturday afternoon, then,” Caroline agreed. “If you’ll come to the garden gate behind the Manor, we can start from there.” She thought of something else. “Would it be all right if I asked Jeremy to go with us? He’s been much deeper into Cuckoo Brow Wood than I have. He might not believe in fairies,” she added, “but he believes in a great many things nobody can see. Germs and bacteria and microbes and wireless telegraphing. And the North Pole, which somebody has gone looking for but hasn’t found yet.”

  “He don’t have t’ believe,” Deirdre asserted. “He just has t’ keep an open mind.” She frowned at Caroline. “The same with you, Caroline. You’re only pretending to believe, too, but there’s no harm in that. Just keep your mind open, and your eyes. That’s the only way you’ll ever find anything in this world, anyway.”

  “Of course,” Caroline replied, feeling cross that Deirdre had seen through her, and thinking that the girl didn’t need to be so preachy, when she was only trying to help.

  “Good.” Deirdre sighed heavily. “Well, then, I s’pose I’d better get on. Mrs. Sutton is sure t’ have a long list of chores for me, an’ there’s the children’s tea, and baths, and bedtimes.” She pulled a face. “Sometimes I think the asylum would’ve been an easier place.”

  But as Caroline climbed over the stile and looked back, she saw that Deirdre was skipping as she went up the lane. And if the anticipation of Saturday’s fairy hunt lightened her step, Caroline was glad.

  6

  The Mystery Deepens

  THURSDAY, 25 APRIL

  The mystery of Mrs. Kittredge was under discussion again on Thursday afternoon, this time by Captain Miles Woodcock and Mr. Will Heelis, in the law offices of Heelis and Heelis in the market town of Hawkshead, some three miles west and north of Sawrey.

  Captain Woodcock was clearly irritated.

  “It’s nothing but scurrilous gossip,” he said. “One doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the thought that these ignorant village people actually believe in witches and ghosts. But it’s bound to cause Major Kittredge some worry.” He stopped pacing and sat down in the wooden chair across from Will Heelis. “I don’t know the fellow well, but he’s had a bad time of it since the war. It’s a pity the poor chap can’t be let alone.”

  “I certainly agree with that,” Will Heelis replied. He opened the drawer of the table that served as his desk and took out his tobacco pouch. “One would think the villagers would have better sense. But this other business—well, that’s more troubling, wouldn’t you say?”

  Outside in Red Lion Square, a group of schoolchildren on their way home were singing lustily, a cart’s wheels rattled on the cobbles, and the clanging of the blacksmith’s hammer could be heard in the busy yard behind the Heelis office. Will had been admitted a solicitor in 1899, and since then had practiced law in his cousin’s firm in Hawkshead. It was a busy practice, for Heelis and Heelis handled most of the property transfers in the District, as well as wills, trusts, and estates. The map table that stood along one wall was stacked with detailed surveys of the area; the shelves in the adjacent file room contained deed boxes full of conveyances, titles, and deeds; and the safe in the corner held a great many confidential documents. Will Heelis was likely to have an advance knowledge of any owner’s plans for his property.

  “By ‘this other business,’ ” Miles said, crossing his legs, “I suppose you mean Mrs. Kittredge’s stage career.”

  Will stared at him. “Stage career?”

  “News to you, is it?” Miles raised his eyebrows. “I learnt of it from Henry Stubbs, the ferry man. The lady was an actress. Kittredge is said to have married her on a fortnight’s acquaintance.”

  Will digested this with some surprise. Understandably, Christopher hadn’t mentioned his wife’s profession during their conversation, or said how long he had known her before they wed. Of course, the stage was quite respectable these days. People thought nothing at all of going to Kendal to see Romeo and Juliet, or a play by George Bernard Shaw. But going to the theatre was not at all the same thing as marrying an actress. Lakelanders were conservative folk, and old-fashioned. There was bound to be talk.

  “Yes,” Miles went on dryly. “An actress. It simply deepens Mrs. Kittredge’s mystery, of course. The gossip mill will be kept grinding on this tasty bit for weeks.”

  “But that wasn’t what I meant by the ‘other business,’ ” Will said. “Whatever the lady was before Kittredge married her, she’s Mrs. Kittredge now, and I wish them every happiness. It’s the property matter that’s worrying me.” He tamped tobacco into his pipe and paused, seeing his friend’s raised eyebrow. “You haven’t heard, then?”

  “No, I’m completely in the dark. Are you talking about the Raven Hall estate?”

  Will hesitated. Discussing a client’s affairs was unethical and
revealing a friend’s business plans amounted to disloyalty. And Christopher was both a client (he had just rewritten his will, leaving his entire estate to the new Mrs. Kittredge), and a long-time friend, he and Will having played together in the Hawkshead Bowling Club before the major went off to South Africa. Will hadn’t seen Kittredge since the war, and friendships do not always survive as people and circumstances change, but he had been glad at the easy way they had bridged the gap. He admired the man’s courage and his stoic acceptance of his painful and disfiguring war wounds. A tragic thing, for a fellow once considered handsome, to have half his face burned away.

  But friend or no friend, the building scheme the major was considering would affect the whole area. It was a very serious matter—extraordinary, really—and Will thought he ought to mention it to Miles, who had a good head on his shoulders and a deep commitment to protecting the Lake District from the threat of commercial land development. Miles served as Justice of the Peace for Claife Parish and had been a member of the Lake District Defense Society ever since he had moved here, so he had a special interest.

  “Perhaps I had better tell you,” Will said reluctantly, “but only on your promise of complete confidentiality. I shall tell Kittredge I’ve brought you into the matter, but I should like him to hear it from me first.”

  “He won’t get a word from me,” the captain said.

  Will put a match to his pipe and drew. “Well, then. You know, I suppose, that the Kittredge property extends from the site of Raven Hall at the top of Claife Heights right down to the shore of Lake Windermere.”

  Miles nodded. “There must be . . . oh, a half-mile or so of frontage along the lake, isn’t there? Very pretty land, especially in autumn when the trees are in color. In the Kittredge family since the 1840s or thereabouts. It must have been Christopher’s great-grandfather who built that gloomy old Gothic mansion. Rather ruins the view, I must say, although according to some it’s a good example of the style.”

  “His great-great-grandfather built it, according to David Bryce’s design.” There had been Kittredges at Raven Hall until the major’s mother and father and elder brother had been killed when their carriage went over a cliff. The major had inherited the estate, but he had been in South Africa when the tragedy occurred and after that in hospital. He had come home—with his new wife—just the fortnight before.

  Will blew a puff of fragrant smoke toward the low ceiling and spoke in a carefully neutral tone. “It seems that the Kittredge property may be developed.”

  “Developed?” Miles asked, frowning. “How would he develop it?”

  “Not Major Kittredge himself,” Will said cautiously. Christopher hadn’t the capital for such a large project. “He is considering turning it over for development to a fellow named Augustus Richardson. Richardson, I understand, proposes to build holiday villas along the shore. Nothing definite,” he added, “but there it is.”

  “Villas!” Miles leapt angrily to his feet. “Those appalling bungalows that are springing up all over? Entirely out of the question, Will! It can’t be allowed to happen!”

  “I don’t see how you intend to stop it,” Will said. It was one thing to organize against the railway from Windermere to Ambleside, and another to oppose improvements to the road through Sty Head Pass—all of which had been managed successfully, thwarting the commercial development of the remoter parts of the Lake District. But preserving desirable land against residential speculation was a much more difficult thing. And the Kittredge land, with its scenic location on the lakeshore and its proximity to the ferry and railway, was the most significant property on the western side of Lake Windermere.

  “But the major’s grandfather was one of the founding members of the Lake District Defense Society!” Miles cried distractedly. “Old James Kittredge would turn over in his grave if he heard—” He put both hands on Will’s table and leaned forward, his expression accusing. “It’s the money, isn’t it? And that new wife of Kittredge’s, I’ll wager. From what I know of the major, he isn’t likely to have come up with a thing like this on his own.”

  Will was beginning to regret that he had brought up the matter. “I can’t speak to that, I’m afraid,” he replied. “I’ve probably said more than I should already.”

  “It’s that new wife, I’m sure of it,” Miles muttered grimly. He clenched a fist. “Major Kittredge’s family has always stood behind the need to preserve the landscape, rather than build more houses and roads and the like. He can’t be meaning to—” He broke off. “This man Richardson. Augustus Richardson. What do you know of him, Will?”

  “Nothing, other than his name.”

  “Another mystery,” Miles said dismally. “By Jove, I—”

  “But perhaps not a mystery for long,” Will went on. “The major said that Richardson will attend the reception at Raven Hall on Saturday. I suppose we will all have the pleasure of being introduced to the fellow. We can form an opinion then.”

  “We’ll have the pleasure of meeting the major’s new wife, too,” Miles said darkly. “But I’m already beginning to form an opinion about her.”

  “You and the entire village,” Will said, and took another pull on his pipe.

  7

  Miss Potter Has an Encounter

  As it happened, Miss Potter would be the first person in the village to encounter (if not to actually meet) the mysterious Mrs. Kittredge and the mysterious Mr. Richardson, together. This interesting event happened on Thursday afternoon, at approximately the same time that Captain Woodcock and Mr. Heelis were discussing these very persons in the Heelis office in Hawkshead.

  Early that morning, Beatrix had driven the Hill Top pony cart down the hill to the ferry, for a trip across the lake. She drove to the nursery at Windermere to buy laurels, forsythia, and lilacs for her new garden, then went to the High Street to do a bit of shopping for Dimity Woodcock, who needed colored crepe paper to make streamers for the May Pole. On the way back to the ferry, she stopped for a cup of tea and a bite of lunch with Dimity’s childhood nurse, Mrs. Corry, a comfortable old soul with a face as wrinkled and brown as an old oak leaf, now retired and living in a small cottage near the ferry landing. Dimity had introduced the two of them several months before, and the old lady had promised Beatrix some plants from her own garden. When it was time to take the ferry back across the lake, the pony cart was heavily loaded with pots and bags and cardboard boxes, and Mrs. Corry had entrusted Beatrix with a scarf knitted of the brightest shade of emerald green, to take to Captain Woodcock, her “dear little boy.”

  When Beatrix arrived at the landing for the trip back across the lake, several people were already waiting for the ferry, some having come on the coach from the railway station. Since her girlhood, Beatrix had cultivated the habit of noticing and recalling interesting or amusing things—things she saw or heard that were out of the ordinary. This was a surreptitious habit, and one to which she did not like to call attention. It had served her well as an artist, for many of the things she saw found their way into her drawings. But it also served her well as a student of human nature, for people often did and said very revealing things when they did not think they were being observed.

  Beatrix noticed the woman at once. She was so extraordinarily vivid as to be almost beautiful, with an uncontained wealth of very red hair—too red, Beatrix thought, to be entirely natural—that escaped in unruly tendrils from under a wide-brimmed black hat trimmed with sweeping red feathers. Her cheeks and lips were too red to be natural as well, and she was wrapped in a black velvet fur-trimmed cape, which she flung about with a great flair. Her elbow-length gloves were black, her boots red, and she wore an astonishing quantity of exotic jewelry. The mysterious Mrs. Kittredge, Beatrix felt sure.

  The man who accompanied this wondrous creature was shorter than she, barely reaching her shoulder. He was quite rotund, with a round head and large, popping eyes, rather like a toad, Beatrix thought with amusement. He wore a pale green coat and silvery straw hat with a gree
n ribbon the same shade as his coat, and carried a walking stick with a gold top. His name, it seemed, was Augustus. The lady’s name (or so he called her) was Diana. The two of them appeared to be quite intimate.

  At first, Beatrix wondered if Augustus might be Major Kittredge, but then remembered that Dimity had said that the major’s given name was Christopher, that until losing an arm and an eye in the Boer War, he had been very handsome. Since this toadlike gentleman possessed the requisite arms and eyes and could by no stretch be called handsome, he was obviously not the lady’s husband. They were standing close together, away from the rest of the waiting ferry passengers, and were looking across the water as they carried on an animated discussion. They were deeply engrossed with the view and each other. Although they spoke in lowered voices, Beatrix, who was standing nearby, could hear them clearly.

  The man had just arrived on the railway train from London, it emerged, and this was obviously his first visit to the area. Mrs. Kittredge was pointing to the place where the outline of a large stone house—Raven Hall, as Beatrix knew—could be seen behind the oaks and beech trees at the top of Claife Heights.

  “And there it is, the Kittredge baronial mansion, in all its grotesque Gothic grandeur.” Her throaty laugh was richly sarcastic. “From this distance, you can’t quite see how appalling it is. Truly a torture chamber to live in, but as I told you earlier, it would make a splendid hotel. It commands an unrivaled view up and down the lake. The view will be even better, of course, when some of those trees are taken out.”

  The man, who seemed to want a better look, whipped a collapsible spyglass out of his coat pocket, extended it to full length, and examined the hillside.

  “I see,” he murmured appreciatively, and swung the glass along the shore for a wider view. “Indeed. Yes, indeed, this is really quite splendid, my dear Diana. Marvelously picturesque and scenic.”