The Tale of Castle Cottage Read online

  Miles nodded. It would be all too easy for Biddle to simply cart the goods to his own building site, where they would disappear into his construction.

  “And I don’t quite see how the man is keeping the lid on what he’s doing,” Will continued. “You’d think his workmen would get on to him, wouldn’t you? Especially Maguire, who supervises the construction workers when Biddle’s not around—which is a great deal of the time.” He put down his cup, looking thoughtful. “Unless of course they’re afraid for their jobs, so they’re keeping their mouths shut.”

  “Or he’s slipping them hush money under the table,” the captain replied, puffing on his pipe. “In either case, we can’t expect them to come hurrying round to turn him in.”

  Rascal made a noise deep in his throat. “Maybe that’s why they’re not hurrying to do anything—not even pick up a hammer,” he growled. “They’ve got a bit of the dirty on the boss, and he daren’t come down hard on them.”

  “My thought exactly,” Will replied. “I haven’t talked to Biddle or any of his men yet. Didn’t want to tip my hand. And there’s no gossip about it—I’ve inquired, obliquely, and haven’t picked up a word. It’s all dark as the grave.” He gave Miles a slantwise look. “You say there’s news I haven’t heard yet? What’s it concerning?”

  “Concerns your inquiry directly, I should think. Biddle has sacked Lewis Adcock. Constable Braithwaite told me.”

  “Mr. Adcock?” Rascal was shocked to hear this. “He sacked the only workman who was willing to do the job?”

  Will blinked. “Why, Adcock’s the best carpenter in the district! And he’s worked with Biddle off and on for a goodly while. What did Biddle boot him for?”

  “According to the constable, Biddle said he couldn’t trust the man. The sacking apparently took place yesterday afternoon and was followed up by some sort of row at the pub last night. One of them challenged the other to step outside to settle the matter—in time-honored tradition, of course. The constable happened along about that time and put an end to the fray. Sent them both packing. But not before Adcock had a fist in the eye and Biddle a cut across his cheek.”

  Rascal’s eyes narrowed. A fight at the pub last night? I wonder where I was, he thought, and why I wasn’t informed. He tried to stay on top of things like this.

  But then he remembered that he had gone down to the Hill Top barn to visit his friend Mustard, Mr. Jennings’ old yellow dog, and the two of them had stayed up quite late, keeping their eyes on Miss Potter’s chicken coop. They had caught one rat, a sneering, filthy, foul-mouthed creature who hinted that he wasn’t the only new rat in town. But when pressed for details, he spit in their faces. The rascal was sentenced and summarily executed, without uttering another word. Rascal intended to discuss this matter with Crumpet as soon as he got a chance. As president of the Village Cat Council, she needed to know that there might be a small rat problem.

  “Well, then,” Will mused. “P’rhaps I shall drive down to Far Sawrey this afternoon and have a talk with Adcock. If the man knows anything about what Biddle’s been up to, he might be ready to tell it. The trouble is, you see, that the evidence I’ve assembled is entirely circumstantial. There’s just the say-so of Biddle’s customers, like yourself, who object to the amount of materials they’ve been billed for. Once the project is completed—or nearly so—and the scrap cleared off, it’s very difficult to prove wrongdoing.”

  “What about the Castle Cottage job? Have you checked the materials there?”

  “I’ve had a look at the lumber that’s piled in the yard and compared it to the invoices. Looks square enough to me. It’s my thought that Biddle won’t try anything funny with Beatrix. They had words when he did the renovations at Hill Top, you know, and she got another contractor to complete the job. She wouldn’t have hired Biddle if there’d been anyone else.” He frowned. “Come to think of it, we’ve lost several building contractors in the district in the past few years. Wonder if Biddle had anything to do with that?”

  “Driving them out of business, perhaps?” Miles hazarded. He pulled his brows together. “We need to find his cache of stolen materials, Will. It’s probably in a barn in somewhere.”

  “A barn,” Rascal said thoughtfully. “Yes, perhaps. But there are dozens of barns in the neighborhood. it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  “Here’s where that aeroplane that Fred Baum and Oscar Wyatt built might have come in handy,” Will said with a little laugh. “We could fly around and have a look. Might be easier to spot a cache from the air.”

  “Aerial reconnaissance, eh?” Miles chuckled. “Don’t even mention that aeroplane in Margaret’s hearing, Will. My wife hated that thing with a great passion. She was delighted when she heard that it had been destroyed by that storm.” He became more serious. “I daresay the Royal Flying Corps wishes they had it, though. There’s talk that the Germans are developing their own flying corps. And their own aeroplanes. Fighter aeroplanes, it’s said. And bombers.”

  “Actually,” Rascal said, “that particular aeroplane wasn’t destroyed by the storm. It was destroyed by a dragon whom I happen to know quite well. He—”

  “Hush, Rascal,” Will rebuked sternly. “We don’t need to hear that whining.”

  “Yes, sir.” The little dog shook himself and subsided.

  Will turned to Miles. “Getting back to the subject at hand, I’ll go and have a talk with Adcock. Perhaps I’ll turn up some information that might help us out. If so, I’ll let you know.” He shifted in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “But there’s something else, Miles, if you don’t mind my speaking frankly about a rather personal matter. The truth is, I need some advice.” He looked uncomfortably around him and lowered his voice. “I trust you won’t share this with Margaret. I shouldn’t like—”

  “No, of course not,” Miles said. “Not if you don’t want me to.” He grinned mischievously. “What’s troubling you, old chap? On pins and needles about this upcoming wedding? Well, let me tell you that marriage is a far more delightful state than I had bargained for. You’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

  “But that’s just the thing,” Will said, and uncrossed his legs. “I’m afraid I won’t see. I’m beginning to think there will never be a wedding.”

  There, Rascal said glumly to himself. What did I tell those badgers? No wedding.

  Miles frowned, and Will cleared his throat. “I say, this is deuced touchy, Woodcock. Don’t know quite how to get into it.”

  Miles gave his friend a sympathetic look. He liked Will Heelis a very great deal. In fact, he had once upon a time rather fancied him as a brother-in-law and had worked as hard as he could to spark some sort of fire between Will and his sister, Dimity. He had never understood why Dim could not seem to recognize that Will Heelis was a splendid catch who could not be faulted for character, good judgment, amiability, and temperament. Instead, she had ended up in the arms of Christopher Kittredge—well, one arm, since the fellow, a war hero, had left the other with the Boers. It was an outcome to which Miles had never quite reconciled himself, for he still preferred Will. Understood him, too, for he and Will were a great deal alike. Both of them were sportsmen, both figures of some authority in the community. And neither of them was comfortable when it came to talking about matters of the heart. The captain might not know much about what went on inside that very intimate organ, but he did know that much.

  “Of course it isn’t easy,” he said in an encouraging tone. “Never easy for me, discussing such things. You’ll just have to jump into it, old chap—it’ll come. What’s bothering you?”

  Rascal lay down on Mr. Heelis’ foot and looked up at him. “Please,” he said softly. “But do take your time. These things are hard.” Rascal had no business saying this, of course, for he himself stayed away from intimate entanglements. Being Top Dog was job enough.

  Thus encouraged, Will took a deep breath. “What’s bothering me,” he said, “is that it looks as if her parents wil
l never come round. I was with them a fortnight ago, at that house they’ve taken across the lake, you see. Most wretched afternoon I’ve ever spent. Worse than being examined for the bar.”

  “Ah. Questions, were there?” Miles inquired archly. “Probing inquiries about your earnings, prospects, and the like?”

  “No, worse luck. I could’ve managed that sort of thing. Old Mr. Potter would barely grunt—grant you, he’s been ill, but he talked bright and sharp enough to his nurse. And Mrs. Potter—” Will shook his head dolefully. “Rude doesn’t begin to describe it, I’m afraid. Beatrix was as embarrassed as I, but would, or could, do nothing about it, poor girl. I left as soon as I could decently get away. Felt like a traitor, leaving her to their tender mercies.”

  “Sorry, old chap,” Miles said, puffing on his pipe. “But I don’t think this is anything new, is it? They’re reputed to have behaved in the same way toward that other fellow Miss Potter was engaged to. Warne, his name was. She was quite devoted to him, even after his death.” He eyed his friend through the blue cloud of pipe smoke, remembering that it had been Miss Potter’s devotion to Warne that had ended his own romantic intentions. She had made it clear that she was not prepared to consider another suitor. He added delicately, “I believe that she still wears his ring, in fact. You’re quite sure that she is ready to—”

  “Beatrix? Oh, yes, I’m quite sure.” Will waved off the question. “Her engagement to Warne was in aught-five, you know. He’s been dead for eight years. As for that ring, I understand her attachment, and her feelings about the Warne family, as well. I have absolutely no objection to her wearing the ring for as long as she likes, and I’ve told her so.” He shook his head. “No, I am rather concerned about her parents, and what they are doing to her, you see. You knew she’d been ill?”

  “Ill? Miss Potter?” Rascal blinked. “I hadn’t heard.”

  “Margaret told me,” Miles said. “It was serious, was it?”

  “Very,” Will replied emphatically. “The doctor sent her to bed for most of the spring. Influenza, and it affected her heart. But to speak frankly, I believe that it was the Potters’ constant disapproval of our engagement that made her ill. She can’t abide discord and hostility, and there was plenty of both in that household. I couldn’t go up to London to see her, because that only made for more tension. Her parents just can’t seem to understand that they’ve simply got to allow her to live a life of her own.”

  Oh, dear, Rascal thought to himself. What complicated creatures human beings are! It’s so much easier to be a dog, or even a cat. Well, maybe not a cat.

  Miles could not say what he was thinking, that most women of his acquaintance, faced with a situation like this, would simply declare that they were old enough to choose for themselves and walk out the door. Which was exactly what Dimity had done when she decided to marry Kittredge. Why Miss Potter could not do the same thing was beyond him.

  Will leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “But there’s more, Miles. I . . . well, I hate to say it, but as if the Potters weren’t enough, my family is beginning to stick at the idea.”

  There, Rascal thought. Now we’re getting to the heart of the matter. It was what he had heard at the pub the other night.

  Miles was taken aback. “Your family objects to your marriage to Miss Potter? You must be joking!”

  “I wish I were.” Will dropped his voice. “The Heelis family tree is clergy-heavy, as you no doubt know. We’ve been high church for generations, and proud of it. Doesn’t matter to me, of course, for I rarely go to service and don’t set much store by religious ceremony. But several of my Anglican cousins object to the fact that the Potters are Dissenters and manifestly low church.”

  Miles puffed on his pipe. He had met the Heelises and knew how important their religious connections were to them. He wasn’t surprised to hear this.

  “It’s not just religion, either,” Will went on. “Another cousin has pointed out that the Potter money—and there’s quite a lot of it—comes straight out of those shameful Manchester cotton mills that employed child labor. Never mind that an end was put to the notorious practice some forty years ago, or that her grandfather was enlightened enough to let his child laborers get a few months of schooling. Those mills still have a bad name.”

  “Ah, yes,” Miles said softly, seeing the irony. As he understood it, the Potters had objected to the Warnes because the Warne money came from the publishing business. Now the Heelises were objecting to the Potters because the Potter money came from the calico mills. He shook his head pityingly. It had been his experience that when family members began to debate the relative merits of the intended’s family, there was bound to be trouble.

  “Yes.” Will sighed. “Of course, it’s ironic. And of course none of this has anything to do with Beatrix. As far as religion goes, she’s fairly neutral, and as for the Potter money being tainted by what went on four or five decades ago—well, that’s just plain silly. But put that together with the attitude of her parents, which is making her sick, and . . .”

  He sighed again. “I think you can see my dilemma, Miles. All things considered, I’m wondering if it wouldn’t be better for her if we broke off the engagement. It’s putting her health in jeopardy, and I—”

  “Stop,” Miles commanded sternly. “Now, you look here, old man. You asked for my advice, and I’m going to give it. If Miss Potter is inclined to marry you, and if you are inclined to marry her, you must not put it off. Tell her that the two of you are going to ignore everyone else and simply go off and do the deed. Privately, by yourselves, if your families can’t be supportive or give their consent.” He pursed his lips judiciously. “And the sooner the better. Neither of you is getting any younger, you know.”

  My sentiments precisely, Rascal thought warmly. This is the best advice Mr. Heelis is likely to get. He should take it.

  “You’re right,” Will said gloomily. “Yes, of course, that’s what should be done. We’re both adults and capable of making rational decisions about our lives—and we do, mostly. But I can’t put her into that kind of position, you see. She is simply not up to choosing between me and her parents.” He sighed heavily. “No, what I am asking is whether I should bow out of the picture myself, since it is our engagement that is causing her so much unhappiness. She—”

  There was a loud rapping at the front door, followed by an urgent ringing of the doorbell.

  “Excuse me,” Miles said. He got up and stepped out into the hall as Margaret hurried past him to answer the door. Looking over her shoulder, he saw Constable Braithwaite standing on the stoop.

  “Ah, Constable,” he called. “Come in, come in. Margaret, could you possibly—”

  “I’ll bring more tea,” she said, and went toward the kitchen. As she passed, she paused. “Oh, and Miles, Rose Sutton just stopped in with the nicest news! Jeremy and Deirdre have a baby boy, born early this morning. Mother and baby are both very well.”

  “Splendid!” Miles said, beaming. Jeremy had taken Margaret’s place at the village school. An excellent young man, an admired teacher, off to a fine start in life. “We must think of a gift for them.” To the constable, he said, “Well, then, Braithwaite—is there something I can do for you?”

  “Sorry to bother, Captain,” the constable apologized in his thick Lakeland accent. He was a short, stocky man with a florid complexion, his hair and eyebrows very blond. He wore a blue serge uniform with a shiny black belt and polished gold buttons, and a constable’s hat, which he hurriedly snatched off. “’Tis verra important, sir, or I wouldna interrupt.”

  “Well, come into the library, man,” Miles said, “and tell me about it. Mr. Heelis is here,” he added. “I was telling him about that scuffle at the pub last night.”

  “That’s why I’ve come, sir,” the constable said, following Miles into the room. His face was grim and set. “Sorry to say, but there’s been a death.”

  “A death?” Miles turned, surprised.

  “‘Tis Lew
is Adcock,” the constable said. “I was sent for by his missus, who found him in t’ little shed behind their cottage.”

  “Adcock?” Will got to his feet.

  “Adcock’s dead!” Miles frowned, not understanding. “But I thought you said that he only sustained a fist in the eye last night. That you broke up the fight before either he and Biddle could injure one another.”

  “True, sir,” the constable replied, shaking his head. “True, all true. But it wasn’t t’ fight that did him in, sir. He was found hangin’ from t rafters, wi’ a noose around his neck, shortly before eleven thirty this morning.” He glanced up at the clock on the wall. “About an hour and a half ago, sir.”

  There was a moment’s shocked silence. Then: “A noose?” Miles asked blankly. “No chance of an accident, I don’t suppose.”

  “Doan’t see how, sir,” the constable replied. “I took him down, for I felt that was right. Then I closed t’ door an’ left things as they was, thinkin’ you’d want to come straight along an’ have a look for yerself.” He paused. “Thought it best not to have the passin’ bell rung, either, sir. In t’ circumstance, that is.” Joseph Skead, the sexton at St. Peter’s, usually rang the bell for a death—nine strokes for a man, six for a woman, three for a child—so that everyone within earshot knew that someone had passed on. “I left young Jeremy Crosfield to guard t’ shed whilst I come to fetch you. He’s next door, at Slatestone Cottage.”

  “I see,” said Miles. He went to the door and shouted, “Margaret, we’ve an emergency. I must be off. Forget about the tea.”

  “Did Adcock leave a note?” Will asked the constable. He was hoping, of course, for some word that would settle the matter—and perhaps even account for the poor fellow’s motive.