The Tale of Castle Cottage Read online

  “No sign of one, sir,” the constable said regretfully. “I gave it a good look all round. Nothin’ in his pockets or nearby. Missus said she found none in t’ house. She was out for the mornin’, y’see. Went to her sister’s house right after breakfast to get some veg‘tables her sister was givin’ her and stayed to work on a quilt they was makin’. Mr. Adcock was fine when she left him, she says. When she come back, he wasn’t in t’ house. He often worked in t’ shed—had a little workshop there—so when she’d made their lunch, she went out, thinkin’ to fetch him. That’s when . . .” He swallowed. “That’s when she found him.”

  “Wretched, wretched business,” Miles said soberly. “Will, you’ll come with us to the Adcock place? Given what you’ve already uncovered, I’d like to have your eyes on this.”

  “Of course,” Will said, all thought of his own uncertainties and tribulations forgotten. He was remembering that the Adcocks had two sons in the Army, and wondering how and when they would be notified. And wondering how Mrs. Adcock would get on by herself, now that her husband was gone. What would she do for money? Would she be able to keep her cottage? “A sad business,” he said. “Very sad.”

  “Aye,” agreed the constable somberly, and Miles nodded.

  In our own day and age, I am sorry to say, deaths like that of Mr. Adcock are hardly unique events. We encounter reports like the one the constable has just brought on nearly every television newscast and in all the newspapers, but since most of us live in one place and work in another, we seldom know the victim, even if he or she lives just at the other end of the block.

  At the time and place of our story, however, such events were uncommon. One can read the Westmorland Gazette for those years and find almost no accounts of such deaths—and only rarely a report of a violent act, except in a moment of drunkenness or high passion. Of course, bad things happened there, just as they do everywhere else in this world. People fell from cliffs and ladders, motorcars and wagons went off the road, lightning struck a farmer or a farmer’s cow or a farmer’s barn, or a man accidentally shot himself or someone else. And when bad things happened, everyone knew the person or persons involved and felt pity for the family’s loss and worried for the survivors’ welfare and gathered round to ask how they might help.

  But a hanging? Oh, my dears, no! Such a thing is a highly unusual and shocking event, and I daresay one could search the newspaper for a ten-year stretch and find not a single similar instance. The news will no doubt cause a great deal of consternation in both the Sawreys, Near and Far.

  8

  The Villagers Understand

  As it did, of course—cause consternation, that is. News travels fast in a village, and bad news travels even faster. Word of the death of Mr. Lewis Adcock was on everyone’s lips in less time than it takes to brew a cup of tea and sit down and drink it. Of course, there was good news to celebrate, too, for all were delighted to hear that Deirdre Crosfield had given birth to a little boy, and that mother and babe were both well.

  But in a village, bad news is far more interesting than good news, and it was all that the villagers could think of or talk about.

  “Adcock, dead?” cried an open-mouthed Lester Barrow, behind the bar in his pub, when George Crook rushed in to tell the story that he had just heard from Major Ragsdale, of Teapot Cottage, next door but one to the Adcocks’. “Well, I nivver! He was just in here last night, drinkin’ his reg‘lar half-pint. Hung hisse’f, dust tha say, George? Who would’ve guessed t’ man would do such a thing! Went daft all of a sudden-like, did he, maybe?”

  “I had a cousin onct,” George said, remembering. “Did t’ same thing. Mad as a March hare, he was.”

  “Sad thing, goin’ mad,” said Lester.

  Then he and George nodded. Madness was something they could understand.

  “Mr. Adcock killt hisse‘f?” Bertha Stubbs repeated, astonished. She stood stock-still in the middle of the lane, frozen in her tracks where Agnes Llewellyn had given her the news. “Why, I jes’ this mornin’ met t’ man, comin’ along t’ Kendal Road. Right as rain he was, an’ fit as a fiddle. Lifted his hat an’ said good mornin’ to me purty as ye please. An’ to think he’s standin’ face-to-face wi’ his Maker reet this verra minute!” She shook her head in bewilderment. “Whatever made him do it, dust tha reckon, Agnes?”

  “An’ wot’ll become of Mrs. Adcock?” Agnes wondered. “Sons in t’ Army and no girls to take care o’ her, poor thing. Mappen I’ll just go home an’ stir up a puddin’. She’ll be wantin’ somethin’ sweet to dish up for folk who drop in.”

  “I’ll put on a tatie pot,” Bertha said decisively. “She’ll be needin’ somethin’ savory to go wi’ that puddin’.”

  Their contributions determined, the two ladies went on to spread the news. I shouldn’t be surprised if every housewife in the two villages contributed a dish, so that the Widow Adcock did not have to cook for quite some time.

  Food and consolation was something the women could understand.

  “Lewis Adcock, dead?” exclaimed Vicar Samuel Sackett, when his new wife Grace brought the word from the butcher shop in Far Sawrey, where she had heard it from the butcher when she went to buy the week’s joint. “Why, he and his wife were sitting in their pew on Sunday, just as they always do. And now this? Dreadful! Appalling!”

  The vicar stood up from his desk, where he had been poring over the fascinating list of books Lady Longford had sent him—books from her deceased husband’s antiquarian library that she was planning to sell. Of course, the prices she was asking were far too high for the vicar, who was not a wealthy man. But the list held some truly fascinating items, and he knew other book collectors who would be interested.

  “Where is my hat, Grace?” the vicar asked helplessly. (He is a dear man, but in times of crisis, he is prone to forgetfulness.) “What have I done with my walking stick? Do I need to take an umbrella? I must go and see poor Mrs. Adcock straightaway. And perhaps you will come with me, my dear. She may need someone to stay with her.”

  “Of course I’ll come with you, Samuel,” the vicar’s wife said in a comforting tone. “Just let me get my shawl. And your hat and walking stick. We won’t need an umbrella. Oh, and I’ll take some fresh scones. They’ll be wanted to serve with tea when people call.”

  “You’re very understanding, my dear,” said the vicar.

  Rascal had been on the scene when Constable Braithwaite brought the terrible news to Captain Woodcock, and since he was Top Dog, it fell to him to let the other animals know what had happened. The minute he left Tower Bank House, he went straight to search out Crumpet, who, as president of the Village Cat Council, ought to be informed first.

  He found her in the Council shed at the foot of the garden behind Rose Cottage. She had a stub of a pencil in her paw and was staring at a piece of paper with a look of consternation. She glanced up when he came into the shed.

  “Oh, there you are, Rascal,” she said, relieved to see an animal she knew she could count on. “I’m afraid I must ask you to recruit some of the village dogs for our police force. As far as cats are concerned, I’ve come up almost empty-pawed. What we need are several good terriers who—”

  “Police force?” Rascal was confused. “But we have a constable. And anyway, I don’t think even our Constable Braithwaite could have prevented it. He can’t be everywhere at once, you know.” And he told her what had happened.

  Crumpet’s consternation changed to horror when she heard Rascal’s astonishing news. Mr. Adcock lived in Far Sawrey and hence was not well known in their village. But he had worked at Hill Top Farm and more recently at Castle Cottage, so the village animals knew him by sight. As for taking his own life—well, that was something that no right-thinking animal would ever do, for to animals, life is very precious. Animals kill, yes, but always with a reason and a purpose: as necessary food, or in defense of oneself or one’s family. An animal could never kill himself. It was unthinkable. Utterly unthinkable.

  Nei
ther Crumpet nor Rascal could understand how this might have happened.

  And so it went, from one person to another and one household to another, throughout the two villages. And always, in every exchange of this terrible news, each person had his or her own idea about why Mr. Adcock had done this terrible thing. There had to be an explanation, you see, for such an unthinkable action couldn’t just happen. To be understood, it had to have a cause. And everyone could think of at least one.

  “I’ll wager t‘was losin’ his place that drove t’ poor fellow to it,” George Crook said to Mr. Llewellyn, who had brought his big white horse to the smithy for new shoes all around. “Biddle sacked him yest’idday, ye know. Man his age, well up in years, Adcock might’ve figgered he’d not find other work, even though he were a reet good carpenter. Maybe t’ notion drove him to despair.”

  Holding his horse as George Crook applied the new shoe, Mr. Llewellyn agreed. And Roger Dowling and Tom Tremblay, watching the shoeing operation, nodded their heads in sober agreement. All of these men, at some point in their lives, had known the awful emptiness of losing a place and remembered the frightening consequences that had befallen them and their families. Lewis Adcock had been past sixty and had worked as a carpenter for over forty years. If he had been driven to despair by the prospect of having no work, they understood why. Not a man amongst them could find it in his heart to cast blame upon him for doing what he did.

  They understood.

  But Lydia Dowling, behind the counter at the village shop, held a much darker view of Mr. Adcock’s motive.

  “Person‘ly, I think he done it to keep from bein’ accused outright of thievin’,” she remarked to her niece, Gladys, who helped in the shop on Tuesdays and Thursdays. “I heard from Hannah Braithwaite that Mr. Biddle had Mr. Adcock dead to rights. He threatened to call in t’ constable if Mr. Adcock didn’t return wot he stole. But mappen he had already sold it an’ couldna give it back.”

  Gladys, who was winding loose ribbons onto little cards and pinning the ends, was shocked by this news. “What did he steal?” she wanted to know.

  “Who’d he steal it from?” Rose Sutton asked from the other side of the counter. Rose, the wife of the village veterinary surgeon, had come into the shop to buy a sausage, a quart of paraffin for the lamps, a package of tea, and some penny candies for the many Sutton children. She was also buying a skein of soft, hand-spun wool yarn, blue, to knit a cap for Deirdre Crosfield’s new baby.

  Regrettably, Lydia was unable to answer either of these questions, since Hannah Braithwaite hadn’t told her. Still, the three women understood the seriousness of the situation. An accusation of this kind was a terrible thing. The stigma might linger for a lifetime and infect not only the thief, but the thief’s wife and children, as well. Mr. Adcock might not have been able to endure the thought of what his friends and neighbors would say if Mr. Biddle reported his theft and charges were brought. It would have been an inescapable disgrace.

  They understood.

  The vicar’s wife, however, had heard an entirely different story, and it had nothing to do with the loss of a job or an accusation of theft. It had to do with money, or the lack thereof, and with illness.

  “The butcher says that the Adcocks have been in financial difficulties for some time,” Grace Sackett told her husband, as they left the Vicarage and walked along the lane that led in the direction of Far Sawrey. The summer flowers bloomed on either side, and the skylark flew high in the blue air, saying his matins. It was too beautiful a day to be undertaking such a sad errand.

  “Financial difficulties?” the vicar asked, taking his wife’s arm and wondering how he had managed without her for so many years.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. Mrs. Adcock has been ill this past year, and there have been a great many doctor bills. They haven’t been able to pay the butcher for over a month. He is a patient man and tries to work with people, but he’s got his own family to think of. He finally had to tell her that he could no longer supply them with meat. He said she cried and begged him not to do it—she was simply desperate, for apparently they owe the greengrocer, as well.” She paused, sighing. “Do you suppose that’s why Mr. Adcock did what he did, Samuel?”

  “I hope not, my dear,” said the vicar. “I should think it a terrible thing if a man ended his life because of money. If we had only known that the Adcocks were in such dire straits, we might have been able to help.”

  “I don’t see how,” his wife replied sensibly. “We could hardly have paid their meat bill. But p’rhaps we might have found some other way to help.”

  “Well, we can certainly ask if Mrs. Adcock needs assistance with the funeral expenses,” the vicar said. “I am sure our congregation will rally round.” And then he was stricken, for he had suddenly realized that Mr. Adcock, having taken his own life, could not be buried with the full service of the Church. In the old days, the body was not permitted to be buried within the church yard, but that was no longer the case. Still, the thought of omitting the sacred service chilled him to the bone.

  “I fear,” he said, “that we shall not be able to perform the full rite.”

  His wife, however, felt quite differently. “I am very sure,” she said, in her most positive tone, “that our congregation will want Mr. Adcock to be buried with the same rites granted to every deceased. It would be quite wrong to do otherwise, Samuel.”

  “I must consult with the deacons,” the vicar muttered.

  “Do that,” his wife said crisply. “I am sure they will agree.” She fell silent for a moment, then added in a softer voice, “The Adcocks were married for over forty years. It will be so hard for her without him.” She laid her gloved hand over his, and the vicar clutched her arm a little more tightly.

  They understood.

  It wasn’t long before everyone had heard the news. Lydia Dowling discussed her understanding of Mr. Adcock’s motive (that he had killed himself rather than face an accusation of theft) with every customer who came into the village shop, whilst Rose Sutton took this news back to her husband’s surgery and shared it with every client who came in that afternoon, all of whom took it home to their families. Gladys told the same story to Lucy Skead at the post office when she went to drop off the post, and Lucy told it to each one who came in for the post the rest of the afternoon and the entire next day as well.

  In the smithy, George Crook told everyone who dropped in that he thought Mr. Adcock had ended his life because he had lost his place, whilst next door at the joinery, Roger Dowling offered the same opinion to his customers.

  And down in Far Sawrey, the butcher was heard to say as he handed the white-wrapped packages of meat over his counter that it was a great pity that the Adcocks had fallen on such hard times that Mr. Adcock had lost heart and done himself in.

  By teatime, every single person in the two villages knew exactly what had happened that day.

  They all were sure that they knew exactly why.

  And they all understood.

  9

  Miss Potter Learns the News

  When we last saw Miss Potter, she had just left Castle Cottage (without looking into the barn, I am glad to say). She was feeling low and dispirited, so very low that she had entirely given up the idea of talking to Mr. Biddle about her concerns. In fact, she was feeling so very dejected that she decided that she would take a long walk, instead of going straight home. It had always been her experience that walking cured a great many ills and ailments, so in that frame of mind, she went through the pasture to Wilfin Beck, a willowbordered stream that ran along the eastern edge of Castle Farm. When she reached the stream, she loitered along, allowing the lulling music of the little brook and the gentle melodies of the birds to wash over her, raising her spirits and lightening her mood.

  It had been a dry summer so far, which was good news for the farmers who wanted to cut their hay but not such good news for Wilfin Beck, which had shrunk down to a dawdling silver trickle instead of rushing joyfully along in a
highspirited hurry down to Windermere and then on to Newby Bridge. There it would become the River Leven and flow for a short eight miles past Backbarrow, where it foamed and frolicked in a delighted dance over a rocky falls. And thence to Greenodd, where wooden sailing ships used to be built, and after that into the quiet waters of Morecambe Bay, where it is said that the tides come in as fast as a horse can run, and finally into the rolling, tumbling Irish Sea. But there was still enough water in the beck to refresh the thirsty water ouzles and the little gray dippers happily splashing in the shallows, as well as offer a drink to Miss Potter’s Herdwick ewes, Tibbie and Queenie, who brought their March lambs to play along the green banks.

  These ewes—the senior sheep in Miss Potter’s flock—had enjoyed living at Hill Top, but now that they had moved to the Castle Farm pasture, they loved it just as well. They were “heafed” to it, as it is said in the Lakes: that is, the pasture had become their natural home. In the old days, when there were far fewer stone fences than there are now, the Herdwick sheep had been given free range upon the fell-sides and allowed to come and go as they liked, for they had an unerring sense of direction and required neither shepherd nor bellwether to bring them home again.

  On their travels, Herdwicks were always encountering other Herdwicks from places as far away as Borrowdale or Dungeon Gyll or even Seathwaite Tarn, and they were in the habit of trading the latest news. The other animals always said that Herdwicks were better for the local news than newspapers, for they could tell you the name of the sheep who had produced the prizewinning fleece at the Appleby Fair, or the state of the grazing on the other side of Coniston Water, or the names of the lambs that were born to this or that ewe—information that the newspapers never carried.