The Tale of Briar Bank Read online

  “Tomorrow?” Nutmeg squealed excitedly. She glanced up from the slice of apple she was nibbling. “Why, all sorts of wonderful things might happen tomorrow! Just look at us now, Thackie, old fellow. We’re having a picnic. Tomorrow, there might be a parade!”

  Thackeray growled.

  2

  A Long Chapter in Which We Meet the Villagers

  Margaret Nash, Joseph Skead, and Lydia Dowling

  The next morning, everyone in the Land Between the Lakes—that is, that part of northwestern England that lies between large Lake Windermere on the east and little Esthwaite Water on the west—woke up to a remarkable change of seasons.

  Winter sometimes arrives here with astonishing suddenness, on the breath of a storm that glazes the lanes, freezes the lakes, and blankets the gardens with snow. In this case, the winter storm was born from a blizzard somewhere over Greenland, then gathered itself together and blew all the way across the Arctic Circle and the gray North Atlantic, howling like a banshee and whirling like a dervish and in general finding that it was content to be doing exactly what it was doing and did not want to stop anytime soon.

  And since the temperature had dipped below freezing, the snow happily and quite rightly refused to melt as it fell, so that there was an amazing lot of it, draped and folded and tucked like a wooly white shawl over the rugged fells and moors and across the huddled shoulders of the quaint little village of Near Sawrey. When the snow stopped falling at last, the dark slate roofs of the houses were frosted with white, like so many iced Christmas cakes arranged in a row on either side of the frosted lane. The blue smoke curled from the white-capped village chimneys like the breath of winter. And on the other side of Esthwaite Water, the pretty, snow-belted lake that lay at the foot of the snow-mantled village, the hunched figure of Coniston Old Man—that famous fell—was a dark gray bulk against a pale gray sky.

  For the villagers, the snow was a source of both wonder (it was unquestionably beautiful) and irritation (it got very much in the way of things that needed doing). The children, of course, were delighted, for the snow ensured that Father Christmas could not fail to make his rounds on the magical night, and that the Christmas pageant at St. Peter’s (to be held the following week) would be wrapped in the all-white wizardry of snow. They hurried to finish their breakfasts and put on their wellies and their mittens and mufflers and run out to make snowmen, for word had gone round the night before that there would be no school today. Even the grownups who had to trudge through the snow to tend to their farm animals or go out to the village shop to buy a necessary something-or-other—even they had to stop often, gazing in sheer astonishment at the way the snowfall had transformed their village.

  And a surprising number of people—little Nutmeg might have called it a parade—were out and about on this snowy morning, making their way along the Kendal Road and up and down Market Street.

  Margaret Nash, headmistress at Sawrey School, set off early for the walk to the school house at Far Sawrey. The villagers knew that school was closed, but Margaret feared that the outlying farms might not have got the message. She planned to unlock the door and fire up the stove so the children could warm themselves before they started back home.

  Also on his way to Far Sawrey was Joseph Skead, the sexton at St. Peter’s. He needed to check the church for storm damage and to dig Mr. Wickstead’s grave—not an easy task, with all this snow. Joseph hated winter burials. It was his opinion that if people had to die, they ought to wait until spring, when the ground had thawed and the digging was easier.

  But Hugh Wickstead had not waited. The victim of a tragic accident in the woods the previous week, he had been found, unconscious, under a fallen limb, not far from Moss Eccles Lake. No one knew exactly what had happened, for his only companion on that fateful night had been his fox terrier, Pickles, who had run back to Briar Bank House to fetch help. Mr. Wickstead was carried home, speechless and insensible. He died not long after, and now Joseph had to dig his grave.

  Mr. Wickstead was weighing heavily on Joseph’s mind as he trudged past Meadowcroft Cottage, at the corner of Market Street and the Kendal Road. He waved when he saw Lydia Dowling sweeping the snow from the path to her shop. A ginger cat sat on the stoop behind her, careful not to get her paws wet.

  “A girt surprise, t’ snow, wudsta say, Mrs. Dowling?” he called, in the Lakelanders’ dialect. “Not too good fer business, I fear.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Skead,” Lydia replied amiably. “I’ve already sold two pair o’ mittens, a can o’ paraffin, a ha’ dozen candles, an’ a fine sausage for Mr. Llewellyn’s dinner. When t’ snow comes, folks wants their comforts.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Skead,” said the cat, whose name was Felicia Frummety. “We’ve had several customers this morning.” Like most of the cats in the village, Felicia had a home (hers was with the Jennings family at Hill Top Farm). But she preferred Lydia Dowling’s shop, where people came and went and often spent a moment to admire the gold ribbon Mrs. Dowling had tied around her neck. Felicia was a cat who appreciated admiration.

  Lydia leaned on her broom, regarding Mr. Skead soberly. “Hast tha dug Mr. Wickstead’s grave yet?” The proprietress of the only shop in the village, she was the nexus of the local news—she and Mrs. Skead at the post office. Others would be asking the very same question, and Lydia wanted to have the right answer.

  “Ah, poor Mr. Wickstead,” said Felicia sympathetically. She licked a paw and smoothed the fur of one ear. “It was a terrible thing.”

  “T’ grave’ll be done by t’ evenin’,” said Joseph, looking up at the sky, “unless there’s another fall o’ snow.” He shook his head gloomily. “’Tis a sad business, struck down in t’ woods all alone, wi’ nobody by.” When Joseph died, he hoped that his family and friends would be gathered around him, seeing him off with a song, a cheering half-pint, and a plate of cheese and sausage. “Bit of bad luck, ’twas, that tree comin’ down in a trice, sudden-like.”

  “Not hardly bad luck,” Lydia retorted. “Or if that what ’twas, Mr. Wickstead brought it down on himself. T’ curse of t’ treasure trove is what I sez.”

  “It’s what everyone is saying, Mrs. Dowling,” put in Felicia, with a delicious shiver. Cats are superstitious by nature (which is why witches and wizards find them so congenial, as you probably know). “Buried treasure is always cursed. Dig it up and die.”

  “Oh, aye, Mrs. Dowling,” Joseph agreed readily. “’Twas t’ curse wot done it, no doubt. But it’s still verra sad. And now Lady Longford’s hay barn’s burnt, too. Hasta heard?”

  “Aye,” Lydia said. “Dust anybody ken how’t happened yet?”

  Joseph shook his head grimly. “A girt ball o’ fire, they say, like a lightnin’ strike, and a loud BANG, like gunpowder. Happened in an instant. Lucky thing ’twas just hay, nae cows nor horses.”

  “I don’t suppose anybody has thought to count the barn cats,” said Felicia in an ironic tone.

  “Hush, Felicia,” Lydia said. “But it couldna been lightnin’, not in this weather, Mr. Skead.”

  “Oh, aye.” He nodded. “But it was somethin’, tha’s for sure. A barn doan’t burn by its ownsel, now do it, Mrs. Dowling?”

  And having agreed on that score, they parted company. As Joseph waved goodbye and trudged off, Lydia noticed the ginger cat sitting on the doorstep. “Ah, Felicia,” she said. “Wudsta like a saucer of milk?”

  “I would indeed,” Felicia replied. She nodded toward the shop window, decorated with a papier-mâché figure of Father Christmas, a holiday wreath, and three copies of a brand-new children’s book called Ginger and Pickles, written and illustrated by Miss Beatrix Potter, the village’s most famous personage.

  “I see that my books are selling quite well,” she added smugly. Felicia was never one to be silent about her accomplishments. The week before, there had been seven books in the window, and the week before that, a dozen. Miss Potter insisted that they be sold for a shilling, so that children might buy them
from their pocket-money. And they were quite small, fitted for small hands. Felicia approved.

  Lydia smiled, glancing from the cat at her feet to the books in the window. “I suppose tha fancies tha’rt t’ model for t’ ginger cat in Miss Potter’s book,” she said indulgently, and bent to pet Felicia.

  “Why, of course I’m the model for the ginger cat!” Felicia cried, full of indignation. “That’s why it’s selling so well! Everybody wants to see pictures of ME!”

  “Everybody buys t’ book to see t’ pictures of my shop,” Lydia said proudly, straightening. And as it happens, both Felicia and Lydia were right. Every family in the village had wanted a book to read and at least one more to give away for Christmas. The sales had added a gratifying number of shillings to the cash box behind the counter.

  But as far as Lydia was concerned, having her shop in the book—a runaway bestseller all over England—was even better than the extra shillings. Miss Potter’s shop didn’t look exactly the same as hers, of course, for Miss Potter had added a bow window to the shop front, and instead of Lydia serving customers behind the counter, it was Ginger the cat and Pickles the dog. Their story, however, had come to an unhappy end, for they had imprudently allowed their customers too much credit and were finally forced out of business.

  Which was exactly what should have happened, in Lydia’s opinion. Credit was a very dangerous thing, forever getting people into trouble. Take Mr. Sutton, for instance, the village veterinary. He was having so much trouble collecting the money people owed him that he couldn’t pay his own accounts—at least, so said Lucy Skead, the postmistress, through whose hands the bills and invoices inevitably passed. And Lucy ought to know, since she could never resist holding an envelope up to the light to see what was in it.

  But taken altogether, Lydia fully approved of the book and was delighted that Miss Potter had chosen the shop as a setting. Her drawings were remarkably accurate, down to the scales and candy jars, the bottles of barley-sugar and boxes of peppermint rock on the counter; the deep-set windows; and the hooks in the ceiling where Lydia hung the sausages. And now her dear little shop was famous—just fancy all those thousands of books in the hands of readers all over the country! As Lydia went inside, closely followed by Felicia Frummety, both of them were basking in the reflected glory of Ginger and Pickles. And I daresay that you and I would feel exactly the same way, if Miss Potter had chosen your shop or mine to picture in her book.

  Sarah Barwick, Lester Barrow, and Jerry the Coachman

  On the other side of Market Street, across from Lydia’s shop, stood the Anvil Cottage Bakery, owned and operated and lived in by Sarah Barwick. As Lydia and Felicia went inside and closed the door against the cold, Sarah herself came out of Anvil Cottage, wearing a brown woolen jacket, a green muffler, green knit hat, green mittens, and (surprising to some, but perhaps not to you) a pair of brown corduroy trousers, tucked into the tops of her galoshes. Sarah Barwick, as those trousers tell us, is the village’s New Woman. Come rain, snow, or fine weather, she depends on no one but herself to do the things that need to be done. Two canvas bags were slung over her shoulders, one on each hip, and she was about to set off on her daily deliveries. Usually, she rode her green bicycle, but today, the snow made that impossible, so she set out on foot.

  Sarah’s first stop was at the Tower Bank Arms, the inn and pub on the other side of the Kendal Road. She had just gone round to the kitchen entry to leave three loaves of fresh bread with the cook when a charabanc pulled up and stopped, the four brown horses steaming with exertion. A stout, blond man in a brown caped great-coat climbed down and pulled his bag from the luggage rack.

  “Hullo, Mr. Knutson,” Lester Barrow said, taking the bag and carrying it to the door. “We’re glad to have thi back wi’ us.” Sven Knutson had stopped at the inn the previous week and had reserved a room for several days this week.

  “Glad to be back,” Mr. Knutson said, in the accents of a Norwegian. “Lake’s bad. Ferry’s finished. Wasn’t sure we’d make it.”

  Lester put down the bag. “Mrs. Barrow’ll show thi upstairs,” he said, and went back out to the charabanc, trailed by a fawn-colored Jack Russell terrier. “Tha’rt late, Jerry,” he greeted the driver. “S’pose it’s t’ snow. A bad mornin’, all round. What’s this about t’ ferry?”

  “Shut down. Good thing I’m here at all,” said Jerry, hunching his shoulders against the wind. “This’ll be t’ last trip this week, I fear.” He glanced down at the dog. “G’mornin’ to thi, Rascal, old chum. Snow up to thi bonny ears, eh?”

  “The ferry’s shut down, you say?” Rascal asked worriedly. He lived with the Crooks at Belle Green but patrolled the village regularly, even in the worst of weathers, making sure that everything was going the way it should. And if you’ve ever met a Jack Russell terrier, you know that they take their supervisory responsibilities very seriously. “That’s bad news!”

  Lester Barrow made a face. “Boddersome,” he growled. Without the ferry to take them across, the only way people could get from Windermere to Near Sawrey was to go all the way around the top of Lake Windermere to Ambleside, then down the west side of the lake to Hawkshead, and east and south to Sawrey. He stamped his feet, warming them. “What’s wrong this time?”

  “T’ boiler. Henry sez it’ll take a week to mend.” Henry Stubbs was the ferryman, and his predictions for the length of time it would take to repair the ferry could be counted on as gospel.

  Lester Barrow whistled between his teeth. “A week! Nae so good fer bus’ness, I fear.” The inn depended on travelers for its income. No ferry meant no customers.

  “Think again, Mr. Barrow,” objected Rascal. “The inn might not fare so well, but you’ll sell plenty of ale.” With nothing to do but sit by the kitchen fire and talk to their wives, the village men would probably come to the pub in droves. “In fact,” he added, “if the brewer’s drayman can’t get here through the snow, you’ll probably run out.”

  “Just listen to t’ lit’le dog,” said Jerry admiringly. “Quite t’ talker, he is. Anyway,” he went on, “I wouldn’t worry overmuch about t’ inn business sufferin’. Them that’re here are here to stay, if thi takes my meanin’.”

  Lester brightened, for Jerry was right. In addition to Sven Knutson, the caped Norwegian who had come on the charabanc, another gentleman had arrived several days before. It would be difficult to get away, so both guests would likely be here for the duration, occupying beds, taking meals, and enjoying a pint or two every evening. In short, spending money. Lester had nothing at all against that.

  Jerry released the brake, preparing to drive off. “Knowsta awt ’bout auld Hugh Wickstead’s inquest? God rest his soul,” he added piously.

  “ ’Tis to be held late this mornin’,” Lester replied. “Here at t’ pub.” Which was also good for the cash box. Drink could not be sold during the proceedings, but it would be sold before and after, and in plenty, for an inquest was thirsty work. He shook his head. “Ill luck, eh?”

  “Oh, aye,” replied Jerry mournfully, picking up the reins. “Ill luck fer sartain. Although there be plenty that say auld Wickstead brought it on hisself, diggin’ up that treasure trove. From that minute on, t’ poor fellow was curst.”

  “Plenty do say that,” Lester allowed. For some weeks during the previous spring, the entire village had been alive with talk about the treasure that Hugh Wickstead was said to have found, buried somewhere in the fells. “A girt lot o’ gold,” it was whispered. “Rings and coins and a gold dagger and buckets o’ gemstones.”

  “Worth a king’s ransom, it was,” Rascal remarked knowingly. He had the inside story on this, too, for Pickles—the fox terrier who lived with Mr. Wickstead—had been there when that gentleman uncovered the trove.

  Mr. Wickstead himself was never asked if the story were true, so he did not have to go to the trouble of denying it, and after a while the rumors died down, as rumors do. But although not much had been heard of the treasure recently, the village
rs, being highly superstitious, generally assumed that Mr. Wickstead was bound to encounter some sort of very bad luck, sooner or later.

  “Ev’ry fortune buried below ground has got some t’rrible curse on it,” they whispered. “Poor Mr. Wickstead is bound for verra bad luck.” And when word of his death got out, no one was surprised, for they all understood the facts of the matter.

  “Speakin’ o’ ill luck,” Lester said, “t’ hay barn at Tidmarsh Manor burnt to t’ ground this morning. They say ’twas a lightnin’ strike.”

  “Burnt down by lightnin’!” Jerry exclaimed, dumbfounded. “Nae, nivver! Not in this weather!”

  Lester shrugged. “What else could it ha’ been, Jerry? Lanty Snig was milkin’ at t’ other barn, not fifty paces away. Said he saw a fireball. Barn went up like ’twas gunpowder set it off.”

  “Maybe ’twas,” Jerry said. “Her ladyship’s not best liked, tha know’st.”

  “Aye,” Lester said. “But who’d burn her barn?”

  Puzzled, Jerry shook his head. “Well, best be off,” he said.

  Lester raised his hand, Jerry raised the reins, and the charabanc lumbered off in the direction of Hawkshead, the horses pulling hard in the fresh snow.

  Sarah Barwick, Mrs. Crook, and Lucy Snead

  As Lester Barrow went into the Arms through the front door, Sarah Barwick came out by the back, crossed the road, and made her way up Market Street. Just as she reached Rose Cottage, next up from Lydia’s shop, Grace Lythecoe raised the upper window and shook her duster.

  Sarah waved and called out a greeting, but too late, for Mrs. Lythecoe had put down the window. Perhaps it was the icy wind. Or perhaps she had seen Agnes Llewellyn, who lives across the street at High Green Gate, peeking out from behind the lace curtain at her front window. It had not escaped the villagers’ notice that Vicar Sackett had called upon Mrs. Lythecoe rather frequently of late, and that each visit went on a little longer than the visit before. Things had got to the point where people were beginning to wonder out loud just how much spiritual advice Mrs. Lythecoe (the widow of the former vicar and a devout Christian lady) really required.