The Tale of Castle Cottage Page 8

  But while Crumpet had not heard Miss Potter’s answer, she had certainly heard Miss Barwick’s question, and she began to wonder whether there was some serious trouble afoot. So after she left the Hill Top garden, she popped in at various cottages, asking the resident cats whether they had anything to report. She did this quite casually, because she didn’t want to alarm any of her colleagues before she completely understood what was going on.

  But by the time she had completed her canvass, it appeared that nearly every house in the village was missing something of greater or lesser value—a box of almond-flavored biscuits, a tin of tea, a bracelet, a book, a paper of pins, even a halfknitted sock (although the yarn and needles had been left behind). Thoroughly troubled by what she had learned, Crumpet retired to the storage shed at the foot of the Rose Cottage garden, where the Council held its weekly meetings, and began making notes on the missing items and the cottages from which they had been taken.

  Now, Crumpet is a clever cat. She knew that two and two generally made four (unless decimals were somehow involved), and she could see that all these multiple pieces of evidence added up to a larger and very unsettling truth: a gang of professional thieves was at work in the village. She also knew that they must be found and caught and brought to trial as swiftly as possible.

  But this task was easier said than done. For one thing, Crumpet had no idea how many thieves were at work (one? two? a dozen?) or how small or how large they might be (the size of a mouse? bigger than a breadbox?). She didn’t know where they were hiding out, either. But she knew that they must be outsiders, since the village mice, rats, and voles were generally law-abiding and understood the need for cooperative co-existence. They might steal an occasional bite from a sticky bun left unattended, but they would never make off with a full half-dozen. No. There was only one creature in the whole wide world bold and brazen enough to organize and mount such a series of robberies as these.

  A rat. It had to be a rat—no, a whole gang of the vile beasts—running loose in the village! Of course, it would be helpful if one of the cats had actually caught one of the thieves in the act and confirmed Crumpet’s speculation. But even without a positive identification, she knew what they were faced with. What she was faced with, as the new president of the Village Cat Council.

  The thought sent cold fright shivering up Crumpet’s spine, but she knew she couldn’t give in to her fear. Obviously, there would have to be a plan, some sort of organization. But what sort of organization? What kind of plan? And who would carry it out?

  She found a scrap of brown wrapping paper and a pencil and began to make a list of names of those she could call on for a possible police force—printed in block letters, because Crumpet had never mastered the art of cursive. She found that her pen obstinately refused to make the lines and curves that were required, and the flourishes of a fine hand (or paw, rather) were beyond her.

  But when she had printed all the names of the cats in the village (with her own at the top of the list, of course), she could only stare at them in dismay. Every one of them was as mild-mannered and law-abiding as the village mice, rats, and voles. Felicity Frummety was frightened of her shadow. Tabitha Twitchit (the former Council president) was too old and slow and anyway, she lived in the Vicarage now, although she liked to stick her nose into village business. Treacle had just produced another litter of kittens (the father, as in previous instances, was unknown); she could not be expected to leave them unless a minder could be found. Max the Manx had moved to Far Sawrey to live in Teapot Cottage, and anyway, he was a gentle soul, a lover of art and music who could barely bring himself to swat a fly. There were at least a dozen other cats in the village, but they were all similarly impaired.

  Crumpet put down her pencil. Except for herself, there was no one, not a single cat, who had the strength and ferocity necessary to go up against this lot. And even though she was an unusually confident and determined cat, she did just wonder whether she was up to the task. One rat, yes. Two rats, probably. A gang of rats? To be quite honest, not likely.

  At this, Crumpet sighed, remembering with a certain amount of envy the Cat Who had been hired to clear an infestation of rats out of the Hill Top attics a few years before. This creature had grown into a legendary figure remembered in stories whispered around the winter firesides in the village. He was reputed to have been an exceedingly large fellow, almost two stone in weight and black as the back side of midnight, with saber-like claws and teeth as sharp as needles. He had taken the name of the Cat Who Walked by Himself (after a character in one of Kipling’s Just So stories) and boasted that he was the most efficient professional ratter available for hire anywhere in the Land Between the Lakes. He had an insatiable appetite for rats, he declared, and told Miss Potter that he was not ashamed to own that he took a very great pleasure in killing as many as possible.

  As events transpired, these claims proved to be true and accurate. (You can read about them in The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood.) But while the Cat Who Walked by Himself did the job he promised to do, he had not been amenable to any sort of restraint. He refused to take orders from Miss Potter, and when he set about clearing the Hill Top attics, he wreaked a horrible havoc, slaughtering the good rats (yes, there were some!) right along with the bad. That could never be allowed to happen again.

  Crumpet twitched her whiskers. She was beginning to feel desperate. Something would have to be done. What? And who was going to do it?

  Well. I am very glad this is Crumpet’s problem, and not mine, for I confess that I don’t have an idea in the world for solving it.

  6

  Lady Longford Is at a Loss

  Tidmarsh Manor is the home of Lady Longford, who (Lord Longford being deceased) lives there alone, clinging stubbornly to the hope that her headstrong, willful granddaughter Caroline will stop gallivanting all over the globe and hurry home to take the burden of the Longford estates from her grandmother’s shoulders.

  But I am afraid that Caroline Longford has no intention of doing anything of the sort. A talented pianist and composer, she has grown from a shy and unassuming girl into a beautiful and fiercely independent young woman. A young woman of means, to boot, since she inherited enough money from her father to allow her to do pretty much as she pleases for the rest of her life. And to judge from the frequent letters she exchanges with her dear friend Miss Potter (who encouraged her to apply to study at the Royal Academy of Music) that is exactly what she means to do.

  This week, for example, Caroline is on her way to Prague to give a piano recital, and after that, Vienna for another recital and Rome for a holiday. Of course, things might have been different if Jeremy Crosfield had fallen in love with her, as she hoped, rather than with Deirdre Malone. But that was not to be. Jeremy and Deirdre are married now and settled at Slatestone Cottage, with a baby on the way. Caroline is fiercely determined to make the very best of her talent—and the most of her freedom. Times are changing for women, and she eagerly embraces every tempting possibility that crosses her path. Who knows what the world will offer her, or what she will do with it?

  But Lady Longford, I am sorry to say, is a different story. She has not changed one iota since the day we met her, nor do possibilities tempt her. She is not a cheerful woman by nature. She continues to dress in deepest black, although Lord Longford—a generous and jolly man who enjoyed a great many friends and was as unlike his wife as it was possible to be—passed on to his reward some decades before. Some people think that living at Tidmarsh Manor has made her ladyship gloomy, for the house, built some three centuries ago at the edge of Cuckoo Brow Wood, is curtained in heavy draperies and shadowed by a row of dark yew trees. On the other hand, perhaps it is her ladyship who has darkened the house, for it would be easy enough to tear down the draperies, trim the yew trees, and bring sunlight and life into the house.

  But whether Tidmarsh Manor has darkened her ladyship’s gloomy view of the world or the other way around, the forbidding old place certainly matches
her determined inhospitality. She distrusts most people, has almost no friends, and receives very few callers, with the exception of the vicar (who comes because he feels it is his Christian duty) and Mr. Heelis, who comes because he is her ladyship’s solicitor and truly has her best interests at heart.

  And if you are in the neighborhood and invited to drop in at teatime with the expectation of something nice on your plate, I’m afraid that you will be disappointed, for all you will get is bread and butter, or perhaps only a plain biscuit, and no lemon or milk with your tea. Her ladyship is reputed to be the most parsimonious person in the parish, a reputation which she enjoys and cultivates. She is not poor, of course, but she likes to pretend that she is in order to keep people from asking her for money. It is said of her that she will not part with a shilling unless it is pried out of her cold, dead fingers, and those who know her can cite more than one instance of her attempts to cheat people out of what they are owed. And this is why she never entertains, you see. Entertaining costs money. (With such a grandmother, I think you can understand why Caroline has fled Tidmarsh Manor and refuses to return except for short visits.)

  And this is why it is such a surprise to learn that, early in the previous week, Lady Longford entertained a guest. Or perhaps it is not accurate to say that she “entertained” him, because if we had gone up to the third floor of Tidmarsh Manor (where this visit took place) and peered through the open door, we would have seen her perched on the edge of a straight chair, tapping her foot impatiently and watching with suspicion as this person—a rotund, scholarly gentleman with a gold pince-nez and a pair of extraordinary mutton-chop whiskers—went about his work. Or perhaps it is not quite accurate to say that Mr. Darnwell (for this is the gentleman’s name) was a “guest,” for he had been invited to Tidmarsh Manor to perform a service for her ladyship, one from which both Mr. Darnwell and her ladyship hoped to profit.

  There is an interesting story behind this rather unusual exercise. During his busy and active life, Lord Longford collected a great variety of things, obsessively and indiscriminately, most of them of no evident worth to anyone but his lordship. He collected fossils and animal bones, butterflies and moths (mounted on pins stuck into cardboard), stones and odd bits of polished wood, nails, pocket knives, string, paintings by unknown artists, carved walking sticks, and old books. Very, very old books.

  Of all his collections, his lordship’s books had been his lordship’s passion. He kept them in a glass-fronted book cabinet in the main-floor library, where he could take out one or two every day, fondling them lovingly before he replaced them on the shelf. But when he died, Lady Longford (who could not by any stretch of the imagination be considered a lover of books) directed that the moldy old things be carted off to a dark, dusty box room at the far end of the third floor, where the servants’ sleeping quarters were located. There, Lord Longford’s collections were out of sight and out of mind, which was a good thing as far as her ladyship was concerned. She had no affection for fossils or butterflies or walking sticks or pocket knives, and the books were so old that she was sure they had little value. In fact, she had several times threatened to clean out the room and throw the worthless lot away, which she no doubt would have done if she hadn’t been so tightfisted.

  It happened that Vicar Sackett, during one of his recent duty visits, had mentioned that he was rather fond of old books, and her ladyship had mentioned that the departed Lord Longford had been fond of old books as well, although she herself could see no merit in them. (But then she does not find any merit in new books, either, since her ladyship is the sort of person who does not care to have her mind broadened in any way.) When the vicar diffidently suggested that he would be delighted to have a look at Lord Longford’s collection, she had agreed. She had been thinking, in fact, that it was time to clean out that room. She ought to take one more look before she instructed Mr. Beever (the manor’s general handyman) to burn the lot.

  So her ladyship led the vicar up the stairs to the dark, cluttered room, where he poked about amongst the shelves, muttering this and that and making enthusiastic little exclamations under his breath whilst her ladyship began to plan how best to get rid of everything. At last the vicar asked her, hopefully, whether Lord Longford had made a proper catalog of his books.

  “I am sure that he must have had a list,” Lady Longford returned. She could say this with some confidence, since listmaking was another of his lordship’s obsessions.

  “Well, then, perhaps you might look for it,” the vicar suggested deferentially. He took a book from the shelf, turned several of the pages, gave a covetous sigh, and added, “Of course, one never knows, but some of these books may have value. I fear that I am no judge, but I daresay I might be able to suggest a reliable person who could appraise the collection for you.”

  Her ladyship (who was never inclined to take the vicar’s word for anything) scoffed at the notion that the old books might be valuable, although she decided to postpone telling Mr. Beever to toss the lot on a bonfire. And as it happened, the very next day, when she was looking for something else in one of her husband’s desk drawers, she came across a small notebook bound in black leather. On the first page, in Lord Longford’s spidery hand, was written “My Collection of Rare Books.”

  Rare books? Well, now. This was news to her ladyship, who had always considered her husband’s books to be merely “old” books, on a par with his old fossils and old butterflies. If somebody considered them rare, however, they might be worth a few pounds. So she sent a note to the vicar, asking him to recommend a knowledgeable person who could give her an idea of the value of the books.

  A day later, the vicar replied that he had contacted a certain Mr. Depford Darnwell, an antiquarian who owned a rare book shop on Rushmore Road in Ambleside, a town at the north end of Windermere. Mr. Darnwell would arrange to call at a convenient time to have a look at the collection. For this preliminary examination, no fee would be charged. If Lady Longford decided to put the books up for sale in his shop, however, he would require a certain percentage of the price they brought.

  Since this arrangement allowed her ladyship to feel that she was getting something for nothing (at least at the present moment), she saw no reason not to permit it. And that was why the portly Mr. Darnwell, his pince-nez perched on his nose and his mutton-chop whiskers bristling with pleasure, was going carefully and methodically through Lord Longford’s collection, under Lady Longford’s watchful eye. In one hand, Mr. Darnwell held his lordship’s little black book. He was checking the list against the titles of the books on the shelves, making notes in his own little black book, and muttering under his breath, whilst her ladyship watched to be sure he didn’t slide anything into one of his capacious pockets. Vicar Sackett had said that the fellow was reputable, but one could never be too sure.

  The work required the better part of four hours, but by teatime Mr. Darnwell was finished. He put his notebook into his pocket, took his pince-nez off his nose, and announced in a gruff voice that in his opinion (“My expert opinion,” he added severely), the books in the collection could, if offered at his shop, be expected to fetch around ten thousand pounds sterling.

  “Perhaps more,” he said, “if an auction were to be announced and certain collectors of my acquaintance invited. Of course, then there would be the expense of an auction, so you might consider direct sale to be more . . . profitable.”

  Ten thousand pounds! This figure quite took her ladyship’s breath away, and she stared at Mr. Darnwell for a moment, unable to speak. At last she managed to cough out a few words. “You are sure of the amount?”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Darnwell inclined his head. “The amount would be much higher—in fact, I daresay it would be ten times as much, or more—if I had been able to locate one of the titles in your husband’s catalog. And if the item truly is what it purports to be, which of course one cannot be certain without actually seeing it.” Mr. Darnwell lowered his voice, becoming confidential. “I wonder . . . perhaps
your ladyship is keeping the item elsewhere. In a safe, perhaps, or a bank vault.” He coughed. “If so, that is a good idea, for it is quite valuable. Quite.”

  “Ten . . . times?” Lady Longford whispered. Ten times ten thousand pounds was . . . The calculation made her dizzy.

  “Just so,” said Mr. Darnwell emphatically. He turned several pages in the black book. “Your husband has noted the disposal of several items in his collection by striking them through and detailing the name of the purchaser and the amount paid. There are no such notations for this particular item. I must therefore infer that it was in his possession at his death.” He smiled in a cold-fish sort of way. “I shall need to see it, of course, in order to determine whether it is what the catalog listing describes. So if you will be so kind as to get it for me, or tell me where I may go to examine it, I should be most grateful.”

  For once in her life, Lady Longford found herself at a complete loss.

  “I don’t think I—” Ten times ten thousand pounds. Her mouth was suddenly very dry. She swallowed. “What . . . What is the title?”

  “It is called The Book of the Revelation of John. It is a book that—as it is described in your husband’s catalog—came from the library of Sir Robert Cotton. That is to say, Sir Robert collected it. It originally came from the monastery of Lindisfarne, by way of the Tower of London.” He smiled thinly. “The Lindisfarne books were held there for some time, after Henry the Eighth confiscated the lands and treasuries of the monasteries.”

  Ah. The Revelation, revealed at last. I am sure that you have not forgotten the story that was related at the beginning of this book. In fact, you may have been wondering how all that business about the wandering monks and St. Cuthbert’s coffin and Bishop Eadfrith’s marvelous books was connected to our present story. Now, perhaps, you can see that it is.