The Tale of Castle Cottage (16 page)

She was stopped by the horrified expression on Jane’s face.

“Mr. Biddle?” Jane cried, her hand going to her mouth. “Oh, no! He didn’t have anythin’ to do with it, Miss Potter! Nor him nor nobody else. ’Twas all Mr. Adcock’s very own doin’, although how any man could bring himself to do such a bad thing, I doan’t know.”

“Yes,”
Queenie baaed sorrowfully.
“A very baaad thing.”

“Do such a—Whatever are you talking about, Jane?” Beatrix asked, frowning. Of course, she was thinking about what Hannah Braithwaite had told her earlier that afternoon, that Mr. Biddle had sacked Mr. Adcock, saying he couldn’t be trusted. Had Mr. Adcock stolen something? What had he done?

“Why, t’ poor man has killt himself, Miss Potter,” Jane said, very soberly. “Mrs. Adcock found him this mornin’, in t’ shed at t’ foot of the garden. The Adcocks live just next door to Jeremy and Deirdre at Slatestone Cottage, which is how I know about it. I saw Constable Braithwaite comin’ out of Mrs. Adcock’s house just a little while ago. T’ constable is who told me. I went in to see Mrs. Adcock and say a comfortin’ word, an’ it’s true.”

“Killed himself?” Beatrix pulled in her breath, stunned nearly speechless. “Why, I can’t believe it, Jane!”

“So very saaad,”
Tibbie and Queenie bleated in unison.
“Saaad, saaad!”

Jane sighed heavily. “What Mrs. Adcock’ll do now, I doan’t know. Poor thing, her. Poor thing!” She lifted her apron to her eyes and began to cry.

Beatrix put her arm around Jane’s shoulders, and they stood there for a few moments in a shared sadness. And then, since there really was nothing more to say, they bade each other goodbye, Jane going home to Holly How Farm and Beatrix toward Far Sawrey, no longer loitering but walking faster, now that she had a destination and a purpose.

But she was even more sorely torn in spirit than before, and not even the chatter of Wilfin Beck could help. For whilst she was delighted by the birth of a fine, healthy boy, she was at the same time astonished and saddened to hear about the death of Mr. Adcock, a quiet, mild-mannered man whom she had genuinely liked. And she was wishing that she had pressed Jane for more details.

How? When? Why? Was anyone there when it happened?

But mostly why, why, why?

10

At the Adcocks’ Cottage: The Investigation Begins

Since Captain Woodcock felt that time was of the essence in the investigation of Mr. Adcock’s death, he decided to drive the Rolls-Royce. But the engine didn’t want to go, and it took nearly fifteen minutes of cranking and tinkering and cranking again before he could reverse the automobile out of its place in his stable-cum-garage and invite the constable to jump in beside him. Meanwhile, Will Heelis had kicked his motorcycle into life and driven on ahead, proving once more (at least to Will’s satisfaction) that the motorcycle was a more efficient vehicle than an automobile.

The captain’s sleek, teal-blue motorcar had attracted enormous attention when he purchased it a few years before. A few “forward-thinking” villagers had greeted it with enthusiasm, but most regarded the thing with fear and loathing. Those who drove plodding plow-horses hitched to farm wagons gloomily predicted that their animals would be stampeded off the roads by hordes of these monstrous machines, racketing along at speeds approaching an unimaginable twelve or thirteen miles an hour. Mothers worried that automobiles would spew out choking exhaust smoke, create clouds of dust, and frighten the village chickens and dogs and cats—not to mention the children. And what would happen if the chickens and dogs and cats and children didn’t get out of the road? Would they be run down mercilessly, limbs mangled, lives lost forever? And why would anyone be in such a beastly hurry, anyway? The place they were going would still be there when they arrived, wouldn’t it? And so on and so forth.

Constable Braithwaite waged his own war against the automobiles, flagging them down and lecturing the drivers severely about the dangers of speeding and taking a secret pleasure in the sight of a motorcar idled beside the lane with a punctured tyre or an engine breakdown. But even he had to admit that a motorcar came in handy now and again, especially when on official business. So he climbed into the passenger seat beside the captain and put his tall blue constable’s hat on the floor between his feet so that the wind wouldn’t blow it off his head whilst they rattled along the road to Far Sawrey. And in truth they arrived in a fraction of the time it had taken him to walk the distance, if you don’t count the time it took to persuade the Rolls to start.

Will Heelis was waiting beside his motorcycle when the captain’s motorcar arrived at the Adcock cottage. The constable put his hat back on, and Captain Woodcock led them up to the door, where he knocked gently. Since everyone in the district knew who he was, and Mr. Heelis as well, there was no need for introductions.

“I’m very sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Adcock,” he said to the tear-stained widow, a woman in her sixties with a bent back and gray hair. “The constable and Mr. Heelis and I should like to go around to the shed now, if you don’t mind.”

She nodded wordlessly, and the three took the path to the back garden, where they were greeted by a tall, good-looking young man, pacing nervously. A black cat sat just off the path, under a quince bush, keeping an eye on things.

“Ah, there you are, Captain,” the young man said with a relieved look.

“At last,”
said the cat.
“I was wondering what was keeping them.”
He was Max the Manx, a rather ironical cat. He lived next door but one, at Teapot Cottage, with Major Ragsdale.

“Likely the motorcar wouldn’t go,”
Rascal said. He was slightly out of breath, having run the whole way from Near Sawrey to Far Sawrey, after his brief conversation with Crumpet.
“That happens a good deal of the time.”

“Motorcars,”
sniffed Max.
“Filthy machines. As bad as locomotives. Nothing but smoke and dust.”

“Ssh,”
said Rascal.
“Let’s listen.”

“Thank you for keeping watch, Jeremy,” the captain said, and extended his hand. “And please accept my congratulations. Mrs. Woodcock tells me that you and your wife have a fine young lad.”

“My congratulations as well, Jeremy,” Will said heartily. He remembered the young man as a boy, studious and more thoughtful than the other village chaps, and now grown up to be a schoolmaster, and a good one, too, much beloved by his students.

Jeremy pushed his red-brown hair out of his eyes, smiling, and shook their hands. “Yes, indeed. Born bright and early this morning, and healthy as a young horse. He has a strong pair of lungs, too, as his mother and the neighbors will tell you.”

“And they’ve named him Rascal,”
the little dog whispered proudly to Max.

“I doubt that,”
Max said ironically.
“They wouldn’t name their child for a dog.”

“But it’s true,”
Rascal protested.
“The Professor said so.”

Max rolled his eyes.
“Oh, well, the Professor,”
he said with heavy sarcasm.
“If the owl says so, then of course it
must
be true.”

Jeremy lowered his voice and glanced around, making sure they were alone. “Look. I’ve found something out, and I feel I need to let you know about it. May have something to do with what happened here.”

“Indeed,” the captain said, matching his tone to Jeremy’s. “What is it?”

“It has to do with that man,”
said the cat.

“What man?”
Rascal asked.

“The visitor,”
Max replied.
“Here. In the garden.”

“There was a fellow here this morning,” Jeremy replied. “Deirdre’s friend Gilly Harmsworth saw him. Gilly is here to help with the birth, you see. Aunt Jane was here, too, but she was in the kitchen making some breakfast for me, and Gilly was with Deirdre. Gilly happened to glance out the bedroom window—it was just daylight, right after the baby was born—and saw him, coming down the path to the shed. She didn’t think to mention it until I told her about poor Mr. Adcock.”

“It wasn’t Mr. Adcock?” the captain asked.

Jeremy shook his head. “Gilly says no. She doesn’t know the Adcocks well, but she says she would’ve recognized Mr. Adcock. She guessed that the stranger might be one of the Adcock sons, home from the Army, in which case there was nothing odd about him being out in the garden so early. But that can’t be the case. Both of the Adcock boys are soldiering in India.”

“About what time would you say this was?” the constable asked, taking out a small notebook and a pencil.

“Make it six thirty,” Jeremy replied. “As I said, the sun was just rising.”

“Six thirty-five,”
put in Max authoritatively.
“I had just finished my breakfast and was beginning my morning patrol of the neighborhood.”

“And she didn’t see the fellow go into the shed or leave it?” Will asked.

“I saw him go into the shed,”
Max volunteered.
“He didn’t come out while I was in the vicinity, however.”

“Who was it?”
Rascal asked, but Max could only shrug.

“She said she didn’t see anything after that,” Jeremy replied. “The baby had been born a little earlier. As you can imagine, everyone was busy. Dr. Butters got here just in time for the birth,” he added. “Mrs. Margrove had twins last night, or he would’ve been here sooner.”

“Anything else?” the captain asked.

“I think that’s it,” Jeremy replied. “If you’d like to talk to Gilly, she’ll be here for another day or two. To help out.” He grinned bashfully. “It turns out that women are much better at looking after babies. But I suppose I’ll learn.”

“Oh, you’ll learn, all right,” the constable said gruffly, and clapped the young man on the shoulder. “Speakin’ as the father o’ three, I can guarantee that.” He cocked his head. “And that’s your babe cryin’ now, I’ll warrant.”

“I’ll be off, then,” Jeremy said. “Shall I tell Gilly to expect you?”

“Do that, please,” the captain replied. When Jeremy had gone, he said, “Well, gentlemen, I think we must have a look.”

Built against the back fence, the wooden shed was small and dark. The only window was set in the wall beside the door, its light nearly obscured by the vine that grew over it. The square space contained a wooden workbench, a wall rack filled with carpenter’s tools, and a small, unfinished piece of cabinetry on the bench. Mr. Adcock’s body, covered with a muslin sheet, lay on the dirt floor. A rope noose hung limply from a rafter. A wooden crate lay tipped on its side.

“Doesn’t take much to reconstruct the event,” the captain said, after they had looked around. “Poor chap must have looped the rope over the rafter and around his neck, then kicked over the box.”

“That’s what it looks like,”
Rascal said to Max, as the two of them watched from the door.

“My conclusion, as well, sir,” the constable said gruffly. “But what I want to know is why. Why would he do such a thing?”

“And what about this fellow who was seen in the garden?” Will put in.

“As to why,” the captain said, “I suppose he might have been dejected over getting the sack. A man his age, it wouldn’t be easy to find other work, especially if Biddle gave him a bad character.” He looked at the constable. “Biddle told you that he wasn’t trustworthy, you said?”

“Aye,” the constable said. “He wouldn’t give me any details, but I got t’ idea that there was some sort of theft involved. A tool, maybe, or some lumber.” He sighed. “I happen to know that t’ Adcocks have fallen on hard times. Mrs. Adcock has been sick, and there’s been medicine and doctor bills. My brother says he had to tell them they’d have no more meat from him. He was sorry, but he had to do it.” The constable’s brother, Charlie Braithwaite, was the butcher.

“That’s very sad,” Will said quietly, and Rascal agreed. Animals don’t have to worry about paying the butcher or the doctor, but they understand and commiserate with humans who do.

The captain became brisk. “Well, now, gentlemen, let’s review the situation as we know it so far. The young woman looks out of the window at six thirty this morning and sees a strange fellow in the garden. Mrs. Adcock goes to her sister’s house around nine thirty—her husband is alive and well at the time—and is gone until eleven thirty. She assumes her husband is working here in the shed, comes to tell him that lunch is ready, and finds the poor fellow dead. She summons Constable Braithwaite, who takes down the body.” Frowning, he looked from Will to the constable. “Does that about sum it up?”

“I b‘lieve so, sir,” the constable said. “’Tis sad, but t’ facts are as t’ facts are.”

“One can’t argue with facts,”
Rascal agreed.

“As long as one knows what the facts really are,”
Max remarked in an acerbic tone.

“Are you suggesting that there are other facts?”
Rascal asked, narrowing his eyes.

“I’m not suggesting anything,”
Max said dryly.
“I leave that to the captain and the constable. However, there may be a rat in the woodpile somewhere.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Rascal demanded, by now thoroughly confused.

“Just speaking figuratively, old boy,”
Max replied.

Will Heelis looked down at the sheeted form. “Has Butters been sent for? The facts may seem indisputable, but I’m sure this calls for an autopsy.” He paused. “Especially since we don’t know who this fellow in the garden was and what he had to do with the death. But perhaps Mrs. Adcock can tell us.”

“Aye, t’ doctor’s been summoned,” the constable replied, putting his notebook back into his pocket. “He was in surgery, but he’ll be along when he can.”

As if he had been conjured by their mention of his name, Dr. Butters himself opened the shed door and came in, carrying his scuffed leather bag. He was a tall man, somewhat stooped, with reddish hair and a gingery moustache, not quite so thin and gaunt as he had been before he married Mrs. Butters several years before. One of the most beloved men in the district, he lived in Hawkshead and had his surgery there.