The Tale of Oat Cake Crag (34 page)

Having sorted out their misunderstanding, the pair discussed the matter at length. They decided to go to Oat Cake Crag, take up a lookout position, and see what they could of the monster, the hydroplane, or both. The owl had packed a light lunch (mutton-and-cheese sandwiches with pickle, cold sliced tongue, deviled eggs with capers, carrot sticks, and frosted ginger cakes). In addition, he had worn his vest and daytime goggles and brought binoculars, a notebook, and a stopwatch. Thus equipped and provisioned, the owl and the dragon had just set up their post when the hangar doors swung wide open and Water Bird skidded down the ramp and splashed into the water.

The dragon watched, open-mouthed, as the aeroplane wended its way through the moorings of sailboats and row-boats and fishing boats and took off upwind, climbing into the sky.
“Oh, my starsz and scaleszs,”
he hissed incredulously.
“It swimsz
and
it fliesz. It really doeszs.”
He stared at the Bird out of the ragged fringe of fir branches he had tied to his head and shoulders.
“Doesz it dive? Under the water, I mean.”

“It did once, after a fashion,”
said the owl, watching the aeroplane through his binoculars as it whizzed up the lake in the direction of Ambleside.
“But that was when it stopped flying and crashed intooo the water. I dooo not believe that it dives deliberately. It does not seem tooo be constructed for that purpose.”
He frowned, trying to focus on the passenger riding behind the pilot. The previous passenger had clung to the struts, bleating and terrified and repenting his desire to fly. This one, however, was almost demonic, shouting and waving his arms, with his greatcoat streaming behind like a magician’s cape. He was obviously enjoying himself.

“And thiszs iszs the thing that haszs been terrorizszsing the neighborhood?”
asked the dragon, studying the hydroplane from behind his screen branches.
“Thiszs iszs the creature who iszs annoying people and frightening animalszs?”

“This is it,”
the Professor replied grimly.
“But people know what it is and can take account of it. The animals—particularly the not-sooo-bright ones, the cows and silly sheep—are terrified of it, and with gooood cause. They fear it is going tooo eat them, and nooo amount of talking will persuade them otherwise.”
He put down his binoculars and shook his head gloomily.
“The machine is truly a monster,”
he added,
“although not in the sense that you are looooking for.”

“Perhapsz it iszsn’t,”
the dragon said regretfully.
“I would rather have discovered a dragon that waszs more like the Loch Nesszs monszster, swimming and diving and the rest of it. But I wonder if it won’t serve my purposze just as well. And perhaps even better, considering its dire effect on the neighbors.”

“Serve the purpose?”
The owl looked down from his perch, beginning to feel a niggling sense of suspicion.
“Just what purpose dooo you have in mind, Thorvaald?”

Thorvaald shuffled his feet, looking a bit shamefaced.
“Well, to tell the truth, I am looking for a way to redeem myszself with the Grand Asszsembly of Dragonsz.”
He gave a windy sigh, exhaling a stream of smoke and live flame, which sparked a nearby fir branch.

“Don’t dooo that!”
the owl cried urgently.
“Are you trying tooo start a forest fire?”

“Szsorry,”
the dragon muttered, and inhaled, pulling the smoke and flame back into his nostrils, as if he were a vacuum sweeper.
“I am not exactly in the Asszsembly’szs favor, you see. In fact, I shouldn’t be at all surpriszsed if they revoked my airworthinesszs certificate and put me to work in the dining hall instead. I flew all around the globe on the Asszsembly expense account. I waszs supposed to be counting dragonszs, but I couldn’t find any to count. This thing, though—”

The Water Bird had made a large loop and was now flying south again, sweeping over Belle Isle and turning eastward in front of them, preparing to make a landing. The engine was buzzing so loudly that the dragon had to raise his voice to be heard above the racket.
“Thiszs flying thing—this mechanical dragon—it isn’t just a law-abiding monszster minding its own busineszs in the depths of a very deep lake, where it’s a threat to nobody but a few large pike. In fact, this creature is much more dangerouszs. It threatens the lives and happiness of creatures all acroszss this region. Isn’t that what you’re telling me, Professor?”

“Indeed,”
said the owl soberly. He was now beginning to get the picture.
“That’s what I’m telling yooou, Thorvaald. But I don’t see that there’s anything you can dooo to stop it.”

“Oh, really?”
the dragon remarked in a carelessly contemptuous tone.
“I don’t suppose you know very much about dragonszs, do you? I am descended from a long and illustriouszs line of warriorszs.”
He lifted himself up and his voice rang out.
“I am the son of the magnificent Thunnor, son of the splendid Snurrt, son of the celebrated Sniggle. Our family motto is
Alta pete: Aim at high thingszs
. Our family emblem is two dragonszs rampant on an azure field, with a burning—”

“Of course, of course,”
said the owl crossly. He was not accustomed to being addressed in such a tone, and he did not like being reminded that he was the only one amongst his friends who did not have a family motto and emblem.
“But I still say that there’s nothing yooou can dooo. The aeroplane is locked up at night, and there’s a guard. Yooou can’t just break in there and expect tooo—”

“Aim at high things!”
cried the dragon in great excitement. His belly was glowing like a hot stove, and sparks flew from his nostrils.
“Don’t you see, Owl? It’s deszstiny, that’s what it iszs! I am the one ordained to bring this high-flying monszster to justice and szsave the Land Between the Lakeszs. Aim at high thingszs!”

The owl (who prided himself on aiming at high things with his telescope and felt himself to be much more experienced in such matters than the dragon) gave a derisive snort.

“What?”
fumed the dragon. Tendrils of sooty smoke curled out of his nostrils.
“You don’t believe me?”

“I will believe yooou,”
the owl replied in a lofty tone,
“when I see you actually doooing it.”
He paused, frowning.
“Just what are you planning on doooing?”

“Don’t rush me,”
the dragon said.
“I’m hatching a scheme.”
He cast a hopeful look at the owl.
“I wonder—are there any more sandwicheszs?”

The morning after Jeremy gave her the letter he had copied, Miss Potter sent a note to Mr. Heelis by the early post. By teatime that afternoon, after the aeroplane had finally stopped flying for the day, Will knocked at her door. She was (as I’m sure you can guess) very glad to see him.

I hope you won’t object if we step away for a moment to give them a little privacy. Every moment together is precious to them, and onlookers are . . . well, we would just get in the way. So we’ll go into the little downstairs parlor, which Beatrix has set out as a small drawing room, with an imposing marble Adam-style chimneypiece, pine-paneled walls, rich mahogany furnishings, and an Oriental-style rug. But we won’t be bored. We can spend a few moments studying the silhouettes hanging beside the fireplace; and the Edward VII coronation teapot, in the corner cupboard with the pink crown lid and the colored pictures of Edward and Alexandra; and the Potter coat of arms that hangs to the left of the window. And an Italian red lacquer box on a rosewood worktable and—

And shortly, Will is seated at Beatrix’s table with a fresh cup of tea at his elbow and a piece of Mrs. Jennings’ rhubarb pie in front of him, and it is safe for us to return.

“So,” he said, picking up his fork. “Your note said that you’ve discovered the identity of the poisoned pen.”

“Yes, with the help of Jeremy Crosfield,” Beatrix replied. She sat down opposite and told him the whole story, just as she had it from Jeremy, then showed him the copied note. “Agnes Llewellyn is the only person who could’ve written this,” she concluded. “Jeremy found the original letter on the table in her parlor. Her husband, Dick, went to Carlisle some time ago to visit his ailing father, and there’s been no one in the house except for Agnes and Jeremy.”

Will looked again at the note and shook his head. “It’s hard to believe that Agnes Llewellyn would do such a thing. She doesn’t strike me as a very happy woman, but—But why, Beatrix? Why would she want to spoil Grace and the vicar’s happiness?”

“She’s Hazel Thompson’s cousin,” Beatrix said.

“Hazel Thompson?” Will asked blankly.

“The vicar’s cook-housekeeper,” Beatrix replied. “Perhaps you’ve met her, when you were having dinner at the vicarage.”

Will thought. “Ah. I remember that she once served a roast lamb that—” He made a face. “But it’s best to let bygones be bygones. So you’re guessing that Agnes Llewellyn must have expected Mrs. Lythecoe to discharge Mrs. Thompson and bring in her own cook.” He smiled crookedly. “Probably not a bad idea, come to think of it. The vicar was terribly embarrassed by that roast lamb, as I recall. And he’s complained about Mrs. Thompson listening at doors.”

“Yes,” Beatrix said. “I think that Agnes Llewellyn wanted to derail the marriage, hoping that might save her cousin’s employment.”

“It all seems very illogical to me,” Will muttered.

“It
is
illogical, entirely,” Beatrix replied. “But that’s the point, of course. Logic goes out the window when passions run high. And Agnes Llewellyn must have felt passionately that her cousin ought to stay at the vicarage.” She paused. “The irony of this is that Mrs. Thompson is planning on handing in her resignation.”

“She is?” Will asked in some surprise.

“I spoke to her yesterday. She told me that she had just made up her mind to go to Ambleside to take care of her mother. Once Grace and the vicar are safely married, they will be free to employ whomever they choose.” Beatrix paused, glancing at Will. “But now that we know who wrote the letters, Will, what do you think should be done?”

Will chuckled. “I think I know what
you
think should be done, my dear.”

She had to smile at that. “Ah. You know me so well that you can read my mind?”

“Rather,” he said, and chuckled. “I imagine I’m going to have a talk with Mrs. Llewellyn.”

She sobered. “Would you mind, Will? I would be glad to do it, but Agnes Llewellyn will be much more likely to listen to a man than to a woman—and to a man of the law, rather than a neighbor. You can put on your stern solicitor’s face and frown your darkest solicitor’s frown, and tell her that if Mrs. Lythecoe ever receives another of those ‘anonymous’ letters, it will go very badly for her.”

He smiled affectionately. “Perhaps I should threaten to haul her before the justice of the peace and get Woodcock to read her the riot act before he turns her loose? And what about the vicar? What should we tell him?”

“I don’t believe that having the captain lecture Agnes would accomplish anything useful. But I do think she should be required to beg Mrs. Lythecoe’s pardon. Poor Grace has been beside herself these last few weeks, worrying about this business—she deserves to hear Agnes say she’s sorry. We can leave the vicar out of it, at least for the moment, since Grace doesn’t want him to know. And I don’t think it would be well to mention Jeremy, either.”

Will nodded. “A wise course of action, my dear. I will go to see Mrs. Llewellyn, and then escort her across the way to Rose Cottage to apologize to Mrs. Lythecoe. It won’t be enjoyable, but I’m sure that Mrs. Lythecoe will be glad that the mystery of the letters has been solved.”

“Thank you,” Beatrix said gratefully. “And now I’ve something to tell you, Will. I’ve written my own letter, of a very different sort.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really? What sort?”

She opened the drawer of the table and took out a piece of paper. “This is a copy of what I wrote to my parents.” She laughed ruefully. “Poor Bertram. I can just imagine the scene he will be forced to witness. I’m sure it will not be very pleasant.” She pushed the letter across the table and watched his face while he read.

When he was finished, he looked up. The lines of his face had softened, and he was smiling. He stood, went around the table, and kissed her cheek softly. “Thank you, my love,” he whispered. He sat down again. “How did they find out?”

“Bertram said that a Mr. Morrow, a solicitor from Hawkshead, told them. Do you know the man?”

“I do,” Will said with a sigh. “Morrow’s had dealings recently with our law firm. I took the liberty of telling my partner about our engagement a few weeks ago. I’m sure that’s how Morrow learned about it.” He looked repentant. “I’m sorry, Beatrix. I shouldn’t have said anything to anyone.”