Margaret squared her shoulders. “Oh, but he was, my dear. Although he was not alone. And he wasn’t fishing when I saw him.” She cleared her throat. “That is, not exactly.”
Astonished, the captain stared at his wife. “He wasn’t . . . what? When did you see him? Where?”
“Well, you know that we are having stuffed mushrooms as one of our starters,” Margaret said briskly. “Or perhaps you didn’t know. But yes, we are, although I could not be sure of getting any good ones—the greengrocer in Hawkshead has had none at all for nearly two weeks, and I was on the point of deciding that I should plan on something else, some of those lovely tinned Morecambe Bay shrimps, perhaps, put into ramekins and served with toast points, or—”
“Margaret,” her husband barked. He did not appreciate feeling like a monkey’s uncle and was perfectly willing to take it out on her. (If you are married, perhaps you understand his reaction. I know I do.)
She took a deep breath. “Yes. Well, anyway, Elsa told me that Hannah Braithwaite’s eldest boy had been up to Moss Eccles and had found a great many fine mushrooms on the south side of the lake, under that lovely large oak tree.” (This is very near the spot where Bailey Badger was rescued from near-incineration by his young dragon friend. You may remember the story from
The Tale of Briar Bank.
) “I was wanting a walk anyway,” Margaret continued, “so I took a basket and went up to the tarn—it really isn’t that far, you know, scarcely a mile. And when I got there, I found the mushrooms, just where Mrs. Braithwaite’s eldest boy said they were, near the oak tree, and quite a nice lot of them, growing very well. I filled my basket quite easily and—”
The clock struck, interrupting her. Margaret’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh, dear! It really is time to dress, Miles. Our guests will be here in a very few moments and you’re still—”
“Not yet,” the captain said, very firmly. “I must hear this. Get on with it, Margaret. You filled your basket and—”
Margaret sighed. “I filled my basket and turned to look across the lake and that’s when I saw them. Mr. Biddle and his . . . friend.” She was blushing. “They were . . . kissing. Oh, quite properly,” she added hurriedly. “It was very sweet, really, Miles. The old green rowboat that people use there was moored at the edge of the lake, and they had been fishing in it, and then he started kissing her and she wasn’t objecting, not one bit. In fact, I’m sure she was enjoying it.” She smiled. “I had heard he fancied her, but he has been a widower for a while, and somehow one does not think of an older man as a suitor for—”
“Margaret,” the captain said in a warning voice. By this time he was very serious indeed. “
Who
does Mr. Biddle fancy? Who was in the rowboat with him? And what time was this?”
“What time? Oh, dear. Well, I’d say around ten or a little after. I left here at nine fifteen and . . .” She glanced up and saw her husband’s frown and added quickly, “It was Ruth Safford who was with him.”
“Ruth Safford?” Miles asked blankly.
“You don’t know her? She’s the new person Mrs. Barrow hired at the pub a few weeks ago. She helps Mr. Barrow behind the bar when he’s busy and works in the kitchen with Mrs. Barrow when he’s not. She’s pretty, in a mousy sort of way, and rather shy, but very fetching. I should think she would make a good wife for Mr. Biddle, although I’m sure Mrs. Barrow will be put out about it, since she’s just got her trained and—”
“Margaret.” The captain put both hands on his wife’s shoulders. “You mean to tell me that you are corroborating Biddle’s alibi for the time of Adcock’s murder?”
“Well, yes, I suppose I am,” Margaret said, rather flustered now. She did not like the look on her husband’s face. “That is, if poor Mr. Adcock was killed this morning. I first saw the two of them around ten—and they were still there when I left, about fifteen minutes later. I mean, it’s at least two miles from the tarn to Far Sawrey, isn’t it? I hardly see how Mr. Biddle could be kissing Ruth Safford at ten fifteen, and be murdering Mr. Adcock at . . . what time?”
“His wife found him dead at eleven thirty.”
“Eleven thirty. Well, then, my dear, I don’t see how it could have been done, do you? But you don’t need to take my word for it. If Mr. Biddle won’t tell you all about it, I’m sure that Ruth Safford will.”
“Yes,” Miles said glumly. “Yes, she probably will. I shall have to see her right away. She works at the pub, you say?” He was turning away, as if to go.
“Oh, no,” Margaret said, grasping his arm in alarm. “Not now, Miles! You need to get dressed right away. Our guests will be here any—”
She was interrupted by the peal of the doorbell.
19
“We Few, We Happy Few, We Band of Brothers”
When we last saw poor Crumpet at the end of Chapter Fourteen, she was at her wits’ end. She had been trying to come up with a plan to deal with the renegade rats who had invaded the village and were stealing the villagers blind—and not having any luck. Crumpet knew what ought to be done, of course, and what ought
not
to be done. For instance, it would be utterly foolish to expend a great deal of energy in attempting to stalk and kill individual rats, one at a time. It would be far better to set up surveillance at the half-dozen or so places where the whole gang of rats might have their hideout and watch to see where they were coming from. Once the location of the headquarters was pinpointed, she could come up with a feasible plan of attack.
But who could manage the surveillance? More importantly, even if it was known where the rats were holed up, who could she send in to rout them out? The cats in the village were completely undependable. They were either too old and fat (the venerable Tabitha Twitchit) or too full of delicate sensibility (Felicia Frummety) or too soft-hearted (Max the Manx) or too maternal (Treacle, with her kittens). There were other cats, of course, a great many of them, but they all fell into one of these categories. There were also plenty of village dogs, but most were lazy, undisciplined creatures or superior hunting dogs who would never condescend to take orders from a cat. They might obey Rascal, but Crumpet was the president of the Cat Council and felt that she had to take overall responsibility for this effort. It wasn’t something she could delegate.
And, like any good general, she instinctively knew that launching untrained, unprepared troops into the field was inviting disaster, especially with such formidable foes as Rooker’s gang. She could depend only on herself—and Rascal, of course, who knew exactly what ought to be done with a bad rat. His great-grandfather on his mother’s father’s side had been a small but fierce rat terrier who had gained an enormous notoriety in rat pit fighting in Liverpool. His master had won a great many wagers by betting that his terrier could kill a dozen rats in three minutes. Rascal was confident that—once he found where the filthy creatures were hiding—he would do his great-grandfather’s memory proud. He’d slaughter the whole lot of ’em in less than three minutes!
But first the rats had to be found, and there were only Crumpet and Rascal. It was physically impossible for the two of them to be everywhere at once. Despairing, Crumpet had said as much to Rascal.
“Well, you’re definitely right on that score,”
Rascal had replied ruefully. He cocked his head.
“But I think I have an idea about a few friends who might help out. Let me do some checking, old girl, and I’ll get back to you.”
Crumpet picked up the list of names she had jotted down earlier and glanced through it.
“Who do you have in mind?”
she asked, feeling hopeless.
“I’ve tried and tried and I can’t think of a single cat who—”
“Later,”
Rascal said, on his way to the door.
“Don’t do anything until you hear from me.”
We last saw Hyacinth at the end of Chapter Three, where she was deeply annoyed at herself for not keeping a closer eye on The Brockery’s silver spoons, which had been bagged by the wily Rooker. In fact, she had spent the entire day fretting about the theft, getting angrier and angrier and vowing to retrieve those spoons, although she couldn’t think how in the world she was going to accomplish this. For one thing, she had no idea where to find the thief. For all she knew, Rooker might be in Ambleside by now, or on his way to Carlisle. He might even have ridden a lorry to Morecambe Bay and taken ship on a freighter, with The Brockery’s spoons in his pocket, to be gambled away in one card game or another.
Hyacinth was an honest badger and felt guilty that the theft had occurred on her watch—and right under her nose, too. So she made a full confession in the
History
, in which she took note of all events of local importance:
Visited by a thieving rat named Corporal Rooker (disguised as an Army veteran), who not only ate every crumb of Parsley’s birthday cake but made off with three silver spoons, which I (Hyacinth Badger) had not properly secured.
And then, scowling mightily and wielding her pen as if it were a sword, she had added:
Said rat will be tracked down and brought to justice, as soon as I am able to figure out how. In the meantime, I hope he doesn’t think he’s gotten away with this reprehensible behavior!
The afternoon and evening were busy at The Brockery, with a great many animals signing the guest register and requesting supper and overnight lodging. It was summer, you see, when animals are frequently on the move—going on holiday, changing residence, or visiting friends and relations. But this particular evening looked to be damp and unseasonably chilly, with rain clouds draping themselves like a diaphanous shawl around the shoulders of the fells and curling familiarly across the surface of Esthwaite Water. The animals who might otherwise have spent the night camping out in the woods or the meadow decided to find shelter from the gray drizzle and came knocking at The Brockery door.
When Primrose checked the guest register, she saw that there would be nearly two dozen diners at the supper table, including a few old friends who had dropped in at teatime to wish Parsley a happy birthday. One thing had naturally led to another, and the friends found themselves invited to stay to supper and the night, an invitation which all were glad to accept, for as the evening wore on, it looked increasingly damp outdoors, a very good night to sit around the fire and tell stories. Most animals don’t like to get wet unless there’s a good reason for it—unless they are ducks or fish, of course, or otters, none of which make a habit of dropping in for tea at The Brockery.
A wet, chilly evening is also a good evening for a pot of soup, so Parsley made a very large kettle of cream of potato soup, using the contributions brought by several of the guests: potatoes, onions, celery, bacon, and a beautiful chunk of cheddar cheese. She also baked a large pan of buttery hot buns and for dessert, made a lovely ginger and treacle pudding, which is the badgers’ all-time favorite. (You’ll find Parsley’s recipe for this pudding in
The Tale of Applebeck Orchard
, along with a note about the whys and wherefores of treacle.)
Because of the season and the weather, the guests around the long, narrow table in The Brockery’s dining hall were more numerous and varied than usual. Bailey Badger and his guinea pig companion, W. M. Thackeray, had come over from Briar Bank, on the other side of Moss Eccles Tarn. Bailey was a bookish badger whose days were spent managing the Briar Bank library he had inherited from Miss Potter. Thackeray (his full name was William Makepeace Thackeray, after the author of
Vanity Fair
) was a handsome guinea pig whose silver-streaked black hair was very long and covered both ends of him, so that it was hard to tell whether he was coming or going. A well-read animal, Thackeray had once belonged to a collector of rare books and after that to Miss Potter, who had brought him to the village. (His story is too long to tell here: you shall have to read it for yourself in
The Tale of Briar Bank
, where you can learn how Thackeray escaped and was taken in by Bailey Badger.)
Accompanying Bailey and Thackeray was their dragon friend, Thorvaald, who was visiting Briar Bank before flying off to investigate an erupting volcano in Indonesia. Thorvaald had spent quite a few centuries dozing in a rear bedroom of Bailey Badger’s sett, where the dragon had been assigned to guard a treasure. Now, he was commissioned to look into volcanoes by the Grand Assembly of Dragons, who were convinced that all volcanoes must be the underground residences of friends who ought to be on their mailing list. So far, Thorvaald had explored more than a dozen volcanoes without finding a single dragon who would give him a postal address. But the Grand Assembly refused to take no for an answer, and Thorvaald certainly didn’t mind flying around the world on the Assembly’s expense account.
When he visited The Brockery, Thorvaald, a smallish dragon and still quite young, as dragons go, was always careful to mind his tail and bank his fires, although on chilly nights, his badger friends were glad of a little extra warmth for their cold paws. This evening, the dragon, at the foot of the table (where it was easier to manage his tail), was deep in conversation with his dear friend, Professor Owl. The owl rarely came visiting underground but had made an exception when he heard that Thorvaald would be there and that Parsley was planning to serve ginger and treacle pudding. The dragon and the professor had become fast friends after they vanquished the Water Bird (in
The Tale of Oat Cake Crag
) and saved the residents of the Land Between the Lakes, both animal and human, from being buzzed into insensibility by the frantic hydroplane that cruised up and down Windermere, making a noise (as Miss Potter had put it in a letter to her friend Millie Warne) like ten million bluebottle flies.
As usual, Bosworth Badger sat at the head of the table, as befitted his status as the sett’s senior badger. To his right sat Hyacinth, although she kept jumping up and down to fetch this and that from the kitchen, as did both Parsley and Primrose, who were seated nearby. The other guests had taken their places on benches and chairs up and down the table and were busily attending to their bowls of soup and hot buns, which were occasionally replenished with fresh supplies.