The Tale of Hawthorn House (15 page)

It was a warm day, and by the time Miles had patched the punctured tyre and pumped it up with his hand pump, his shirt and waistcoat were drenched with sweat and he wished fervently that he had ridden his horse. The trouble was the road. There was a great deal more traffic these days, and the right-of-way should be widened and paved. But that would require removing several stone walls and hedges and any number of trees. There was considerable opposition to that. Most of the local people resisted the cutting of trees, an attitude that Miles attributed to their general resistance to any kind of progress.

As the captain resumes his journey, I will take a few moments to tell you about his destination: the quaint little market town of Hawkshead. If you visit today, you will find it much as was on the day of our story, and several hundred years before that. It was established by a Norseman named Haukr in the ninth century, which makes it a true medieval village.

And like other medieval villages, Hawkshead is not built around a green. Instead, its narrow streets dart off in all directions, higgledy-piggledy, under the beneficent gaze of St. Michael and All Angels, the church that crowns the hill overlooking the town. One of these streets bears the descriptive name of Rag, Putty and Leather Street, so called for the tailors, cobblers, and painters who had businesses there. It is also called Wordsworth Street, for the poet William Wordsworth boarded in Anne Tyson’s home there, whilst he was attending the local grammar school. The cottage is now a bed-and-breakfast, but at the time of our story (or shortly before) it housed Tyson’s Shop, where our Miss Potter once bought two striped petticoats.

Miles drove across the bridge over Black Beck, left his motor car near the old grammar school, and made his way along the cobbled main street to Red Lion Square, to the office of the legal firm of Heelis and Heelis. The two solicitors, cousins, handled a great many of the legal transactions in the district, and could be counted on to know what was going on at any given moment.

Miles was just approaching the Heelis office when the door opened and Will Heelis stepped out, his bowler hat on his head and a leather briefcase in his hand.

“Why, hullo, Miles,” Will said with a grin. He was a tall, athletic, good-looking man, a bachelor, and although he was painfully shy with women, he was less so with men and not at all with longtime friends. “You’re out and about early this morning.”

“I’ve come to see you, Will,” Miles said. “Have you time for a cup of tea? P’rhaps we might go to the tea shop round the corner.”

A few minutes later (it takes only a few minutes to get anywhere in Hawkshead), the two men were settled at a table beside a white-curtained window looking across a cobbled street to Thimble Hall. The proprietress brought them two china cups, a pot of tea, and a plate of seed wigs— small, sweet cakes covered with caraway seeds—hot from the oven.

“Well, Miles,” Will said, stirring his tea. “How did the fête go on Saturday? I wanted to come and dance with the Morris men, but the Hawkshead bowlers had a match in Appleby, and I was obliged to take part.”

“We got a good drenching,” Miles replied. “No one complained but the trippers who forgot their umbrellas. The rest of us were glad of the rain.” He paused. “Who won the match?”

“Oh, we did, of course.” Biting into his seed cake, Will added, “Haven’t been in Sawrey for some time. Your sister is well, I trust.”

Miles nodded, brightening. “Yes, Dimity is well, indeed. In fact, we are having a small dinner on Saturday night. We’d both like you to come.”

“Saturday night,” Will said in a thoughtful tone. “I’m rather afraid that I have a prior—”

Miles picked up his cup. “Miss Potter is coming, as well. It will be a small party, just the four of us.”

“I believe I’m free, after all,” Will said. “I should love to come.”

Miles was pleased. For the past year or so, he had been trying to arrange things so that his sister and his best friend would fall in love. He couldn’t understand why Dimity was so slow at recognizing what a comfortable life she would have with Will Heelis. She couldn’t argue that Will was unattractive. Athletic, fit, and trim, he had firm features, fine eyes, and thick brown hair that fell boyishly across his forehead. His character couldn’t be faulted, either, for his good judgment, his amiability, and the steadiness of his temper were remarked by everyone who knew him. He was keen on fishing, bowling, golf, and cricket, and followed the local hunt as often as he could spare the time. (All of this endeared him to Miles, of course, who loved nothing better than an afternoon with gun or rod.) All round, in all ways, no man in the district was more respected or better liked than Will Heelis. Christopher Kittredge couldn’t hold a candle to him.

Miles frowned when he thought of that wretched Kittredge, who had so completely monopolized Dimity at the dance on Saturday night. Kittredge, whose family had lived at Raven Hall for a great many years, had lost an eye and an arm and got his face badly scarred in the war. Miles could scarcely object to that, of course—Kittredge was brave enough. What he objected to was the man’s appalling want of judgment. He had had the bad sense to marry a woman (an actress!) who turned out to be the worst sort of adventuress, and the cloak of scandal had clung round him ever since. No sensible woman—Dimity most of all—should have anything to do with him after such a disgrace. To ally herself to this fellow would be to associate herself with his shame. It was, of course—of course!—entirely out of the question.

With this in mind, after the dance, Miles had spoken to his sister about the impropriety of Kittredge’s attentions. She had listened thoughtfully, and to his relief, had not raised any objection. But then, he had always found Dimity sweetly compliant. There had never been a serious disagreement between them, and there never would. So, in a celebratory mood, he had proposed a dinner party, with Will Heelis and Miss Potter as their guests. It was high time his sister found herself a suitable husband.

Will, for his part, had not a clue that his friend had it in mind to turn him into a brother-in-law. He was happily enjoying his tea and seed wig when Miles put his hand into his waistcoat pocket.

“I want you to have a look at something, Will.” He took out a small object, wrapped in a bit of tissue, and handed it to Will. “Ever seen anything like this?”

Will put down his cup, unwrapped the tissue, and was surprised at the weight of the signet ring he held in his fingers. The ring was gold, with a setting of twisted gold wire. The stone was a large orange-red cornelian, carved with strange-looking hieroglyphics.

“I’ve seen other pieces of jewelry made from Egyptian scarabs,” he said, studying it, “but none nearly so fine.” He held it up so that the sunlight through the window gave the cornelian a mysterious glow. “How did you come by it?”

“It came from Miss Potter,” Miles said. “It was in the basket with the baby.”

Will stared at his friend incredulously. “Miss Potter has a
baby
?” He was accustomed to surprises from Miss Potter, whom he liked very much—but a baby was rather shocking, especially since he had not heard that the lady was married. He had not seen her for some months, though, and he supposed that anything was possible. He was conscious of a sharp disappointment, but only barely. Will Heelis, like many other British men, was not always aware of his feelings.

Miles chuckled dryly. “Yes, the lady has done it again,” he said, and told about the baby girl Miss Potter had found on her doorstep and brought to Tower Bank House on Sunday morning. “Dimity is having the time of her life,” he added, with a significant look. “My sister likes nothing better than playing mother, you know. Pity she has no children of her own.”

Will was not thinking of his friend’s sister’s maternal ambitions. He was thinking of Miss Potter and (although he was only vaguely aware of this) feeling very relieved to learn that she was not married, after all. In his estimation, she was observant, forthright, and very sensible.—Pretty, too, with a shy, quiet softness that he found unusually appealing, although there was no point in thinking that way about her. (If we were to look deeply into Will’s thoughts at this moment, however, we would most likely find that he had no clear idea of what “that way” meant. He was not even aware that he regretted the fact that Miss Potter’s heart still belonged to the fiancé she had lost a few years before.)

He pulled his attention back to the ring. “You said this was found in the basket. Any idea where it might have come from?”

“Miss Potter caught a glimpse of the old lady who left the baby at Hill Top. Might be one of the gypsies camped at the foot of Broomstick Lane. And the child is dark-haired and dark-eyed—she could easily be a gypsy baby. With that in mind, I spoke yesterday with Taiso Kudakov, the Romany chief.”

Will nodded. “Ah, yes, Kudakov. A shrewd man. Very able.”

“You know him, then?” Miles glanced up. “Is he truthful?”

“I know him. As to truth—” Will chuckled. “Perhaps it’s best to say that he’s true to his purposes, whatever they may be.”

Will was acquainted with the gypsy bands that traveled through the district in their wooden caravans, mostly in the summer, camping in vacant fields, selling horses and other wares and offering itinerant labor. They found this traditional way of life much harder these days. Many of the farmers who had once eagerly bought their horses or relied on them for help with harvesting or shearing now regarded them as nuisances or worse, and no longer welcomed them as laborers. Men like Kudakov were finding it harder to locate work to support their families—a shame, Will thought, for there was certainly work to be done and families to support.

“Perhaps it wasn’t to Kudakov’s purpose to tell me the truth,” Miles said. “He claimed total ignorance where the infant was concerned.”

Will glanced at the ring. “Yet this piece is certainly something a gypsy would favor. What did he say when you showed it to him?”

“I didn’t, since he denied knowing anything about the child. I was hoping he would say she was theirs—although why they would abandon one of their own has me mystified. That’s not like them. They are especially affectionate toward their children—as well they might be,” he added dryly, “since they raise them to work. Even their daughters.”

Will could have pointed out that the local folk raised their children to work, boys and girls alike. But he only said, “The baby doesn’t belong to a local family?”

Miles shook his head. “Dimity says not, and she would know. She has charge of the Parish Mothers’ Box.” He gave Will a pointed look. “Dimity is certainly enjoying herself with this infant, even though she has only temporary custody. I’m sure she will be a wonderful mother to her own brood. She’s awf ’lly domestic, you know.”

Will had a dim suspicion that he was missing the point, which seemed to have something to do with Dimity and infants. “The Mothers’ Box?” he hazarded tentatively.

“Clothing, nappies, that sort of thing. A sort of traveling infant-kit. Dimity sees that it goes wherever there’s a new baby. She’s very good that way. I tell her it’s because she’s frustrated about not having one of her own.”

“Ah,” Will said. “You’re telling me that there are no new babies in the parish.”

It must be observed in justice to Will that he had never knowingly been the target of anyone’s matchmaking, and so entirely failed to notice that he was supposed to imagine Dimity as a potential mother for his own children. He merely wondered whether there might be something more to the remark about the box and let it go, feeling that if Miles had anything very important to tell him, he would say it straight out, rather than beating about the bush.

“Right-o.” Miles put down his cup with what seemed to be disappointment. “And if Kudakov is to be believed, there are no infants among the gypsies, at least none that they’ve lost track of. So we must look elsewhere.” He paused. “I was hoping you could suggest how we might identify the ring.”

Will pushed back his chair, happy to have something concrete to deal with. “Let’s drop in on Mr. Aftergood, shall we? He does a fair bit of pawning. If he’s seen the ring, he’ll remember it.”

 
The door to Mr. Aftergood’s tiny shop was located up a narrow stone stair behind the Crown and Mitre Hotel, under a painted sign that read KURIOS & KNICK-KNACKERY. Crammed to the ceiling with dusty treasures, strange carvings, and odd lots of furniture, the place reminded Miles of the Old Curiosity Shop in Dickens’s novel by that name. The light inside was dim and opalescent, and the air seemed filled with a perpetual, dusty twilight.

Mr. Aftergood came toward them with jerky, shuffling steps as if he were one of his own mechanical curios, wound up and set into motion. He was a tiny old man in a coat and trousers of rusty black that were much too large for him, with a dirty red silk kerchief knotted under his chin, gold-rimmed glasses pushed up on his head, and deep wrinkles that nearly hid his eyes. He peered at them as Will explained why they had come, then took the signet ring and looked at it for a very long time.

“Mmm,” he said at last, in a hoarse, cracked whisper, addressing himself to Will. “Oh, aye, sir. I may’ve seen it before, may have. Curious, isn’t it, sir? And very fine. Oh, yes, very fine, sir, very.” He gave it another appreciative look. “Likely to’ve been brought back from Egypt, I do believe, sir.”

“My friend and I couldn’t quite make out the engraving on the scarab,” Will said. “Will you have a look?”

“On the scarab, sir?” Mr. Aftergood picked up a jeweler’s loupe, fastened it over his head, and peered at the ring. “Indeed, sir, I can make it out, but it’s hieroglyphics, sir, and I don’t speak Egyptian.” He gave a crackly chuckle. “Bless me, I don’t speak Egyptian, now, do I, sir?” This seemed to tickle his funny-bone. “Don’t speak Egyptian, no, sir,” he chortled. “Never have, sir, never will.”

“No, nor I, Mr. Aftergood,” Will said amiably, and joined in the laugh.