about the footpath?”
“Mr. Harmswooorth has closed it with wire and wooood and tar. The villagers are deeply disturbed. Some—the Ramblers, particularly—are threatening to take the matter intooo their own hands. I predict perturbations,” the professor added gloomily. “Violent perturbations.” He was fond of big words.
Bosworth sat up straight. “Closed the footpath!” he exclaimed. “That’s very bad news, Owl. Very bad news indeed.” He shook his head, remembering other footpath controversies, at Ambleside two years before, in the Wythburn Valley, and at Keswick much earlier, where hundreds of people had come out to protest, owing to barricades that landowners had placed across the paths, all of which was recorded in the History . “Any idea why Mr. Harmsworth is doing this?”
“Why, tooo keep people off his land,” the owl replied, and sipped his tea.
“I understand,” Bosworth said impatiently . “But why? People have been using that path for . . . well, centuries, I suppose.”
“Ah,” said the owl. “Yes. Well, I overheard him tooo say that he’s lost apples tooo the children and a haystack tooo fire, caused by a Rambler. ‘Enough is enough,’ he says.”
Bosworth looked away, thinking guiltily of the apples he had enjoyed the previous week. But surely he had not taken enough to—
“But those are not the real reasons,” the professor went on in a knowing tone.
“Really?” asked Bosworth. “Well, then, what is?”
“It’s very simple. He intends tooo sell Applebeck Farm, and the prospective purchaser has told him that there’ll be more money if the public access has been cut off.” The professor peered over his beak at the plate at Bosworth’s elbow. “Are those raisin scones, by any chance?”
“I’m sorry,” Bosworth said apologetically. “I should have thought. Yes, raisin scones. Parsley’s finest. Do help yourself, old chap.” Parsley was known far and wide as an excellent cook, and many animals stopped at The Brockery just to sample her cuisine.
“Thank yooou,” said the professor, and did so forthwith. “Of course,” he added, munching, “Mr. Harmsworth does not intend for anyone tooo know about the sale until the papers have been signed.”
“Then how do you know?” inquired Bosworth.
“I have my methods,” the professor replied tersely.
As there was no point in inquiring further along those lines, Bosworth asked instead, “And who is the prospective buyer?”
“I don’t knooow,” said the owl regretfully. “Yet.” He bit into his scone. “I dooo know, however, that the haystack fire was not caused by a careless Rambler. I saw the culprit myself.”
Bosworth put down his cup. “Who was it?”
“It was,” said the owl importantly, “a female person. Or a male person wearing a cloak and a bonnet and carrying a candle lantern. All very old-fashioned.”
Bosworth stared. “You actually saw this person set fire to the haystack?”
“If you mean, did I catch her—or him—in the very act, the answer is nooo. I noticed this person, as I say. But I had other things on my mind—specifically, a tender young vole whooose acquaintance I was eager tooo make. When the vole and I flew back toward my home, I saw that the haystack was burning. It is logical tooo assume, is it not, that it was she—or he, impersonating a she—whooo set it ablaze.”
“But who?” Bosworth asked blankly. “Who would have done such a thing?” And then a possibility occurred to him. “I wonder if Auld Beechie might’ve done it. He worked for Mr. Harmsworth until last winter. They did not part on good terms. At least, that’s according to Miss Potter’s Herdwick ewes, who heard them quarreling when they were working on the stone wall between Applebeck Orchard and Hill Top. Nearly came to blows, I understand.”
“Auld Beechie?” the owl asked. “That would be Thomas Beecham? The fellooow has a ship on his shoulder.” He looked skeptical. “The
“Mr. Harmswooorth has closed it with wire and wooood and tar. The villagers are deeply disturbed. Some—the Ramblers, particularly—are threatening to take the matter intooo their own hands. I predict perturbations,” the professor added gloomily. “Violent perturbations.” He was fond of big words.
Bosworth sat up straight. “Closed the footpath!” he exclaimed. “That’s very bad news, Owl. Very bad news indeed.” He shook his head, remembering other footpath controversies, at Ambleside two years before, in the Wythburn Valley, and at Keswick much earlier, where hundreds of people had come out to protest, owing to barricades that landowners had placed across the paths, all of which was recorded in the History . “Any idea why Mr. Harmsworth is doing this?”
“Why, tooo keep people off his land,” the owl replied, and sipped his tea.
“I understand,” Bosworth said impatiently . “But why? People have been using that path for . . . well, centuries, I suppose.”
“Ah,” said the owl. “Yes. Well, I overheard him tooo say that he’s lost apples tooo the children and a haystack tooo fire, caused by a Rambler. ‘Enough is enough,’ he says.”
Bosworth looked away, thinking guiltily of the apples he had enjoyed the previous week. But surely he had not taken enough to—
“But those are not the real reasons,” the professor went on in a knowing tone.
“Really?” asked Bosworth. “Well, then, what is?”
“It’s very simple. He intends tooo sell Applebeck Farm, and the prospective purchaser has told him that there’ll be more money if the public access has been cut off.” The professor peered over his beak at the plate at Bosworth’s elbow. “Are those raisin scones, by any chance?”
“I’m sorry,” Bosworth said apologetically. “I should have thought. Yes, raisin scones. Parsley’s finest. Do help yourself, old chap.” Parsley was known far and wide as an excellent cook, and many animals stopped at The Brockery just to sample her cuisine.
“Thank yooou,” said the professor, and did so forthwith. “Of course,” he added, munching, “Mr. Harmsworth does not intend for anyone tooo know about the sale until the papers have been signed.”
“Then how do you know?” inquired Bosworth.
“I have my methods,” the professor replied tersely.
As there was no point in inquiring further along those lines, Bosworth asked instead, “And who is the prospective buyer?”
“I don’t knooow,” said the owl regretfully. “Yet.” He bit into his scone. “I dooo know, however, that the haystack fire was not caused by a careless Rambler. I saw the culprit myself.”
Bosworth put down his cup. “Who was it?”
“It was,” said the owl importantly, “a female person. Or a male person wearing a cloak and a bonnet and carrying a candle lantern. All very old-fashioned.”
Bosworth stared. “You actually saw this person set fire to the haystack?”
“If you mean, did I catch her—or him—in the very act, the answer is nooo. I noticed this person, as I say. But I had other things on my mind—specifically, a tender young vole whooose acquaintance I was eager tooo make. When the vole and I flew back toward my home, I saw that the haystack was burning. It is logical tooo assume, is it not, that it was she—or he, impersonating a she—whooo set it ablaze.”
“But who?” Bosworth asked blankly. “Who would have done such a thing?” And then a possibility occurred to him. “I wonder if Auld Beechie might’ve done it. He worked for Mr. Harmsworth until last winter. They did not part on good terms. At least, that’s according to Miss Potter’s Herdwick ewes, who heard them quarreling when they were working on the stone wall between Applebeck Orchard and Hill Top. Nearly came to blows, I understand.”
“Auld Beechie?” the owl asked. “That would be Thomas Beecham? The fellooow has a ship on his shoulder.” He looked skeptical. “The
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