“But I meant the door to seem small, you see,” she explained, “the same size as the little dog. The tiger-lilies suggest the scale.”
“Confusing, is what it is,” Mathilda Crook said, with a frown. “Things ought to be t’ same as they are. ”
“It’s artistic license, Mathilda,” Margaret Nash commented. “In pictures, things are never exactly as they are in real life.”
“And here is Bertha Stubbs’s parlor,” the vicar went on hurriedly, turning the page, “with Miranda Rollins’s little dog Duchess climbing up to look into the cupboard for the mouse pie. Why, it is exact in every detail, down to the red cushion on Mrs. Stubbs’s loveseat.” He turned another page. “And here is Duchess and Bertha Stubb’s tabby cat Crumpet—whom you will recognize even though she is called Ribby Pipstone—sitting down to a fine mouse pie.”
Miss Crabbe frowned over Miss Potter’s left shoulder. “But this is not Duchess,” she said, planting a disapproving finger on the drawing of the dog. “This is Darkie, for she has a black coat, whilst Duchess is brown. And why has the cat’s name been changed, I wonder. If one is drawing from life, one should render one’s subjects exactly.”
Dimity saw that Miss Potter’s cheeks were by now quite red. “I think,” she said, coming quickly to the rescue, “that Duchess is a prettier name for a story-book character than Darkie. And Ribby Pipstone is a very clever name.” Then, with a hasty change of subject, she added, “You had a lovely morning for a walk around Hill Top Farm, Miss Potter. Did you find everything as you expected it?”
“Yes,” Miss Potter replied. “It’s a beautiful place. Mr. Jennings and I discussed some repairs to the dairy and the pigsty. I should like to enlarge the garden, too, although perhaps not right away.”
Miss Crabbe sat down on the sofa beside Margaret Nash. “I suppose the Jenningses will be leaving.” She pursed her lips disapprovingly. “Where are they to go? There are no cottages to let nearby.”
Miss Potter gave her a direct look. “I’ve asked them to stay on,” she said, “although we shall have to work out the details of living arrangements.”
“Perhaps,” Rose Sutton ventured, “they could take Miss Tolliver’s cottage. She died, as I suppose you know, very suddenly and mysteriously, only last week.”
Miss Potter cleared her throat. “Yes, I know,” she said in a low voice. “It was quite a shock to hear of her death.”
“What did she die of?” Rose asked Dimity. “I don’t think I heard.”
“That’s what we’d all like t’ know,” Mathilda remarked in a meaningful tone. “Nivver sick a day in her life.”
“It was her heart, Dr. Butters said,” Dimity replied, picking up the plate of sponge cakes that Elsa had just put down. “More cake, Vicar?”
“It wasn’t poison, then,” Rose said, and gave a nervous little laugh. “One always wonders, doesn’t one? When it’s unexpected, I mean.” She laughed again, looking from one to the other. “It’s the sort of question Sherlock Holmes would ask.”
Dimity looked up to see that Elsa was standing with the kettle in her hand, listening intently to the conversation. “Thank you, Elsa,” Dimity said, taking the kettle. “That will be all for the moment.” When Elsa had reluctantly left the room, Dimity returned to the conversation.
“I should have thought, Rose,” Miss Crabbe was saying, “that your children would keep you so busy that you wouldn’t have time for those silly detective stories.”
“Oh, but they’re such fun, Miss Crabbe,” Rose protested. “Everyone likes a mystery. And surely there’s no harm in a little entertainment.”
“The harm is in wasting one’s time,” Miss Crabbe replied sternly. “One should read to improve one’s mind, not just to entertain oneself. For instance, I am reading a wonderful book about genealogy, called—” She frowned. “Bother. I can’t remember
“Confusing, is what it is,” Mathilda Crook said, with a frown. “Things ought to be t’ same as they are. ”
“It’s artistic license, Mathilda,” Margaret Nash commented. “In pictures, things are never exactly as they are in real life.”
“And here is Bertha Stubbs’s parlor,” the vicar went on hurriedly, turning the page, “with Miranda Rollins’s little dog Duchess climbing up to look into the cupboard for the mouse pie. Why, it is exact in every detail, down to the red cushion on Mrs. Stubbs’s loveseat.” He turned another page. “And here is Duchess and Bertha Stubb’s tabby cat Crumpet—whom you will recognize even though she is called Ribby Pipstone—sitting down to a fine mouse pie.”
Miss Crabbe frowned over Miss Potter’s left shoulder. “But this is not Duchess,” she said, planting a disapproving finger on the drawing of the dog. “This is Darkie, for she has a black coat, whilst Duchess is brown. And why has the cat’s name been changed, I wonder. If one is drawing from life, one should render one’s subjects exactly.”
Dimity saw that Miss Potter’s cheeks were by now quite red. “I think,” she said, coming quickly to the rescue, “that Duchess is a prettier name for a story-book character than Darkie. And Ribby Pipstone is a very clever name.” Then, with a hasty change of subject, she added, “You had a lovely morning for a walk around Hill Top Farm, Miss Potter. Did you find everything as you expected it?”
“Yes,” Miss Potter replied. “It’s a beautiful place. Mr. Jennings and I discussed some repairs to the dairy and the pigsty. I should like to enlarge the garden, too, although perhaps not right away.”
Miss Crabbe sat down on the sofa beside Margaret Nash. “I suppose the Jenningses will be leaving.” She pursed her lips disapprovingly. “Where are they to go? There are no cottages to let nearby.”
Miss Potter gave her a direct look. “I’ve asked them to stay on,” she said, “although we shall have to work out the details of living arrangements.”
“Perhaps,” Rose Sutton ventured, “they could take Miss Tolliver’s cottage. She died, as I suppose you know, very suddenly and mysteriously, only last week.”
Miss Potter cleared her throat. “Yes, I know,” she said in a low voice. “It was quite a shock to hear of her death.”
“What did she die of?” Rose asked Dimity. “I don’t think I heard.”
“That’s what we’d all like t’ know,” Mathilda remarked in a meaningful tone. “Nivver sick a day in her life.”
“It was her heart, Dr. Butters said,” Dimity replied, picking up the plate of sponge cakes that Elsa had just put down. “More cake, Vicar?”
“It wasn’t poison, then,” Rose said, and gave a nervous little laugh. “One always wonders, doesn’t one? When it’s unexpected, I mean.” She laughed again, looking from one to the other. “It’s the sort of question Sherlock Holmes would ask.”
Dimity looked up to see that Elsa was standing with the kettle in her hand, listening intently to the conversation. “Thank you, Elsa,” Dimity said, taking the kettle. “That will be all for the moment.” When Elsa had reluctantly left the room, Dimity returned to the conversation.
“I should have thought, Rose,” Miss Crabbe was saying, “that your children would keep you so busy that you wouldn’t have time for those silly detective stories.”
“Oh, but they’re such fun, Miss Crabbe,” Rose protested. “Everyone likes a mystery. And surely there’s no harm in a little entertainment.”
“The harm is in wasting one’s time,” Miss Crabbe replied sternly. “One should read to improve one’s mind, not just to entertain oneself. For instance, I am reading a wonderful book about genealogy, called—” She frowned. “Bother. I can’t remember
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