was trying not to cry. And then finally she reached down and took something out of his hand. So, sir, I should have to say that he was dead.”
For a moment, Bosworth stood still, stunned. And then, unbidden, a recollection of the last time he had seen Ben Hornby sprang into the badger’s mind. From his vantage point at the top of Holly How, he had looked down and across the shoulder of the hill and glimpsed Ben at work, penning Tibbie and the other sheep in the fold.
Bosworth frowned. When was that? Evening before last, was it? And then, early yesterday morning, when he’d gone to the sheep fold to indulge himself in a breakfast of earthworms, he had found the gate open, and the sheep gone.
The badger’s frown deepened to a scowl. The sheep were gone, and their owner was dead—and not in his bed, either. Something was terribly amiss here.
The first thing that leapt into Bosworth’s mind, of course, was the suspicion that the old farmer had been the victim of thieves. Sheep stealing was a rare thing in the Land between the Lakes, but not, sadly, unknown. Why, only the year before, a dozen very fine Blue-faced Leicesters had disappeared without a trace from a meadow on the other side of Esthwaite Water, and nothing had been seen of them since. And about that same time, a farmer’s boy, on his way to market in Hawkshead with six of his father’s best Herdwick ewes, had been attacked and the sheep stolen. Yes, it had happened before, and it would undoubtedly happen again, humans being the greedy animals they were, always wanting what belonged to other humans.
“Did you notice, Parsley,” he asked somberly, “whether any of Mr. Hornby’s Herdwicks were in the neighborhood? Tibbie or Queenie or their lambs?”
Parsley shook her head, snuffling. “I didn’t stop to look. I was that frightened, you see, sir, that I ran away just as fast as my paws could carry me, and came straight home, without stopping for anything. I know that Mr. Hornby always looked out for us here at The Brockery, and I thought you would surely want to be informed. It seemed the sort of thing you’d want to make a note of. In the History, I mean.”
“Yes, of course,” Bosworth said heavily. It was true. Ben Hornby had always guarded The Brockery from any threat of disturbance, just as old Lord Longford had done when he was alive. Now that Ben was gone, who would look out for them? With a deep sense of foreboding, he added, “I’m greatly obliged for the report, Parsley. I shall make a note of it straight away.”
The badger went to the shelf, pulled down the last of the leather-bound volumes, and placed it, open, on the desk in front of him. Then, taking his quill pen in his paw, he dipped it into his silver ink pot, and set down the date. Beneath that, in his best and most careful penmanship, he wrote:
Old Ben Hornby found dead today on Holly How.
He paused and looked at Parsley. “I don’t suppose,” he said, “that there was any way for you to guess how Mr. Hornby died.”
“Oh, no, sir,” Parsley said sadly. “I just supposed that he tumbled down the cliff and hit his head on a rock. Wouldn’t you say, sir? As to how he might have come to tumble, or when, I couldn’t say, sir. It might have just happened, or he might have died some time ago.”
Bosworth sighed, and added the phrase manner of death unknown to what he had already written. After a moment’s thought, he added time of death undetermined. Then, having thought again, he dipped his quill in the ink pot once more, and wrote:
Whereabouts of 2 Herdwick ewes and 3 lambs unknown. Sheep thieves suspected.
“Thank you, Parsley,” he said, putting down his quill pen and blotting his words with a bit of green blotting paper. “I know that this has been quite a trial for you. You may go back to your work now, my dear, and we shall all look forward to a nice veal and ham pie with mushrooms for supper.” He closed the History .
Parsley took two steps toward the
For a moment, Bosworth stood still, stunned. And then, unbidden, a recollection of the last time he had seen Ben Hornby sprang into the badger’s mind. From his vantage point at the top of Holly How, he had looked down and across the shoulder of the hill and glimpsed Ben at work, penning Tibbie and the other sheep in the fold.
Bosworth frowned. When was that? Evening before last, was it? And then, early yesterday morning, when he’d gone to the sheep fold to indulge himself in a breakfast of earthworms, he had found the gate open, and the sheep gone.
The badger’s frown deepened to a scowl. The sheep were gone, and their owner was dead—and not in his bed, either. Something was terribly amiss here.
The first thing that leapt into Bosworth’s mind, of course, was the suspicion that the old farmer had been the victim of thieves. Sheep stealing was a rare thing in the Land between the Lakes, but not, sadly, unknown. Why, only the year before, a dozen very fine Blue-faced Leicesters had disappeared without a trace from a meadow on the other side of Esthwaite Water, and nothing had been seen of them since. And about that same time, a farmer’s boy, on his way to market in Hawkshead with six of his father’s best Herdwick ewes, had been attacked and the sheep stolen. Yes, it had happened before, and it would undoubtedly happen again, humans being the greedy animals they were, always wanting what belonged to other humans.
“Did you notice, Parsley,” he asked somberly, “whether any of Mr. Hornby’s Herdwicks were in the neighborhood? Tibbie or Queenie or their lambs?”
Parsley shook her head, snuffling. “I didn’t stop to look. I was that frightened, you see, sir, that I ran away just as fast as my paws could carry me, and came straight home, without stopping for anything. I know that Mr. Hornby always looked out for us here at The Brockery, and I thought you would surely want to be informed. It seemed the sort of thing you’d want to make a note of. In the History, I mean.”
“Yes, of course,” Bosworth said heavily. It was true. Ben Hornby had always guarded The Brockery from any threat of disturbance, just as old Lord Longford had done when he was alive. Now that Ben was gone, who would look out for them? With a deep sense of foreboding, he added, “I’m greatly obliged for the report, Parsley. I shall make a note of it straight away.”
The badger went to the shelf, pulled down the last of the leather-bound volumes, and placed it, open, on the desk in front of him. Then, taking his quill pen in his paw, he dipped it into his silver ink pot, and set down the date. Beneath that, in his best and most careful penmanship, he wrote:
Old Ben Hornby found dead today on Holly How.
He paused and looked at Parsley. “I don’t suppose,” he said, “that there was any way for you to guess how Mr. Hornby died.”
“Oh, no, sir,” Parsley said sadly. “I just supposed that he tumbled down the cliff and hit his head on a rock. Wouldn’t you say, sir? As to how he might have come to tumble, or when, I couldn’t say, sir. It might have just happened, or he might have died some time ago.”
Bosworth sighed, and added the phrase manner of death unknown to what he had already written. After a moment’s thought, he added time of death undetermined. Then, having thought again, he dipped his quill in the ink pot once more, and wrote:
Whereabouts of 2 Herdwick ewes and 3 lambs unknown. Sheep thieves suspected.
“Thank you, Parsley,” he said, putting down his quill pen and blotting his words with a bit of green blotting paper. “I know that this has been quite a trial for you. You may go back to your work now, my dear, and we shall all look forward to a nice veal and ham pie with mushrooms for supper.” He closed the History .
Parsley took two steps toward the
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