She had spent the afternoon in the garden, planting lilacs and rhododendrons and a red fuchsia, which she had bought from a nursery in Windermere. The plants should probably have gone into the ground in late fall, but she hadn’t been able to get down from London. Her parents—her father was nearly eighty and her mother in her seventies—had a large house there, and required her attention. The more she wanted to get away, the more they found they needed her.

But finally Beatrix had put her foot down. She told her parents that she wanted to spend a few quiet days to herself, in order to work out ideas for her next book, The Tale of Mr. Tod, the latest book in a series that had begun some ten years before, with The Tale of Peter Rabbit. This was partly true, although she had another reason (a more intensely personal and secret reason) for coming to the farm just now. A reason that—

But never mind: we’ll get to that later. Suffice it for now to say that Beatrix always loved coming to Hill Top, which she had come to think of as her home in the six years she had owned the farm. It was all very beautiful and dear to her—the green meadows and woodlands and gardens and orchard and house and barn and all the animals—and she longed for it when she had to go back to dirty, sooty, smoky London, where she invariably came down with a stuffy cold the minute she stepped off the train.

Mr. and Mrs. Potter, I am sorry to say, did not happily let their only daughter go, and this departure, like every other one, seemed to precipitate a great crisis. Her mother simply couldn’t understand what she saw in the sleepy little village of Near Sawrey. “But there is no society there, Beatrix!” Mrs. Potter complained (although “no society” was exactly what Beatrix wanted). And her father thought the farm a silly burden for a woman and the house itself “exceedingly plain and severe,” without electric lights or a telephone.

Mr. Potter was very right. Hill Top was plain and severe—and still is, as you can see for yourself when you visit there, for the National Trust (to whom Beatrix donated Hill Top Farm) keeps the old farmhouse just as it was during Beatrix’s time. The outside is still plastered with a pebbly mortar and painted with the gray limewash that is traditional in the area. The eight-over-eight windows still march symmetrically across the front of the house, which also features a peaked porch constructed of blue slate from a local quarry. The steep roof is covered with the same blue slate, and the chimneys still wear those peaked slate caps that always reminded Beatrix of schoolboys lined up in a row.

Beatrix herself had made many changes, although none that altered the traditional style of the house and farm. When she bought the place in 1905, it had required quite a lot of fixing. To satisfy the needs of the barnyard animals—cows, pigs, sheep, chickens, and ducks—she repaired the barn, the dairy, and the fences. To accommodate the Jennings family (Mr. and Mrs. Jennings cared for the farm and the garden in her absence), she added on several rooms and a new water system. She also built a detached kitchen at the edge of the garden, where Mrs. Jennings baked and cooked meals for everyone.

In her own part of the house, Beatrix had pulled down a partition in the main room and papered the walls in an airy green print, then laid a sea-grass rug that covered most of the floor and a smaller, shaggy blue one in front of the cast-iron range. Red curtains and a red geranium at the window, the fire on the hearth, and an antique oak cupboard for her collection of dishes delighted her with their hominess. The other rooms suited her, too: the downstairs parlor with its formal marble fireplace and richly paneled walls; her bedroom upstairs, with its window overlooking the farmyard and garden; and the treasure room, where she kept her collection of favorite things. Room by room and altogether, Beatrix felt that the house was perfect in every way. Her heart told her that this was home, and she cherished the quiet days and nights she spent here.

But today had not been nearly as quiet as she had come to expect. In fact, it had been disconcertingly noisy. The first disturbance had come early that morning, when the silence was shattered by the dull, hollow boom of a massive explosion. Mr. Jennings said that it must be the gunpowder works at Blackbeck, some ten miles away, near Haverthwaite. When Beatrix took the post to the village post office, Lucy Skead, the postmistress, told her that, yes, indeed, the works had blown up. Tragically, two men were dead and a half-dozen more were seriously hurt. Making gunpowder was a dangerous business, but all the works in England seemed to be gearing up to produce more powder and shells, for fear of war with the Germans. For Beatrix, a longtime pacifist who hated the thought of war, it was altogether unsettling.

Beatrix picked up the kettle and put it on the range, which was built into the fireplace alcove next to the open fire. (If you want to see how this looks, you can find pictures of it in The Roly-Poly Pudding, where a kitten named Tom Twitchit narrowly escapes being baked.) She took down a teapot and spooned in loose tea, then spread the red-checked gingham cloth on the table and set out a loaf of Sarah Barwick’s fresh-baked bread, butter from the morning’s churning, and the pot of blackberry jam Dimity Kittredge had given her. When the kettle boiled, she made her tea, then ate her bread and butter and jam with an intense pleasure, very grateful for the quiet. The aeroplane—the second loud disturbance that had marred her day—had thankfully stopped flying and gone away to its barn or its hangar or wherever aeroplanes go when they come down out of the air.

Now, I am sure you have already guessed that the alien airborne creature that so perplexed Professor Owl was an aeroplane. You are, after all, a modern person. You have seen many aeroplanes in your life and have most likely flown in quite a few. We live in an airborne age, and it is as easy for us to take to the skies as it is to ride in a high-speed train or drive in our automobiles across the country.

But I’m also sure that you can forgive the Professor for mistakenly thinking that the aeroplane was some sort of bird. He had never seen a flying machine and did not even know it existed. And indeed it had not, until just eight years before. In March 1903, American bicycle shop owners Orville and Wilbur Wright assembled one and flew it. The idea took off immediately, so to speak, but it was five years—in 1908—before the first aeroplane was successfully flown in England. By 1912, at the time of our story, the Admiralty was considering its use as a possible military weapon. City folk were acquainted with aeroplanes, but most people in rural England (let alone most owls!) had never seen one.

Beatrix was not an antiprogressive, and she had no complaint about aeroplanes so long as they kept to the skies above London. With the racket of motor lorries, the hooting of automobile horns, and the clatter of horses’ hooves, the city was already so noisy that the aeroplane’s buzz could scarcely be heard amidst the din. But here, in the peace of the countryside, the aeroplane’s noise was a different matter altogether, and deeply, deeply annoying. Not only did it intrude on her private thoughts, but it reminded her (as did the gunpowder works explosion) that the world—or at least the part of the world that the Admiralty was in charge of—was preparing for war.

She was still thinking of these unsettling matters when she finished her tea, put away the tea things, and got out a pen, ink bottle, and paper. Then she lit the paraffin lamp and settled down to write a letter to her closest friend, Millie Warne.

Millie was Norman’s sister—Norman Warne, her own first, sweet love, who had died just a month after their engagement, some six years before. The loss had been devastating, but Beatrix was a practical woman, and although she felt she could never recover, she had gathered up the pieces of her shattered life and gone on. Thanks to Hill Top Farm, which had given her a new challenge to dream about and work for, she had begun to put the loss behind. And thanks to Will Heelis, who had helped to heal her heart and—

But that was another story, not an entirely happy one, and certainly not a story that she was anxious to share with Millie. Not just yet, anyway. She might have to, someday, when she could think of an easy way to tell it. But not today.

So she wrote about the weather (always a safe subject) and the noise. “Today was mild & pleasant—except for two noises.” She described the explosion at the gunpowder works, and added: “The other disturbance moved me to bad language. There is a beastly fly-swimming spluttering aeroplane careering up & down over Windermere; it makes a noise like ten million bluebottles.”

She dipped her pen in the ink bottle and continued, frowning as she wrote. “It is an irritating noise here, a mile off; it must be horrible in Bowness.” (Bowness, if you don’t know it, is a picturesque town on the east side of Windermere, quite near to the place where the aeroplane was based.) “It seems to be flying very well; but I am extremely sorry it has succeeded. It will very much spoil the Lake. It has been buzzing up and down for hours today, and it has already caused a horse to bolt & smashed a tradesman’s cart.”

This was something else she had heard at the post office that morning. The plane—which apparently took off and landed on the water (the reason for the Admiralty’s interest, she supposed)—had buzzed low over the ferry landing on the eastern side of the lake. A drowsy old horse pulling a cart piled with empty beer kegs had taken fright and galloped off, smashing the cart to bits against a stone wall and sending cartman and beer kegs bouncing top over teakettle across the grass. (The horse is not to be blamed, certainly. He could not have expected to be attacked by a flying thrashing machine, like a dragon swooping out of the sky. No wonder the poor old fellow bolted.)

Beatrix added a sentence about the shrubs she had planted in the garden and was signing her initials (“Yours aff HBP”), when someone knocked at the door. When she opened it, she was delighted to see Mrs. Grace Lythecoe, who lived in Rose Cottage, across Kendal Road, on the other side of the village shop. With Mrs. Lythecoe were two of the village cats, Tabitha Twitchit and Crumpet.

“Is this a bad time to call?” Grace asked tentatively. “I haven’t interrupted anything, I hope.”

“No, of course not,” Beatrix said, and stepped aside to welcome her guest. “How very nice to see you, Grace! You’ve had your tea?”

“I’ve had a bite to eat, but I wouldn’t say no to a cup.” Grace stepped into the room and unbuttoned her navy blue coat. Taking it off, she looked down at the two cats who had come inside with her. “Oh, dear. Tabitha is staying with me now—she must have followed me here, and I seem to have let her in. Crumpet, too. Do you mind? Shall I put them out?”

“Oh, please, no, Miss Potter!” cried Tabitha Twitchit, an older calico cat with an orange-and-white bib and fluffy fur and tail. “My paws are cold, and I’d love to curl up by the hearth.”

“If Miss Potter doesn’t mind,” said Crumpet sharply, ready as always to correct Tabitha’s manners. Crumpet was a handsome gray tabby, sleeker and younger than Tabitha. She wore a gold bell on her red leather collar and lived with Bertha and Henry Stubbs in one of the Lakefield cottages. Bertha, a rather rotund person who enjoyed causing trouble, was one of the village’s most colorful characters.

Beatrix laughed. “I don’t mind at all. In fact, I’d be glad if the cats would have a look around. They might find a little something in the cupboards to amuse them. I’m sad to say that the Jenningses’ cat is an indolent creature who has no interest in patrolling for mice.”

“You’re certainly right about that,” Tabitha remarked in a judgmental tone. “Felicia Frummety is the laziest cat in the village.” She went to the hearth, where she stretched out full length and basked in the heat.

“Pot calling the kettle black,” Crumpet muttered, and went round the table to the open cupboard.

“Seniority, my dear,” purred Tabitha smugly, and licked a paw. “I have killed more mice in my lifetime than you younger cats have seen or smelled. I am entitled to a spot *of warm hearth now and then. But feel free to sniff out all the mice you like.”

Which, from Tabitha’s point of view, was a perfectly appropriate response. Having spent many years engaged as Chief Mouser in various homes in the village, she was currently living at Rose Cottage, where Mrs. Lythecoe kept her generously supplied with bread and milk in return for ridding the place of mice. But Tabitha was a clever cat and knew by long experience that a good bargain tasted better than a mouthful of musty mouse. So she had negotiated a quid-pro-quo contract with the Rose Cottage mice. They would pack their furniture and their belongings and take the children and move out to the shed at the foot of the garden, and she would pretend not to notice that they were there. You might call this blackmail, or even extortion, but it does not seem so to Tabitha, or to the mice, for that matter. It is just another gambit in the age-old game of cat and mouse.

“Just listen to those cats carry on,” Grace said, hanging up her coat beside Beatrix’s. “You’d think they were having a conversation.”

“I’m sure they are,” Beatrix remarked. She put her writing supplies away and refilled the teapot with hot water from the kettle. “Our tea will be ready in a jiffy,” she added. “Now, sit and catch me up on all the news, Grace. I’ve only just come down from London the day before yesterday and have been too busy with the farm and the garden to see anyone but Lucy Skead, at the post office.”

Grace chuckled. “If you’ve seen Lucy, you’ve probably heard most of the news.”

She pulled out a chair at the table and sat down. She was a woman of late middle age, dressed in a neat gray skirt, white blouse, and blue knitted jumper, and her dark, silver-streaked hair was twisted into a knot at the back of her head. The widow of the former vicar (that is, the vicar at St. Peter’s before Vicar Sackett came there), Grace had lived in the village for a number of years and was much respected by everyone. Well, almost everyone. If you are at all acquainted with villages, you will know that at least one person in every village bears a grudge, sometimes silently, sometimes not.

“Perhaps you could tell me about the aeroplane,” Beatrix suggested. “Lucy was interrupted before she could say more than a few words.”

“Oh, that aeroplane!” Tabitha exclaimed, and switched her tail. “Noisy, wretched, ugly machine! Why the Big Folk want to build such ridiculous contraptions is beyond me.”

Tabitha always held decided opinions about everything, but in this case, she was voicing the opinion of all the village animals, who had devoted a great deal of heated discussion to the subject since the contraption had appeared. Mostly, it flew up and down Windermere, but it made occasional sorties over the land. And anyway, the noise was so loud that it could be heard for miles. It echoed off the hills and fells and (especially since the animals were not accustomed to loud mechanical noises) always sounded as if it were directly overhead. At first, the dogs and cats had run for cover, thinking that they were under attack. And the birds . . . well, the poor birds could not for the life of them make any sense of the thing. You know how excitable birds are. They fled for their lives, chirping and screeching, shouting that the awful creature was about to gobble them up.

“Ah, that aeroplane.” Grace sighed. “Or rather, hydroplane, as we are supposed to call it, since it lands and takes off from the water. You’ve heard the beastly thing, then, have you?”

“Beastly!” Crumpet growled, coming out of the cupboard. “Really, Mrs. Lythecoe, I do wish you wouldn’t use that word. We beasts have nothing at all to do with that mechanical monster. It’s entirely a man-made invention.”

“Heard it?” Beatrix made a wry face. “I couldn’t not hear it, Grace. I spent the afternoon in the garden, and that infernal buzzing drowned out every other noise. It utterly destroys the peace of the landscape.”

“It’s even worse for cats than for people, Miss Potter,” Tabitha put in. “Our hearing is remarkably keen, you know. We are terribly sensitive to noise.” To Crumpet, she added, with a superior look, “I see that you couldn’t manage to find a mouse.”

“There’s not one to be seen,” Crumpet grumbled. “Maybe Felicity’s mended her ways.”

Beatrix eyed the cats, chuckling. “I’m sorry you were disappointed, Crumpet. Perhaps Mrs. Jennings has been setting mousetraps whilst I’ve been gone. A little milk might make you feel better.” Suiting the deed to the word, she put down a saucer and filled it with milk from the jug. “Tabitha, you can share it, too.”

“Thank you, Miss Potter,” the cats chorused, and settled down to lap up the milk. They had learnt long ago that most of the Big People could not understand what they said. (This does not include young children, of course, who often know exactly what the cats and dogs are talking about.) But Miss Potter was an exception. Whether it was because she had such a long experience of drawing cats and mice and ducks and dogs and foxes for her little books, or because she had some sort of natural affinity for animals and listened carefully when they spoke, she often appeared to know what they were saying. Not the exact words, perhaps, but the gist of it.

Beatrix poured tea into two cups, then set out sugar, milk, and lemon. “That hydroplane—it wasn’t flying when I was here last, Grace. How long has this been going on?”

“About three weeks,” Grace replied. “It has been flown almost every day, even on Sunday, and during Sunday services. St. Peter’s is much nearer the lake, of course, and the pilot has occasionally flown over the church.”

“Over the church!” Beatrix exclaimed. “How terribly annoying for everyone. But surely there’s something that can be done. Has anyone spoken to Captain Woodcock? As justice of the peace, he ought to be able to put a stop to it.”

“Unfortunately, the flights take off and land near the eastern shore of the lake, outside of the captain’s jurisdiction.” Grace dropped a sugar cube into her tea. “And I’m afraid that he isn’t so opposed to the thing as the rest of us. He’s a military man, you know. The hydroplane is said—by its developer, anyway—to have scientific and military importance.”

“Scientific,” Beatrix muttered darkly. “The science of noise, I suppose. Who is this ‘developer’? Someone from London, I suppose, who doesn’t care to preserve the serenity of the Lakes.”

Grace stirred her tea. “Oddly enough, he’s a local gentleman. Fred Baum, whom I think you know. He’s a neighbor of Dimity and Christopher Kittredge, at Raven Hall. He’s the one who’s putting up the money to build and fly the aeroplane.”

“Mr. Baum!” Beatrix exclaimed. “I wouldn’t have thought it. Yes, we met at Raven Hall after Dimity’s marriage to Major Kittredge.” She took a sip of tea. “He certainly seemed nice enough, although a little abstracted—and well, rather whimsical. I had no idea that he had any interest in aeroplanes.”

“Whimsical.” Grace laughed. “Such a tactful way of saying that he’s an eccentric, Beatrix. But he hadn’t any interest in aeroplanes, or so I understand—until a man named Oscar Wyatt came along with the idea. Mr. Wyatt is a pilot and aeroplane builder. He had the notion, apparently, that it is safer for aeroplanes to take off and land on water, rather than on the ground, and was looking for someone to put up the money. Mr. Baum has invested in the project and seems very enthusiastic about it. They built the plane in Manchester and then brought it here, or rather, to Cockshott Point, across the lake. They’ve constructed quite a large shed there—they call it a hangar—and are said to be manufacturing a second plane.” She made a face. “So there will be two of them flying around.”

“Oh, dear,” Beatrix said, her eyes widening in alarm. “Cockshott Point is quite a lovely place. It’s too bad for it to be used in this way.” She set down her cup. “And two of the wretched things! What if they both fly at once? And commence flying over the village? However will people manage to shut out the noise?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Grace said. “There’s to be a village meeting at the Tower Bank Arms tomorrow evening. I plan to attend—and I understand that Mr. Baum will be there to answer questions. Perhaps you will come?”

“I certainly shall,” Beatrix said warmly. She pulled her brows together, thinking. “I wonder if anyone has informed Lady Longford of the meeting. Her opinion carries a great deal of weight in the district. Perhaps she could convince Mr. Baum to fly his hydroplane somewhere else—over the ocean, preferably, where there’s no one to be bothered.”

“Perhaps,” Grace agreed, somewhat dubiously. “If she cared enough to have an opinion. Do you think you might invite her to the meeting, Beatrix? She seems to listen to you.” Lady Longford, who lived a rather aloof life at Tidmarsh Manor, was not known for her support of village concerns. More often, she seemed to turn her back on what the villagers wanted, or even go contrary to their wishes, as if she wanted to spite them.

“I’ll try,” Beatrix said. “I intended to visit her tomorrow, anyway. I understand that Caroline is at home between terms, and I’m hoping to see her.” Lady Longford’s granddaughter, a favorite of Beatrix’s, was studying composition at the Royal Academy of Music.

“Good,” Grace said. She put down her cup and leaned forward, her gray eyes somber. “But that’s not why I dropped in today, Beatrix. I’m deeply troubled about something—something personal and rather private.” She hesitated, biting her lip. “I’m afraid it might require a bit of . . . well, I suppose you might call it detective work.”

Now, if this request seems a bit odd, coming out of the blue as it does, perhaps I should remind you that our Miss Potter has been instrumental in solving several village mysteries. The theft of the Constable miniature painting from Anvil Cottage, the mysterious death of poor old Ben Hornby on Holly How, the identity of the baby left in a basket at Hill Top’s door, and (most recently) the fires at Applebeck Farm—these are some of the puzzles that have been handily solved by Miss Potter. In fact, in the six years the villagers have known her, she has earned quite a local reputation for her investigative prowess, although I’m sure that she herself wouldn’t call it that. If we were to ask, she would only say (quite modestly) that she simply used her eyes and her brain and put two and two together when called upon to do so. Any thoughtful person could have arrived at the same conclusions, if he or she had put half a mind to the task. But even Captain Woodcock had felt compelled to accuse Miss Potter of exercising supernatural powers of observation, and to remark that she was easily the equal of Sherlock Holmes.

“Detective work!” Beatrix exclaimed, taken seriously aback by the look on her friend’s face. “Why, Grace—you look frightened. Whatever is the matter? What can I do?”

“I am frightened, a little,” Grace said in a low voice. She looked down. “I suppose I should start by telling you that Vicar Sackett has asked me to marry him.”

Tabitha, full of milk and half-dozing by the fire, suddenly woke up. “You see there, Crumpet?” she crowed. “I told you that Mrs. Lythecoe and the vicar are getting married, and you wouldn’t believe me.”

“I apologize, Tabitha,” Crumpet said. She harrumphed. “I should have known that you were telling the truth. You’re the biggest eavesdropper I’ve ever seen.”

“I am not an eavesdropper!” Tabitha retorted huffily. “I was sitting in the very same room when he asked her, warming my paws at the fire.” She sighed. “It’s such a wonderful match, don’t you think?” A sentimental cat, Tabitha had lost her mate many years before and mourned him ever since. “The vicar is a bit dithery, but he has always been one of my favorite people. And Mrs. Lythecoe is . . . well, there’s no one nicer. She is the soul of generosity, especially when it comes to table scraps.”

“They’ll make a good team,” Crumpet agreed, sitting on her haunches and wiping her milky whiskers with her paw. “As a former vicar’s wife, she certainly knows what she’s letting herself in for. And of course, the parish will be pleased.”

I daresay that Crumpet is right. Everyone in Claife Parish agrees that the vicar is a wonderful man who has the very best interests of his parishioners at heart. But they also know that the parish is sorely in want of a vicar’s wife, who will bring her woman’s touch to their spiritual community. It is, after all, not quite the thing for the vicar to organize the monthly jumble sale, especially when he’s not all that well organized himself.

Beatrix clapped her hands delightedly. “The vicar has asked you to marry him? This is exciting news, Grace! I do hope you’ve said yes. When will the wedding take place?”

“We were planning to marry on April twentieth. The banns have already been read.” Grace fished in her jumper pocket for a handkerchief and blew her nose. “But I’m afraid there are . . . complications.”

“Complications?” Beatrix studied her friend, frowning. “Vicar Sackett is a wonderful man, Grace. You’ve known each other for ten years or so, and I’m sure that the two of you would be very happy together. What in the world can you mean by ‘complications’? If you love each other and agree that you want to marry, whatever would prevent you?”

There was a note of envy and perhaps even exasperation in Beatrix’s voice. She herself had been prevented by her parents from marrying Norman Warne, whom they judged “not good enough” for their daughter. An editor who worked at his family’s publishing house and shepherded Beatrix’s books into print, Norman belonged to a different social class than the status-conscious Potters—although, of course, that was not their only reason. They intended to keep their only daughter at home, so that she could look after them in their old age, and had been secretly gratified when Norman had suddenly died. So Beatrix had pretty much resigned herself to being a spinster. Hill Top Farm and her children’s books had given her some of the freedom she craved, but she feared that she could never marry. Not, at least, as long as her parents were alive. And although they were both old and often in ill health, neither showed signs of a serious illness or any indication of reconsidering their resolve. Even now, when Will Heelis was pressing her to . . . but there. I’ve gone too far again. I’m sorry, but that part of our story will just have to wait.

Grace twisted her handkerchief. “I know I can count on you not to speak of this to anyone else,” she said. Her voice was now so low that Beatrix could almost not hear her words. “I haven’t even told the vicar about ...” She pulled in her breath. “I’ve only told him that I think it might be prudent to delay our wedding a little. He would be devastated if he knew the truth.”

“Uh-oh,” Tabitha said, her eyes very dark.

Crumpet looked up. “Uh-oh what?”

Tabitha shook her head. Her tail twitched from side to side. “I knew that Mrs. Lythecoe was very upset when she got those letters,” she said in a low voice, “and now I know why. It’s blackmail.”

“If he knew about what?” Beatrix asked. She leaned forward and took her friend’s hand. “My dear Grace, surely there is nothing that would keep you and the vicar from—”

“Letters.” Grace turned her face away. “Anonymous letters, unsigned. Saying . . . hateful things.”

“Anonymous letters?” Crumpet was staring at Tabitha. “You knew this? You knew about these letters and you didn’t tell me?”

“I don’t have to tell you everything, do I?” Tabitha retorted.

“But you knew!” Crumpet wailed disconsolately. “Why, you probably even know who’s writing those letters! And you didn’t say a word!”

Tabitha gave her a cross look. “If I told you what I know, the story would be all over the village in no time. You’d never be able to keep quiet about something this important.”

Now, you might be wondering just what Tabitha knows and how she found it out, and so (I confess) am I. But I must remind us that whilst she may be getting on in years, she is still a highly competitive cat who takes every opportunity to gain the upper paw over Crumpet—and all the other village cats, as well. I am really very sorry, but I can’t tell you whether what Tabitha said just now—what she implied, actually—remotely resembles the truth. She might know something important. In fact, she might even know who is writing those letters. But then again, she might not. Tabitha is not above telling a very large fib just to make herself look and feel important.

Crumpet, however, took Tabitha at her word. Stung, she sat up on her haunches. “That’s stuff and nonsense,” she spit. “I can keep a secret as well as the next cat!”

“Oh, really?” Tabitha snarled. “Then how did Rascal find out about what happened in the kitchen at Tower Bank House last week? I told you in the strictest confidence. You promised not to tell a soul! And the next thing I knew, all the animals were talking about it. Why, even Max the Manx had heard the story, all the way over in Far Sawrey.”

Crumpet shrilled a laugh. “What makes you think I’m the one who told? It could have been anybody. It could have been—”

“Hush!” Beatrix commanded sternly. “If you cats can’t be quiet, you’re going outdoors.” To Grace, she said, “I am so sorry to hear about this, Grace. It must be perfectly dreadful for you. But surely you ought to just ignore the letters and go on about the business of making yourself and the vicar very happy—as I’m sure you will.”

“Ignore them?” Grace cried. “How can I ignore them, Beatrix? Anyway, it’s not as if I actually believed anything the writer says—although there’s nothing very definite, just ugly hints. And of course, there’s not a shred of truth in any of it. But that’s worse, don’t you see? Whoever is writing these things, he’s making them up. And if he isn’t stopped, he might do something worse. He might spread a rumor, or tell a tale. And you know what villages are like. Once somebody hears a whisper of scandal, it’s all over the place in no time. Something like that would hurt the vicar’s reputation. Could damage it irretrievably.”

Beatrix considered that for a moment. “I suppose you might be right,” she said reluctantly. “Although it’s hard to believe that anyone who knows you and the vicar could do something like this.”

Grace nodded miserably, twisting her handkerchief in her fingers. “That’s almost the worst of it, you know. Walking through the village, wondering who it is. Wondering what will come next.” She stopped, and her voice became firmer. “That’s what I want you to do for me, Beatrix. Find out who’s writing these letters and make them stop. Please. You must.”

“Now, that’s a good idea,” Crumpet said approvingly. “After all, Miss Potter has solved more than one of our local mysteries.”

Tabitha could not disagree with this, for it was true. Miss Potter seemed to have some sort of sixth sense where secrets were concerned.

Beatrix frowned. “Have you discussed this with Captain Woodcock? I’m sure there must be some sort of law against—”

“But I can’t, don’t you see?” Grace interrupted. “The captain would insist on conducting an investigation, and he couldn’t do it privately. Word of it would be sure to get out. I can’t take that risk.”

“Well, then,” Beatrix asked reasonably, “how about talking it over with the vicar? He might have an idea about—”

“Oh, dear, no!” Grace’s eyes widened and she gave her head a hard shake. “I could never do that. You know him, Beatrix. Samuel . . . Reverend Sackett is such a gentleman, so tenderhearted. He would be terribly hurt to think that someone—one of his parishioners, most likely—was writing such poisonous letters. He mustn’t know, ever.”

“But what if—” Beatrix was about to ask what would happen if something the letter writer had said turned out to be true, but Grace put up a hand, stopping her.

“I’m sorry, Beatrix,” she said miserably. “I know this is very difficult, and I am so sorry to impose on you in this way. But I can’t think of anyone else who can help me—anyone I can trust. Will you?”

“Poor Miss Potter,” Crumpet said. “It sounds like an unsolvable mystery. Where will she even begin?”

Beatrix sighed. Anonymous letters, poisonous messages, unhappy secrets, a furtive investigation into something ugly and nasty. It wasn’t the sort of thing she wanted to be involved in. But Grace Lythecoe had been kind to her when she needed a friend. Vicar Sackett was a very good man. And of course, Grace was right. Someone who would write poisoned pen letters might be driven to do something that would cause real and lasting harm. That shouldn’t be allowed to happen, Beatrix thought bleakly. And if the situation were reversed, if she were in this sort of trouble—in any trouble, really—she knew that Grace would do whatever she could to help.

“Well, I suppose,” she said slowly. “Yes, of course, Grace. I’ll help.”

“Very good!” Crumpet exclaimed. “So brave of you, Miss Potter!”

“Our Miss Potter,” Tabitha said. “On the case.”

“But I’ll need to see the letters,” Beatrix went on. “How many are there? Did you bring them with you?”

Grace shook her head numbly. “There are three. The most recent came just last week. But I didn’t think it was wise to carry them around. They’re at my house. I’ve hidden them in a safe place.”

“I see,” Beatrix said. She straightened her shoulders and added briskly, “Well, then, I suppose I ought to go to Rose Cottage with you and read them, don’t you think?”

“Oh, would you?” Grace asked eagerly. “Beatrix, I don’t know how I can ever thank you.”

“You mustn’t expect too much, Grace,” Beatrix replied in a cautionary tone. “I may not be able to help at all. And in the end—” She stopped.

“In the end what?” Tabitha asked.

“Yes, what?” Crumpet demanded.

But Beatrix didn’t finish the sentence. She had been about to say that in the end, even if she was able to find out who was writing the letters and why, Grace might not have cause to thank her.

Where secrets of the heart were concerned, Beatrix had learnt that the truth—even when it could be uncovered—was not always welcome. Sometimes, it was better not to know.