Free The Tale of Castle Cottage by Susan Wittig Albert

forlorn daisies nearly smothered with weeds. There was a broken urn, pieces scattered on the ground, and nearby was a wooden bench, the slats splintered. But worst of all were the untidy stacks of boards and piles of roof slates and plumbing pipes and other building materials. Surely there ought to be a neater way to store supplies—in the barn, perhaps, where they would be out of the weather. And the rubble ought to go into the dustbin, oughtn’t it? The place was a mess. Simply a mess.
    Beatrix had paid a great deal less for Castle Farm than she had paid for Hill Top, and even though the buildings and fences all needed improvements, she thought it a very good buy at the price—only £1,573, not counting her investment in repair and renovation. Its twenty acres adjoined some she had already purchased and included some pastures and a pretty woods. Will, who had arranged the purchase, suggested that she allow the tenants to stay on, which she had done for a time, and their rents had paid some of the bills. But when the necessary renovations to the barns and outbuildings and drains were finished and it was time to begin on the house, she had helped them find another place. Castle Cottage was now vacant—a very good thing, she thought as she looked around, for it would be impossible for anyone to live with this construction mess and noise all around them.
    Noise. Beatrix cocked her head, but if she was hoping to hear the sound of busy hammers and industrious saws, she was disappointed. There was nothing at all to be heard except the sound of men’s rough laughter. As she picked her way through the littered garden and around the corner of the house, she saw them. It was well past lunching, but two workmen were sitting on a pile of rubble, smoking and trading jokes. Mr. Maguire, who was supposed to make sure that the crew stayed on the job and did the work the way it was meant to be done, was nowhere in sight, nor was Mr. Biddle.
    This was most annoying, she thought, frowning. She hated confrontations, but it was time she had a talk with Mr. Biddle. There was Sarah’s unsettling report about the theft of the door handles. And there were Mrs. Rosier’s ominous hints of something amiss. She squared her shoulders. She had several urgent questions for the man. Their conversation must not be put off.
    At that moment, the two workers looked up and saw her and elbowed one another into silence. One—a bearded fellow in a leather jerkin over a dirty blue work shirt—lifted a tin cup in salute.
    “Halloo there, missus,” he called. “Fine afternoon, ain’t it?” Both of them burst out laughing uproariously, as if he had said something very clever and funny.
    At that moment, a man came around the corner and spoke sharply to the fellows, then turned and came toward Beatrix. It was Mr. Maguire, Mr. Biddle’s second-in-command, with whom Beatrix had spoken a time or two. He was a lean, sinewy man with dark hair and powerful arms, his bare sleeves rolled past the elbows. He wore brown work pants, a leather apron with pockets for tools and nails, and he carried a folded wooden rule in his hand. He looked harassed and (she thought) rather guilty, perhaps because he smelled strongly of beer and knew he should not be drinking on the job.
    “Sorry, Miss Potter,” he said gruffly. “The men di‘n’t mean nothin’.” He paused, eyeing her. “Was you wantin’ to go in t’ house?”
    “I . . . I don’t suppose Mr. Biddle is here,” Beatrix said uncomfortably.
    Remembering what Sarah had told her, she felt stiff and awkward. Of course, Sarah herself had said that it could very well be untrue. Bertha Stubbs was very good at manufacturing news when she ran out of the real thing. Beatrix badly wanted to get to the bottom of things, which she might do by simply asking Mr. Maguire a direct question or two. But she couldn’t do that without speaking to Mr. Biddle first.
    “Mr. Biddle?” Mr. Maguire hesitated, then said, almost