Book: Death in the Lambing Fold · Author: Miriam Perevell · Series: The Brackenfell Mysteries, Book 2. This original, self-contained reader extra takes place during a quiet summer interval in fictional Brackenfell, Yorkshire, in 1921.
BONUS STORY 1 — Three Feet on the Green
Nell Harwood had just explained to a farmer that a ploughshare did not become cheaper because he had broken it twice when Edie Fawcett came into the forge carrying half a tea room.
The half consisted of a copper urn, a folding iron stand, a canvas bag of cups and Ada Pritchard, who followed with a notebook.
“I am not carrying that again,” Ada announced.
“You are carrying nothing,” Edie said.
“I am carrying responsibility.”
“That weighs less than copper.”
Nell rested the ploughshare against the anvil. “If the tea room has finally collapsed, I recommend a mason.”
“The tea room is sound,” Edie replied. “The village green is defective.”
“Most people have suspected that for years.”
Edie put the urn on the bench. It was broad, heavy, and polished with a determination that Nell associated with people trying to impress a visiting aunt. The iron stand beneath Ada’s arm had four narrow legs and a circular frame. Nothing looked particularly ill.
“We are providing tea at St Hilda’s summer gathering on Saturday,” Ada said. “I have prepared a list.”
“I could have guessed.”
“The proceeds will go to necessary repairs at the church.”
“Which repairs?”
“That is being discussed.”
Nell looked at Edie.
“The committee has reached agreement that something requires repairing,” Edie said. “You mustn’t expect miracles.”
“The urn goes on this,” Ada continued, opening the stand. “But when it is put on the grass, it rocks.”
“Then put it on a table.”
“The tables are for cakes.”
“Priorities clearly established.”
“Last year,” Edie said, “a cup nearly went over a lady’s new shoes. I am not having boiled water over anybody this year. It makes conversation difficult and burns besides.”
Nell crouched beside the stand. Its four legs met the forge stones without a tremor. She pressed one corner, then the next. Sound. She turned the thing upside down and checked its joints.
“Who made it?”
“A man who came through with a cart of household wares,” Edie said.
“He knew how to put four legs on a frame.”
“He did not know how to make them useful.”
“Useful where?”
“On the green.”
Nell stood. “You have brought me a perfectly serviceable stand to complain that your field is not a floor.”
Ada consulted the notebook. “It is rather more complicated.”
“It generally is when you have written it down.”
Edie folded her arms. “Will you fix it?”
“What are you paying?”
Ada looked up, alarmed. Edie looked thoughtful.
“It is for the church,” Ada said.
“I know. The church also purchases candles instead of asking the wax to be devout.”
Edie’s mouth twitched. “Tell me what it costs.”
“First, let me determine what you need.”
She carried the empty urn and stand into the yard. The stones between the forge and the bridge were uneven, though not as changeable as turf. She set the stand where one flag had sunk. It rocked at once.
Ada pointed. “There.”
“An excellent demonstration of the ground,” Nell said.
She shifted it six inches. Now it held. Another six inches, and the opposite leg lifted.
Edie watched with the unhappy expression of a woman whose future depended upon a collection of measurements.
“You could shorten one leg.”
“Then it would rock somewhere else.”
“Put a stone beneath it.”
“A stone may shift. And nobody is putting an urn of boiling water on a contrivance that depends upon finding the right pebble.”
Nell took the urn away and folded the stand.
“I could mend the stand until it looked as straight as a ruler,” she said. “It would still be wrong for what you want.”
“Then we need a different one,” Edie said.
“Yes.”
“How many legs?”
“Three.”
Ada stared at her. “Three?”
“Four may wobble when one loses the ground. Three will meet it.”
“That sounds like subtraction.”
“Sometimes progress is.”
Edie picked up the urn. “Saturday?”
Nell thought of the work waiting inside: two horses booked for shoes, a replacement cart hook, the ploughshare, a stack of accounts, and a customer who had been threatening for a week to pay her in gratitude.
“Friday afternoon for a trial,” she said. “Saturday if the trial is satisfactory.”
Edie nodded. “I will pay your proper price.”
Ada closed her notebook with a snap. “I had supposed everyone would contribute voluntarily.”
“You can contribute the cups,” Edie told her. “Nell contributes a thing made properly. Those are not the same obligation.”
Nell looked at Edie. There were moments when a person said precisely the right thing in a manner so unreasonable that it became almost affectionate.
“I’ll draw it,” Nell said.
“Make it good-looking,” Ada added.
“I was planning to make it terrible.”
“That would be unkind.”
“It would be cheaper.”
They left her with the urn, a deadline, and three minutes of silence.
Then Ned Lister came in asking whether an engine part could be straightened with a hammer.
Nell said, “Not by you.”
He took the answer as an opening negotiation.
By Wednesday evening, Nell had made a trial stand that looked like an article of furniture designed by somebody who distrusted furniture.
Its three legs splayed outward from a circular cradle. She had shaped the top to hold the urn above its base rather than allow the copper to rock against exposed iron. The feet were broader than those of Edie’s old stand, but Nell had left herself room to change them.
The first trial was on her bench. She added clean water to the urn, a little at a time, and pressed carefully at the rim. The stand remained still.
She looked at it from three sides.
A triangle, she thought, was a useful shape. It never asked the ground to provide a fourth point in the same plane.
“You appear to be cross with it.”
Thomas Bellamy stood at the door with his veterinary case in one hand.
“Only if it moves.”
“Does it?”
“Not here.”
“An encouraging beginning.”
“Do not make it sound like praise. The thing has not been tested on grass.”
He set down his case and came to examine the stand. Thomas was careful enough not to touch the newly worked joints without asking; she noticed that, though she would not have thanked him for it.
“Three legs,” he said.
“Are you counting?”
“I have been known to.”
“Then I recommend applying the skill to sheep. They are frequently mislaid.”
“I was considering its stability.”
“Most men begin with that and finish by advising a fourth leg.”
Thomas moved around it. “I wasn’t going to.”
“That is new.”
He smiled. “It also appears very heavy.”
“The urn is heavier when filled.”
“So I imagine.”
“Useful conversation.”
“I thought you might want someone to carry it to the green.”
Nell straightened. She could carry it herself. She could also remember the two horses waiting tomorrow, the ploughshare still unpaid, and the fact that the stand was an awkward shape for one pair of arms.
“Yes,” she said.
Thomas looked faintly surprised.
“Do not make an occasion of it,” she added.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
They carried it out after Nell had extinguished the working fire and covered the urn. The green had dried unevenly following rain two days earlier. Near the church path, the soil remained soft beneath a thin skin of grass.
“This is where they want it,” Nell said.
“Are you certain?”
“Ada placed three stones to mark the location.”
“Two are together.”
“That is where the third was when Ned kicked it.”
Thomas set down his end. Nell placed the stand, turned the urn into the cradle and began to fill it from a bucket. The three feet sat firmly enough while the vessel was empty.
With half the water in, the leg nearest the path sank.
Nell stopped.
Thomas looked down. “I have discovered the disadvantage.”
“I have also discovered it.”
“Shall we pretend I said nothing?”
“You may begin now.”
The ground was not simply uneven. It was soft enough to yield under concentrated weight. A sound stand could still settle unevenly if one foot sank farther than the others.
Nell removed the water again. Thomas fetched the bucket without comment.
“We could move it nearer the path,” he suggested.
“And then a child will catch a sleeve on the tap. No.”
“Under the wall?”
“Too far from the serving tables.”
He accepted both answers. Then, after a moment, “What if the feet did not bite so deeply?”
Nell looked at him.
He lifted a hand. “I know. Veterinary thoughts have crossed into iron.”
“No,” she said slowly. “That is a sensible question.”
Thomas lowered his hand. “I must write down the date.”
She was already thinking. Broad plates beneath each foot would spread the weight across more ground. They must not leave a sharp corner to catch a shoe or curl above the turf. A low ring would keep the urn steady without making it troublesome to lift out.
She walked around the stand twice.
“I need the three feet wider,” she said, “and flatter.”
“The green remains defective?”
“Gravely.”
“Will you charge it for consultation?”
“Edie will have to. The green has no money.”
They carried the stand back to the forge. The return journey was more awkward, because her disappointment had acquired weight.
Thomas held the door while Nell backed inside.
“You could have told me the solution earlier,” she said.
“I did not know the question.”
“That is generally the difficulty.”
He put his end down carefully.
After a moment he said, “I am free Friday for the second trial.”
Nell looked up.
“You are?”
“Provided no animal forms a contrary opinion.”
“An ambitious condition.”
“I find them all ambitious.”
She did not ask why he had offered. She said only, “Four o’clock.”
He nodded. “Four.”
And left before either of them had to decide whether the arrangement was social.
On Thursday, Samuel Bell arrived carrying a piece of oak that had once been a cart-board and was now too warped for a cart.
“Thought you could use it,” he said.
“For what?”
“Stand of yours.”
“Who told you about it?”
“Edie.”
“She has converted this commission into parish news.”
“She said you’d found the ground insufficiently cooperative.”
“That is an accurate summary.”
Samuel set the wood down. “Cut it into pads.”
“I am making iron pads.”
“Wood’s easier.”
“Until it stays wet and rots, or someone shifts a loose block. The pads need to be part of the stand.”
He considered that.
“You are sure?”
“Yes.”
“Right.”
She waited for the argument. It did not arrive.
Samuel leaned against the doorway. “You might use it for something else.”
“I might.”
“It cost me nothing.”
“That is not usually how you open a conversation.”
He looked faintly injured. “I can bring something without wanting a discount.”
“Then I shall attempt to survive the surprise.”
She did use the oak, but only as a temporary board for the next test. By afternoon she had made three broad, flat iron shoes with their edges eased and their surfaces set to meet the legs securely. Rather than resting the legs on separate pieces, she fixed each foot as part of the frame. It was ugly while unfinished.
She filed, checked, and filed again.
At dusk Ada arrived to inspect progress.
“It looks like an enormous milk stool,” she said.
“It is supporting an enormous kettle.”
“Must the feet be so broad?”
“Unless you prefer them beneath the turf.”
Ada looked down at her boots. “You have made a persuasive case.”
Nell was not certain whether to be pleased. Ada Pritchard generally required an entire parish meeting before granting the smallest practical point.
“Did you bring the list?” Nell asked.
“Which list?”
“The list on which you have written everything that might go wrong.”
Ada hesitated.
Nell held out a hand.
Ada produced it from her bag.
“Wind,” Nell read. “Rain. Insufficient cups. Children running. Mr Bell offering to move the tables after they have been set. Ned’s engine. Unreliable chairs. The urn.”
“You see?”
“I see you have not included the possibility of nothing going wrong.”
“That would be irresponsible.”
Nell handed the list back. “On Saturday, somebody must stand beside the urn and serve. Nobody but a responsible adult touches the tap. You need a firm place for the cups and a clear route around the stand.”
Ada’s expression changed. This was not a warning to be worried. It was a task she could organize.
“I can do that,” she said.
“I know.”
The two words landed quietly.
For the briefest moment Ada appeared to be searching for a response that was not a correction.
“Thank you,” she said.
Nell bent over the stand before either of them could make more of it.
Friday’s trial began with Ned declaring that he had never trusted anything with three legs.
“Your lorry has four wheels,” Nell said. “How does that arrangement suit you?”
“It gets there.”
“Eventually.”
Thomas laughed. Ned refused to be diverted.
They placed the stand on the same patch of green, keeping the broad iron feet flat against the turf. This time Nell filled the urn to its expected working level while Thomas watched the frame and Ada kept everybody else away.
No foot sank.
Nell tested the rim with cautious pressure, checked the position of the tap, and made Thomas approach it as a customer might while carrying a tray. He walked where she directed, then deliberately tried the narrower side.
“Too close,” Nell said.
“I thought so.”
“You were testing me.”
“I was testing the route.”
“Same thing.”
Ada moved her stones to define the space in which the serving table would stand.
Nell looked at Edie. “The stand works. But I want it on the firmest part of the green, with the tap facing the table and no loose stools beside it. Not at the place you originally marked.”
Edie looked toward the church porch and the row of planned tables.
“That means changing the whole arrangement.”
“Yes.”
“We drew a plan.”
“A plan cannot persuade water not to scald somebody.”
Edie took a long breath.
Then she said, “Ada. Move the tables.”
Ada opened her notebook.
“Which ones?”
“All the ones in the wrong place.”
“Under whose authority?”
“Mine,” Edie said.
“That is reassuring.”
Samuel, who had only come to see how the experiment went, lifted one of the small tables.
Ned picked up another.
Thomas quietly carried the bucket away.
Nell folded her arms and watched a village reorganize itself around a tripod.
Saturday began with a mist that promised to clear and a breeze that promised nothing.
Nell walked up to St Hilda’s carrying a small tool bag. She had checked the stand twice and would have checked it again, had checking it not become a form of personal insult. She had instead brought only a spanner and the firm determination to leave before anyone volunteered her for games.
The tea tables stood in a sensible arrangement. Ada had put a short length of rope behind the serving station to discourage children from cutting through. Edie’s urn sat on the completed stand, empty and shining.
Everything looked prepared.
Nell should have been suspicious.
At half past eleven, the breeze strengthened. At noon a tablecloth lifted off one of the small tables and sailed across the green, with Ada pursuing it in a manner that suggested she intended to arrest the weather.
Ned caught one corner. Samuel caught the other.
The church gathering had begun to fill: families with baskets, elderly neighbours in their best coats, parish volunteers, and a collection of people who seemed less interested in roof repairs than in knowing whether Edie had baked currant cakes.
Edie had.
That portion of the day went well.
Then a visitor set a heavy hamper on the serving table and leaned against its edge.
The table shifted.
A cup slid toward the grass.
Nell caught it.
Edie stared.
“Your stand—”
“My stand has not moved,” Nell replied. “Your table has.”
The difference was not reassuring to somebody with tea to serve, but it mattered.
“Move the hamper,” Nell said.
The visitor apologized at once. Samuel took the basket to a separate bench, Ada recovered the cup, and Edie examined the table leg.
“The ground,” she said through her teeth.
“Still defective.”
“Don’t look pleased.”
“I am not.”
“You are a little.”
Nell adjusted the service arrangement so that the serving table did not take an uneven side-load. The urn remained on its own firm stand, beyond easy reach of children, the tap attended by Edie or another adult volunteer.
A young boy appeared at her elbow.
“Did you make it?”
“Yes.”
“Why’s it got three legs?”
“Because the ground has not been trained to provide four equal points.”
He considered this with the serious attention children sometimes gave nonsense from adults.
“Could you make one with two?”
“I could make one that fell.”
“Would it cost less?”
“Probably.”
He seemed impressed.
Thomas appeared carrying a stack of clean cups.
“You have an admirer,” he observed.
“He is negotiating a discount on collapse.”
The boy looked at Thomas. “Are you the doctor for horses?”
“Sometimes cows.”
“Can you fix a table?”
“I am beginning to suspect I ought to learn.”
Nell took two cups from him and set them where Edie wanted them.
The gathering continued. The wind troubled ribbons and hats, but the urn stood soundly. When the tea was ready, Edie kept a clear working space and served without a single frightened glance toward the grass.
By mid-afternoon, the church committee had ceased treating the stand as an object of anxiety and begun to treat it as something that belonged there. To Nell, that was the best possible compliment. A working object ought to do its duty without demanding anyone’s gratitude.
Ada approached her carrying a plate.
“Cake,” she said.
“I have not finished testing the foot nearest the path.”
“You tested it twice.”
“Three times.”
“Then this is payment for the fourth.”
Nell accepted the plate. “Are the proceeds respectable?”
“Respectable enough that the committee has begun discussing which repair to undertake first.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It is a committee,” Ada said. “Danger is built in.”
They stood watching Samuel argue with Ned over whether a trestle table ought to be carried lengthwise or sideways. Neither was holding the correct end.
Ada said, a little stiffly, “Edie is paying you from the receipts.”
“She said she would.”
“I thought you might object to taking money from the church.”
“I object to charging a church more than a fair price. I do not object to charging a fair price.”
Ada regarded the tea stand.
“It is a good one.”
“It does what it was made to do.”
“Is that not the same thing?”
“Sometimes. Not always.”
Ada handed Nell another piece of cake without comment.
Late that evening, Edie returned to Harwood Forge with the empty urn, her accounts, and an envelope.
Nell was finishing an invoice. The last of the daylight lay along the edge of the anvil, turning the polished face pale.
Edie put the envelope down.
“Your price,” she said.
Nell counted it. Exactly right.
“You have surprised me.”
“By paying a bill?”
“By paying it before I sent a second one.”
Edie leaned against the bench. “The stand did not wobble.”
“It was not supposed to.”
“The tea did not spill.”
“Also desirable.”
“Ada says the church committee has already requested a demonstration of the principles of stability at its next meeting.”
Nell looked up sharply.
“You may inform them that the principles are unavailable on Thursdays.”
“They would want to know why.”
“I shoe horses on Thursdays.”
“An excellent defence.”
Edie glanced around the forge, at the work waiting for Monday. “You could have given it to us.”
“I could.”
“You did not.”
“No.”
Edie nodded. “Good.”
Nell studied her.
“Good?”
“If the committee begins expecting iron for nothing, one day it will expect all the people who make things to work for nothing as well.”
Nell set the coins in the cash box. “I did not realize you had taken up economics.”
“I run a tea room,” Edie said. “I practice it every day.”
When she had gone, Thomas appeared at the threshold. He had come by on his way from a late call and was not carrying a case.
“How did the accounts settle?” he asked.
“Perfectly.”
“And the ground?”
“Still untrustworthy.”
“That sounds like a successful day.”
“It was a day in which the kettle remained upright.”
Thomas nodded thoughtfully. “A high standard for public life.”
They stood for a moment listening to Bracken Beck move under the bridge.
Nell closed the cash box. “You were useful on Friday.”
“I shall try not to repeat the offence.”
“You carried the stand without dropping it.”
“A rare professional achievement.”
“And you noticed the feet sinking.”
“I noticed that something was happening. You decided what to do.”
The distinction pleased her more than indiscriminate praise would have done.
“Tea?” she asked.
Thomas glanced toward the forge kettle.
“Will it stand on three legs?”
“It has four.”
“Then I am afraid to trust it.”
Nell took down two mugs.
“If it falls over,” she said, “you may pay for the repair.”
He stayed long enough for one cup.
The new stand, folded and returned to Edie’s storeroom, had not changed Brackenfell. By Monday, people would be talking about church repairs and whether the cakes had sold out before the last visitors arrived. The iron would do its work quietly, out of sight.
Nell thought that was exactly as it should be.
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