Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 92, No. 3. Whole No. 547, September 1988

Folk Stories by Mary Reed

© 1988 by Mary Reed.

Usually broken legs mend easily enough, but Dr. Wells said it was a more complicated fracture, where the bone splinters rather than breaks. Thus the recovery took a long time. It was hard for young Andrew, being so active, and then right afterward there was a very hot spell of weather with no rain for several weeks, which did not help the invalid’s temper. Then, of course, Mrs. Wellerby started up with her stories...

Willows — they use them to beat the boundaries, do they not? An ill-omened tree, if you believe the village gossips. Planting one was, they said, asking for bad luck. Now, of course, they are all saying “Told you so” over their pints at that dreadful public house.

Personally, I’ve no time for such tales, especially ones founded upon folk stories, such as that willow wands were used to chastise the boy Jesus. Now, if the gossips had pointed out that willows clog drains or are notorious for being prone to pests of all sorts, one could understand the prophesies of doom. One must, after all, be practical. But as I doubt that there were willows in what is now the Holy Land in the first place, I dismiss such tales as nonsense. Had I been planting a tree to mark the adoption of a child, I would have chosen something nice and British — a sturdy oak, for example. Of course, things were exacerbated by the ill-informed prattling of Mrs. Wellerby, the daily help. My tenants are city folk, rather vulgar in their tastes — I understand they chose the willow because they liked the look of it on their tea-service — but they are quiet enough and do seem to look after the house very well.

Of course, the garden is somewhat neglected. In the old days when we had a gardener and three undergardeners, it looked wonderful. Trim lawns. Flowerbeds a blaze of color from spring to autumn — then after that, flowers from the conservatory for my mother to arrange. Fresh vegetables. But one can’t get the help nowadays — and even if one could, it would be financially impossible to keep things up in the old style.

When I was a girl, the world was very different. I remember when Father and I walked to church villagers would curtsey or raise their caps to us. Nowadays it’s all push and shove and being called “luv” at the supermarket. Dreadful, truly dreadful, after a lifetime of “my lady” or “ma’am.” Not that I’d like you to think I am a snob. I am not. It is, I admit, rather galling living here in what was the gatehouse cottage with tenants in the big house, but I have adjusted to it quite well, I think. In fact, I quite enjoy growing my own lettuce and tomatoes. The people at the house have the occasional party, so I see a few events still held in the grand style, when the big cars and befurred women sweep by my little house.

Mr. Reese is a stockbroker and quite wealthy. It was a pity that his wife could have no more children, for if she could have borne them so much unpleasantness could have been avoided. But I remember that it was very much the same way with Mother. I was the only child, and I’ve been told that as I arrived she almost departed. She never really recovered her health after that, but she always used to say that it had been worth it to have borne an heir. I have wondered if Father would have preferred a boy to carry on the name, but he never said. He was a man of few words, a gentleman of the old school. I do not have to tell you how much of a field day the gossips had when he eloped with our third undergardener’s wife. It caused a scandal which almost killed Mother, and local long tongues still resurrect it now and then when they have nothing better to do.

Needless to say, it not only wrecked our lives but that of the third undergardener, who came to us in tears, offering to resign his post. Of course Mother said he should stay with us — and he did, until his death ten years later.

Mother inspired loyalty, and the third undergardener — his parents had blessed him with the name of Jubal, though he never sang and was said to be tone-deaf — would have done anything for her. Servants could be dismissed for many infractions, some of them apparently quite minor, but we kept ours for years. Very few left us, unless it was one of the maids who was marrying, since married women (except perhaps for cooks) did not usually work in service then. Jubal’s wife had been my governess, but she became pregnant. Another scandal in the bud, but when Jubal came to us and said he would like to marry her my parents gave their blessing. She may not have loved Jubal, but she married him, if only to avoid her baby being fatherless. But she could not stay under our roof, I need not say — moral ideas were different then, too.

There was more of a sense of social responsibility in those days. Many people laugh at the idea of noblesse oblige, but it was a system which worked, and worked well, at a time when there was no welfare state, no National Health Service, nothing for those in reduced circumstances to fall back on. It is ironic, is it not, that here I am in reduced circumstances myself? Though I could certainly have more to contend with, and I do try to be practical.

Practical is not how I would describe Mrs. Reese. She is not what I would call an intelligent person. She seems to be easily swayed and tends to be hysterical. I remember the time when young Andrew, that’s the son, fell into the goldfish pond. Instead of running about hysterically, she should have just jumped in and got him. Fortunately, I happened to be passing by on the way to prune the roses and managed to fish him out by the time she arrived from the house — screaming loud enough to wake the dead. She was in such a state that I thought it best not to mention that Jeremiah, the governess’s son, had drowned in the pool at the age of three months. A tragedy, to be sure, but if mothers will not watch their young what can one expect?

So really I was not surprised when they chose a willow to honor their son. Where the trouble really began was with Mrs. Wellerby and her ridiculous stories. I’ve no doubt she rattled on as she dusted around the ornaments — I recall when she worked for me, she never moved any of them and I had to speak to her about it on more than one occasion — though I doubt that Mrs. Reese even noticed the sloppy manner in which Mrs. Wellerby went about her duties. No, I believe she listened to the folk tales and superstitions of which Mrs. Wellerby was full and that they influenced her to the detriment of reason. Why, for example, should the fate of a child be tied to a tree? It is ridiculous. But so Mrs. Wellerby claimed, and no doubt she provided plenty of embroidered stories to support the hypothesis. I had heard a few myself, in fact, though not with patience, but I suppose Mrs. Reese had nothing else to do but listen.

Young Andrew was always a sickly child. He seemed to have one cold after another all winter, and allergies most of the spring and autumn. For all that, I will say, he was quite a strong-willed character — some might say stubborn. I had to speak to him more than once about his running through my annuals, but he still persisted in doing it. Even so, and there were other irritations — throwing stones at my cats, for example, and stealing my strawberries — he was, I suppose, fairly reasonable in his behavior as children go. Had he been better behaved, however, he might not have had the accident.

What happened was, one sunny, quiet Sunday afternoon when the weather was fine, I was thinking of doing a little weeding among the vegetables behind my cottage. Young Andrew was running about the place as usual, and having climbed my walnut tree despite a number of admonishments about it from both myself and his parents contrived to fall out of it and break his leg. This was bad enough, but he also ruined, positively ruined, my cucumber frame by landing on it full force.

Now, usually broken legs mend easily enough, but Dr. Wells said it was a more complicated fracture — of the type known as greenstick, or is it greenspan? The bone splinters rather than breaks. Thus the recovery took a long time. It was hard for him, I think, being so active, and then right afterward we had a very hot spell of weather with no rain for several weeks, which did not help the invalid’s temper, or anyone else’s for that matter. I noticed that Mrs. Reese had become very pale and thin, probably from sitting up all night with Andrew, especially when his leg got infected and he became really sick. I sent up some of my best peaches for him, but he did not have the appetite for them, which surprised me, considering how many he had stolen in previous summers.

Then, of course, Mrs. Wellerby started up with her stories, and Mrs. Reese swallowed the whole hodgepodge. At least this is the only explanation I can offer for subsequent events.

Andrew had been confined indoors for about two months by then — in fact, none of us had seen him for a couple of weeks, I recollect. He probably found it more comfortable inside away from the heat, as we all did. My garden was in a sad way, browning almost visibly despite all the watering I gave it, and the trees were drying out, too, as was the lawn. It would have broken Jubal’s heart to see it — broken patches all over it. And the water-loving willow suffered the most. Despite constant watering, it drooped and drooped and looked ready to give up the ghost. Now, Mr. Reese had always scoffed at Mrs. Wellerby’s superstitions — had, in fact, been very vocal about them at the West Wind, so I heard — thus, when they decided to, if you will believe this in our day and age, replace the willow with another, fresher specimen, they were virtually forced to do it at midnight in order to avoid anyone seeing them. How do I know? Two reasons. Firstly, I took delivery of the new willow — not without much protest, I can tell you — and secondly, I happened to be sitting on the porch when I saw them come out of the house. I often sit out there late at night, when it’s cooler.

They got spades from behind the rose bushes and began digging. Although they could not be seen from the village, they kept looking furtively around as if they were up to no good. I have no doubt that this is what attracted the attention of William Lee, walking along the road on the way back to his cottage — although I personally would like to know what he was doing out at midnight when the last bus from town gets in at eight in the evening. Poaching, like as not. Anyway, he saw the Reeses digging, and in the manner of the locals immediately invented some fantastic tale of Andrew being disposed of for his money (which he did not possess, I may say) — and, having invented it, acted upon it. That is, he rushed off to tell the local constable about something odd at the big house.

Well, as you know, the constable got reinforcements and, along with half the village, came to see what was going on. Naturally, the Reeses were dreadfully embarrassed by the whole thing, but explained that they had had the idea of replacing the tree with a healthier one so that young Andrew would get better.

Curiously, nobody laughed at the idea. As I said, these old superstitions are rooted deeply in the countryside — I do not make puns — so nobody thought anything of it. Or if they did, they agreed with it. In fact, Constable Collins helped plant the new tree.

Or, rather, began to. In digging a new hole by the rose bushes, he turned up some bits of bone, and you know the rest of the story. Social responsibility was very strong in those days, but people believed in noblesse oblige — which did not include running off with governesses. The bones were, of course, those of Father and Jubal’s wife.

Any theory about it, you ask me? Well, it could have been Jubal, strong from laboring in the garden, who did it. Or Mother, though weak and in ill-health, might have used poison. But it was Jubal, I’m sure, who buried them there, and said nothing. As I mentioned, servants were loyal then — perhaps not only from love of the family, but also because new positions were hard to find. After all, they had to be practical. A willow will always weep, but a man must eat. And Jubal was nothing if not practical.