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cottages, and miles and miles of countryside, and a lake and a river—the River Stour—and an estuary, where the Stour flows into the sea. And it is all very beautiful, now that spring is here. The house is large, and you and your friends”—she looked at Peter on the hearth, and Hunca-Munca in her cage—“your many friends could be quite comfortable.”
    Bea’s blue eyes were round. “But I am expected to remain here for at least a week! The Hyde-Parkers would not object, certainly. But whatever should I tell Papa and Mama?”
    â€œDo you have to tell them anything, at least right away? If you are wanted, the Hyde-Parkers could telegraph to Dedham and you could receive the message straightaway. And when you returned home, you could as easily take the train from Colchester. Your parents would be none the wiser.”
    There was a moment’s silence. Bea’s face was wistful, then thoughtful, and at last determined. “I think,” she said, in a small but steady voice, “that it is a splendid idea.”
    â€œWonderful!” Kate exclaimed. “We shall leave on Monday morning, by carriage, and be home in time for tea.” She was halfway to the door before she thought of something, and turned. “How funny,” she said. “I didn’t even think to ask your whole name.” She laughed a little. “Or perhaps it is a secret. Perhaps I should simply call you Bea, and not ever know who you really are.”
    â€œOh, it’s no secret. I forgot, that’s all.” Bea laughed. “Mama would be scandalized at my manners.” She sat down at the table and took up her sketch pad again. “My name is Beatrix,” she said. “Beatrix Potter.”

10
    COUNTY OF ESSEX TO WIT
SIR CHARLES SHERIDAN, KNIGHT
    Â 
    BY VIRTUE OF A WARRANT UNDER THE HAND AND SEAL OF HARRY HODSON, ESQUIRE, HER MAJESTY’S CORONER FOR THE COUNTY OF ESSEX, YOU ARE HEREBY SUMMONED TO BE AND APPEAR BEFORE HIM ON MONDAY THE TWELFTH DAY OF MAY, AT TWELVE O’CLOCK PRECISELY AT THE CORONER’S COURT TO BE HELD AT THE LIVE AND LET LIVE, LAMB’S LANE, DEDHAM, THEN AND THERE TO GIVE EVIDENCE ON HER MAJESTY’S BEHALF TOUCHING THE DEATH OF SERGEANT ARTHUR OLIVER, CONSTABLE, GALLOWS GREEN, ESSEX. HEREIN FAIL NOT AT YOUR PERIL.
    T he Live and Let Live, the only pub on Lamb’s Lane, was little bigger than a cottage. Its low-ceilinged main room, beams blackened with smoke, was crowded with farmers and villagers, jammed against the walls and the long wooden counter that usually served as a bar. Both windows were open so that the sounds of the lane—the baa ing of a passing flock of sheep, the roll of wheels, and the clatter of hooves—were mixed with the indoor drone of voices and punctuated by the occasional loud remark. But the sweet May air could hardly contend with the overpowering scents of sweat and horse and leather jerkin.
    At the farther end of the room was a small trestle table, like a desk, and behind it a scarred oak armchair. This seat was reserved for Coroner Harry Hodson. At one end of the table was a stool for the clerk, with paper, pen and ink, and blotting-paper; at the other end was a chair for witnesses. Directly in front of the table, on the plank floor, was a closed pine coffin. Two long benches were arranged at right angles to the coffin for the jurors, who after some commotion at the door and shouts of “Let ’em pass, by Gawd, so they kin earn their two shillings!” were ushered through the crowd to take their seats. At two shillings, the jurors were not overcompensated for their work, for their attendance could be enforced for the entire day if need be. Still, the event gave the day distinction, and those summoned were willing to spend it serving the Queen and her coroner.
    It was into this gloomy cave that Charles Sheridan made his way, carrying a leather portfolio. He paused to let his vision adjust from the