The Borrowers Collection

by Mary Norton

  Aunt Lupy began to cry again, and Arrietty put her arms round her—not so much, this time, to comfort her as to prevent her from breaking down into a storm of audible sobs.

  The only sound they heard from the vestry was the faint clank of metal on wood. There were a few Ohs and Ahs of awestruck admiration when it seemed that Mr. Platter had handed his wife some particularly beautiful object. Otherwise they worked in methodical silence.

  “He doesn’t seem to be here . . .” said Mr. Platter in a puzzled voice, “unless he’s behind that ivory thing at the back. Did you look inside all the chalices?”

  “Of course I did,” said Mrs. Platter.

  There was a short silence. Then Mr. Platter said, “He’s not on this shelf, Mabel.” He sounded more puzzled than desperate.

  Then everything happened at once. A sudden shriek from Mrs. Platter of “There he is! There he is! There he goes . . .” and from Mr. Platter, “Where? Where? . . . Where?”

  “Through the curtains into the church—”

  “After him, Mabel. I’ll put on the lights—”

  Arrietty heard the sharp clicks, one after another: all lights in the church were controlled from the vestry, and it was as though Mr. Platter had run his hand down the whole set. There was a clashing of curtain rings, and Mr. Platter, too, was gone.

  She heard the panting voice of Mrs. Platter echoing down the church. “He was on the bottom shelf!”

  Arrietty ran out into the vestry. Yes. There was the cupboard wide open and the middle shelf bare. It was on the bottom shelf, the one at floor level, where Timmus must have been hiding: the shelf where the candlesticks were kept. Some of these were so tall and ornate that they nearly touched the shelf above. Timmus must have slid over the outer edge of the middle shelf and onto a candlestick on the shelf below. Perhaps, thought Arrietty, in a strange old cupboard like this the edges of the shelves did not quite meet the backs of the doors when closed. There must have been a little space. Timmus had used it.

  Now, if he could reach a bell rope in time, he would be safe. She ran up to the curtains where Mr. Platter had dragged them aside and peered round the edge of one into the church, but started back at the sound of a crash and a cry of pain. She knew what it was: someone, trying to get to the curtains leading to the bell chamber, had knocked over one of Mrs. Crabtree’s heavy flowerpots onto somebody else’s foot. Cautiously, she went back to the curtain and stared into the church. All the lights were on, and there at the far end was Mr. Platter hopping about and gripping his foot in both hands. Mrs. Platter was nowhere to be seen. Arrietty guessed what had happened. Timmus had dashed under the curtains into the bell chamber. And Mrs. Platter had dashed after him and, in her clumsy haste, had knocked over one of the precious pelargoniums. Plant, plant pot, shards, and earth must now lie strewn on the ground below Lady Mullings’s cherished arrangement, completed with so much pride only a few hours before.

  Then came a sound, so deep and resonant that it seemed to fill the church, pass through its walls, and throb into the still night air. A lingering sound, a sound that could be heard (by those who were still awake) in every house in the village: the sound of a church bell.

  It was then that Mrs. Platter began to shriek. Shriek after shriek. Even Aunt Lupy came out, followed by a limping Hendreary, to see what had happened. All they could see from the vestry steps was an empty church, ablaze with light. But the shrieks went on and on.

  And the bell shuddered out again.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Kitty Whitlace was upstairs making up a bed for Miss Menzies when she heard the bell (she had managed to dissuade Miss Menzies from cycling “down those lonely lanes at this hour of the night,” and Miss Menzies had, at last, agreed). Kitty, trembling and as white as the sheets she had been smoothing, dropped the pillow and the case into which she had been inserting it and stumbled down the stairs into the little sitting room.

  “Did you hear that?” she gasped.

  “Yes,” said Miss Menzies. She had risen from the sofa on which Kitty had left her reclining. Whitlace had gone to bed.

  “There’s someone in the church!”

  “Yes,” said Miss Menzies again.

  “I left everything locked—everything. I must go down!”

  “Not by yourself,” said Miss Menzies quickly. “You must go and wake up your husband, and we had better telephone Mr. Pomfret. I’ll do that if you like.”

  “You know where the lights are in the hall?” said Kitty.

  “Yes, I think so.” Miss Menzies did not sound too certain. She knew the reputation of this house and did not much fancy feeling her way in the dark.

  “All right, then,” Kitty was saying, “I’ll go and wake up Whitlace. It takes a bit of doing once he’s gone right off . . .” And she rushed upstairs again.

  Mr. Pomfret (who, by the sound of his voice, had also been asleep) said he would come at once and that no one was to go into the church until he arrived on his bicycle. “You never know. I’ve got my truncheon, but tell Whitlace to bring a stick . . .”

  As Miss Menzies walked back through the empty old kitchen, firmly leaving the light on in the hall, she rather hoped there would be someone in the church even if they were a bit violent. She felt she would die of shame if, after her last interview with Mr. Pomfret, this late-night call on a possibly weary policeman should turn out to be a false alarm. The bell rang out again. For some reason, this seemed to reassure her.

  They waited for Mr. Pomfret by the lychgate. Whitlace had pulled on a few clothes and was armed with a broom handle. There was someone in the church, all right, if the light from the windows was anything to go by. But even this was slightly dimmed by the brilliance of the moon.

  “You’re sure you didn’t leave the lights on by mistake?” Miss Menzies asked Kitty anxiously.

  “There weren’t any lights. It was still daylight when I locked up. And what about the bell? There it goes again . . .”

  “But not so loud.” As the sound died away, Miss Menzies went on to explain, “A bell can go on quite a long time on its own momentum.”

  “That’s right,” said Whitlace, “once it’s on the swing, like . . .”

  Mr. Pomfret arrived quietly and propped his bicycle against the wall. “Well, here we are,” he said. “Got your stick, Whitlace? We men better go first . . .” and led the way towards the church. Kitty Whitlace felt in her pocket to make sure she had brought the key. A great beam of moonlight lay across half the porch, and Kitty could see that there seemed to be another key in the door. She pointed this out to Mr. Pomfret and showed him her own. He nodded sagely before trying out the one in the door. But the door had been left unlocked and opened easily (with its usual grinding squeak), and they all followed Mr. Pomfret in. The bell tolled out again, even more quietly this time, as though on a dying fall.

  The church looked empty, but somebody had been there, all right. They saw the overturned flowerpot, and after the sound of the bell had died away, they heard a strange noise, a kind of regular gasping; or was it more like a grunting? Mr. Pomfret went straight towards the back of the church, slid behind Lady Mullings’s flowers, and (rather dramatically) flung back the curtains leading into the bell chamber. Then he stood still.

  The three others coming up behind saw the tableau framed, as on a stage, by the drawn-back curtains.

  A largish lady seemed to have fallen to the floor, her hat askew, her hair awry. One leg stuck out before her, the other one seemed doubled somewhere underneath. It was Mrs. Platter. It took him quite a minute to recognize her. She was sobbing and gasping, and seemed to be in pain. The bell rope, he saw, was moving with a kind of steady indifference, but the “tail,” like a frenzied snake, was thrashing about the floor. Mr. Platter, trying to keep clear of it, was rushing back and forth, hopping at times from one foot to the other. Mr. Pomfret did not know very much about bells, but he had heard grim stories about the “tails” of bell ropes: they could whip your head off as likely as not. Mrs. Platter
seemed relatively safe: she was at the center of the storm.

  The great bell sounded again, quite gently this time. The main rope was moving more slowly, and the thrashing “tail” began to lose its impetus, until at last it settled down, like an exhausted serpent, in curls and whorls upon the floor.

  They did not rush forward to assist Mrs. Platter. They walked rather gingerly, as if they feared the tangled serpent might revive and come alive again. It was Whitlace who ran a steady hand down the main rope, making sure that it was still; and then, quietly and matter-of-factly, he tidied up the “tail.” “You got to know about bells,” he told them, in a voice that sounded rather irritated. “These were all set up for the ringers on Easter Day.”

  But none of them listened. They were busy hoisting Mrs. Platter up onto a kitchen chair. She was still sniffing and gasping. Miss Menzies produced a handkerchief and then, very gently, raised what seemed to be the injured foot onto a similar chair.

  “It’s broken,” sobbed Mrs. Platter, “I may be lame for life . . .”

  “No, my dear,” Miss Menzies assured her (she had felt the ankle carefully: it was not for nothing Miss Menzies had been a girl scout). “I think it’s only a sprain. Just sit there quietly, and Mrs. Whitlace will get you a drink of water.”

  “Of course I will,” said Kitty Whitlace in her cheerful way, and she made off down the aisle towards the vestry.

  “I’m bumps and bruises all over,” complained Mrs. Platter. “And my head! Cracked it on the ceiling . . . feel as though it’s coming in half . . .”

  “Good thing you were wearing that thick felt hat,” said Whitlace. “Might have broken your neck.” There was little sympathy in his voice, and he still looked offended: his bells, his precious bells . . . set up so carefully! And what on earth did these people think they were doing, trying to ring them in the late hours of the night? And how had the Platters got into the church in the first place? And why?

  Perhaps, by now, they were all thinking the same thoughts (Mr. Pomfret certainly was), but they were too polite to voice them. Well, no doubt, all would be explained later . . .

  A sudden sound from the other end of the church caused Mr. Pomfret to turn his head. It had been more an exclamation than a scream, and it seemed to come from the vestry. Mrs. Whitlace? Yes, it must be she! As the whole group turned and stared up the aisle, Kitty Whitlace appeared between the curtains, holding them apart. “Mr. Pomfret,” she called, in a voice that it seemed she was trying to control, “could you please step up here a minute?”

  Light-footed Mr. Pomfret was up the aisle in an instant: he had sensed the urgency in her tone. The others, though equally curious, followed more slowly. What were they going to witness now?

  Mr. Platter, bringing up the rear, was talking excitedly. But they did not quite hear all he said: it was too much of a gabble. Something about hearing intruders in the church . . . sense of duty . . . valuable stuff here . . . bit of a risk . . . but he and his missus had never lacked for courage . . . door locked . . . they had had to break in . . . intruders gone. But—

  At this point he seemed to run out of steam: they were in the vestry now. And all Mr. Platter had been saying somehow did not quite do: not with the cupboard doors standing wide; the rare and lovely pieces laid out haphazardly on the table; and, on the floor, open for all to see, Mr. Platter’s familiar tool bag. They all knew it well: there was hardly a house in the village where, sometime or another, Mr. Platter had not done “a little job.”

  “Do you recognize these tools?” asked Mr. Pomfret.

  “I do,” replied Mr. Platter with icy dignity. “They happen to be mine.”

  “Happen?” murmured Mr. Pomfret, and took out his notebook. Then another thought seemed to strike him. He looked sharply at Mr. Platter. “Your good lady—she must have thrown all her weight on that rope. Now, why would she do that, do you think?”

  Mr. Platter thought quickly. “To raise the alarm. In the middle ages, you see . . .” But somehow this did not quite do, either. Mr. Pomfret was writing in his notebook. “We’re not living in the middle ages now,” he remarked dryly. “I’m afraid, sir, I’ll have to ask you to come down to the station.”

  Mr. Platter drew himself up. “Not a thing has gone out of this church. Not a thing. So what are you going to charge me with?”

  “Breaking and entering?” murmured Mr. Pomfret, almost under his breath, as though he were speaking to himself. He was writing in the notebook. He looked up. “And your good lady, will she be fit to come?”

  “We’re neither of us fit to come. Can’t you leave it till the morning?”

  Mr. Pomfret was a kind man. “I suppose I could,” he said, “say, eleven-thirty?”

  “Eleven-thirty,” agreed Mr. Platter. He did look very tired. He glanced down at his tools and around at the table. “I think I’ll leave this stuff here for tonight. No point in taking tools and bringing ’em down again: I’ve got to put these locks right, anyway.”

  “A rum go,” said Mr. Pomfret, shutting his notebook. He turned to Mr. Platter, suddenly changing his tone. “What were you doing, really?”

  “Looking for something,” said Mr. Platter.

  “Something of yours?”

  “Could be,” said Mr. Platter.

  “Oh, well.” Mr. Pomfret put his notebook in his pocket. “It’s as I said, there’ll be quite a bit of explaining to do. Good night all.”

  After Mr. Pomfret and Whitlace had departed and Miss Menzies and Kitty were tidying up the vestry, Arrietty heard Miss Menzies say in a thoughtful voice, “I think, Kitty, the less we say about this evening in the village, the better. Don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. The talk would be dreadful, and most of it lies. Well, there’s all the stuff back, but I can’t lock the cupboard.”

  “It doesn’t matter, just for one night.”

  Dear Miss Menzies, thought Arrietty, protector of everyone, but, all the same, she wished they would go. She was longing to see Timmus, who, she knew, would not appear until the church was empty and the west door safely locked, although she guessed what must have happened almost down to the last detail. Mrs. Platter had seen Timmus making his way up the rope, had nearly grabbed him with one hand while twisting the other round the rope. Her weight had turned the bell right over, and they both had sailed up to the ceiling. Timmus had been carried smoothly through the hole, while Mrs. Platter, after a painful crack on the head, had slithered to the floor.

  At last Arrietty heard Miss Menzies say, “Kitty dear, I think we’ll leave the rest for the morning. I shall be here to help you. Oh, dear, I don’t know quite what we can do about Mrs. Crabtree’s plant.”

  “Whitlace will repot it,” said Kitty.

  “Oh, splendid! Let’s go, then. I must admit I’m rather longing for bed—it’s been quite an evening . . .”

  Arrietty, back on the sofa, smiled and hugged her knees. She knew, once the door had closed behind them, Timmus would arrive back, safe and, she hoped, sound.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Much later that night, when Arrietty had climbed in through the partly opened grating and tumbled into their arms, Pod and Homily forgot the anxious hours of waiting and the dark unspoken dreads. There were tears, but they were tears of joy. The church clock had struck two without being heeded before she had answered all their questions.

  “Well, that’s finished Platter,” said Pod at last.

  “Do you think so, Pod?” quavered Homily.

  “Stands to reason. The church broken into—at that hour of the night! Locks of the cupboard picked, cupboard bare, and all those vallyables out on the table . . .”

  “But he tried to say there were intruders—or whatever they call them.”

  Pod laughed grimly. “Intruders wouldn’t be using Sidney Platter’s tools!”

  Then, the next morning there was Peagreen to tell—and Spiller, too, if she could find him. By a happy chance, Arrietty found them together. Peagreen, among the ground ivy near the path, had r
isen early to sort out his pieces of glass, and Spiller, though bound on some other errand, had paused to watch him. Spiller, as Arrietty remembered, was always curious but would never ask a direct question. Both were suitably impressed by her story. As it went on, Arrietty and Peagreen sat down more comfortably on the dry ground below the ivy leaves. Even Spiller condescended to squat on his haunches, bow in hand, to hear it to the end. His eyes looked very bright, but he did not speak a word.

  “There’s just one thing . . .” said Arrietty at last.

  “What’s that?” said Peagreen.

  Arrietty did not reply at once, and to their surprise, they saw her eyes had filled with tears. “It may seem silly to you, but—”

  “But what?” asked Peagreen gently.

  “It’s Miss Menzies. I’d like to tell her we’re all right.” The tears rolled out of her eyes.

  “You mean,” said Peagreen in a tone of amazement, “that she saw all this!”

  “No, she didn’t see anything. But I saw her. Sometimes I was close enough to speak to her—”

  “But you didn’t, I hope!” said Peagreen sharply. He looked very shocked.

  “No, I didn’t. Because . . . because . . .” Arrietty seemed to swallow a sob. “I promised my father, very gravely and sacredly, never to speak to any human bean again. Not in my whole life.” She turned to Spiller. “You were there that night. You heard me promise . . .” Spiller nodded.

  “And your father was absolutely right,” said Peagreen. He had suddenly become very stern. “It’s madness. Utter madness. Every borrower worth his salt knows that!”

  Arrietty put her head down on her knees and burst into tears. Perhaps her early rising after the strain of the past night had begun to take its toll. Or perhaps it was the angry tone of Peagreen’s voice. Would anyone, ever, begin to understand?