by A. A. Milne
‘I know!’ she thought suddenly, and, holding her breath, she tiptoed into the passage and past the slender barrier of the door, and so up the stairs to her room. From behind the curtains she peeped at the unknown.
Not a Tramp, not a Policeman. Just a man from a car, well dressed, short, stout, reassuring.
‘I’m an idiot,’ laughed Jenny to herself, ‘but I shan’t be an idiot again’; and to make sure that she should not be an idiot again, she took from its drawer Watson’s Wonderful Combination Watch-dog-and-Water-pistol and the two pink garters. With Watson in his place she went downstairs light-heartedly, almost wishing now for adventure.
She opened the door.
‘Oh, good-afternoon,’ said Mr. Archibald Fenton, and registered an immediate impression that Derek was doing himself well.
‘Good-afternoon,’ said Jenny. ‘Did you— Mrs. Bassett—everybody’s down in the fields, getting the hay in. Did you——’
‘Ah! Forgive me, but have I the pleasure of speaking to Miss Naomi Fenton?’
‘Er—yes,’ said Jenny.
It was not her fault that she did not recognize him. She had never seen him; and the many impressions in the papers of the famous Archibald Fenton, showing him to be a slender, good-looking young man of twenty-three, as indeed he had been for a few moments, and in a favouring light, twenty years ago, had not prepared her for the present authorized edition, as to which Nancy had never let fall any more enlightening word than ‘catastrophic’.
‘But, darling, what do you mean, catastrophic?’ Jenny had asked.
‘Well, wait till you see it, the whole thing’s a disaster, that’s all.’
Now she was seeing it.
‘I heard in the village that you were paying your brother a visit,’ said Archibald, enjoying himself extremely, ‘and I ventured to call.’
‘Oh! Oh, how nice of you. Won’t you come in?’
‘May I? Thank you so much.’
He followed her into the little parlour, and looked round him complacently, feeling sure of its secrets.
‘I’m afraid Derek’s out. He had to go into Tunbridge Wells. Do sit down, won’t you? And smoke.’
‘Thank you. Won’t you——’ He held out his case. She shook her head.
‘So Derek’s in Tunbridge Wells,’ said Archibald, lighting a cigarette. ‘And you’re all alone. Poor little girl.’
‘Why?’ said Jenny.
Archibald had called a good many people ‘Poor little girl’, but never been asked ‘Why?’ before.
‘I was sympathizing,’ he said stiffly.
‘Yes, but why? I don’t mind being alone, do you?’
‘It depends whose company I am missing. Just at the moment, my dear Naomi, I am very happy not to be alone.’
Jenny began to feel a little bewildered.
‘Who are you, please?’ she asked. ‘Are you a friend of Derek’s?’
‘You might say so, yes. I have known him a very long time.’
‘Oh!’
‘He has often talked to me about you.’
‘Oh!’ said Jenny again.
‘His little sister Naomi. You’ve no idea how proud he is of his little sister Naomi.’
‘Oh!’ said Jenny for the third time.
He had never taken his eyes off her. There was a look in his eyes, amused, appreciative, possessive, which she hated. He seemed to be sharing some secret with her. What did it mean? Did he know that she was a fraud?
‘Even when little Naomi was a child,’ the voice went on, ‘he used to tell me of the amusing things she said. They were not very funny,’ admitted Archibald, ‘but then the things which children say never are very funny, are they? But Derek used to assure me that if I could have heard the dear little mite saying them—dear little Naomi——’ He broke off and puffed at his cigarette, still keeping his amused eyes on her.
How much did he know? Perhaps—sudden brilliant thought—he knew nothing. Perhaps there had been, or was still, a real Naomi Fenton of whom Derek had spoken, a sister who had died or been married.
‘You haven’t told me your name, have you?’ she said, trying to smile brightly. ‘Perhaps Derek has talked to me about you.’
‘I’m sure he has,’ said Archibald blandly.
‘Oh?’
She seemed so innocent that for a moment his complacence was disturbed.
‘Look here,’ he said a little anxiously, ‘I’m not making a mistake, am I? You are Derek Fenton’s sister?’
‘Y-yes,’ said Jenny.
‘Good. So you’re Archibald Fenton’s sister too, of course?’
Jenny nodded.
‘Then,’ said Archibald, getting up, ‘I really must have one.’
He came over to her chair, and Jenny jumped to her feet.
‘What do you want?’
‘A kiss,’ he said gaily. ‘Just a kiss. Because you see, Naomi darling, I am your long-lost brother Archibald.’
‘Oh!’ cried Jenny. ‘How awful!’ She stared at him.
She thought: No wonder Derek hates him. No wonder Nancy says what she does about him. What am I going to do? Why doesn’t Derek come back? Who shall I say I am? I think he’s hideous. Fancy if he had kissed me! What are we going to do? He’s not a bit like Derek. The funny thing is I did rather like A Flock of Sheep. I think I’ll say nothing.
‘Well?’ said Archibald, still smiling, and coming a little closer.
Jenny went back a step and said breathlessly: ‘Your brother will be here directly. Won’t you sit down and wait for him? He will tell you anything you want to know.’
‘Our brother, isn’t it, Naomi?’
‘He will tell you why I—who I—how it is——’
‘Oh, but I think I know how it is, don’t I?’ smiled Archibald.
Jenny gasped.
‘Do you mean you know who I am?’
‘Of course I do, my dear child.’
Let’s have the worst, thought Jenny.
‘Who?’
‘Not’, said Archibald, ‘Derek’s—sister.’
Instinctively she moved away from him, and in moving knocked her leg against the corner of the chair. Ah! How silly to have forgotten! The faithful Watson! Now she was quite cool again.
‘Please go away,’ she said firmly.
Archibald shook an indulgent head.
‘Not till I have had that kiss.’
‘Please go away at once.’
‘Oh, come, my dear, don’t be silly. What’s a kiss more or less to a girl like you?’
Jenny stooped for a moment and stood up again.
‘If you don’t go at once, I shall fire,’ she said. Almost unconsciously she spoke in the voice of one who had had to do this sort of thing a good deal lately, and Archibald, recognizing the note, moved hastily back.
‘Please go,’ said Jenny.
The famous novelist recovered his poise.
‘You’ve been going to the pictures a good deal, haven’t you?’ he laughed. ‘What is it? A water-pistol?’
He was so nearly right that Jenny lowered her protector hastily lest all its secrets should be revealed. This was enough for Archibald, who jumped hurriedly for his kiss. A more active man might have reached her, but he was a stout mover, and Jenny’s arm came up just in time. There was a flash which seemed to fill the room with sound. As instinctively he closed his eyes to it, something stung him sharply on the temple. Vaguely he felt for the place with his hand. The hand came away wet and horribly, horribly red. Vaguely he looked at the hand, as if trying to read its message. Then, suddenly realizing it, he dropped to the floor, and lay there . . .
It had all happened so quickly, it was all so utterly realistic, that Jenny could only stand there stupidly, looking at the pistol in her hand, as if to make sure that it was indeed the toy which Mr
. Sandroyd had sold to her, and not some monstrous changeling. Perhaps Mrs. Bassett kept a real pistol in that drawer, she thought. Perhaps I’m going mad. Perhaps it’s all a dream. Then she thought: I’m being a little fool, he just fell down.
‘Please get up,’ she said, ‘it’s quite all right.’
Mr. Fenton did not move.
‘It is a water-pistol really, only I filled it with red ink. That was what frightened you, I expect.’
Mr. Fenton said nothing.
‘That and the bang. It bangs too. That’s really why it’s so good. I bought it at Tunbridge Wells.’
Even so, Mr. Fenton did not move.
‘Really you aren’t hurt,’ pleaded Jenny. ‘It’s only because I used red ink. I bought a bottle in the village.’
Even so, Mr. Fenton remained silent.
‘Oh, dear! Perhaps he has bumped his head.’
And suddenly she began to pray that he had bumped his head; for an apprehension slowly filled her mind of all the vague tales she had heard of people being frightened to death; tales told her in childhood of men pretending to be ghosts, and of mock-executions; and she remembered Aunt Caroline’s warning to her once when she had jumped out at Cook: ‘Never try to frighten anybody, Jenny. At the best it only causes justifiable annoyance, and at the worst it may have very serious effects.’ Which was this?
‘Oh, God,’ prayed Jenny, ‘let it be a justifiable annoyance, and not a very serious effect.’
Before any decision could be taken in the matter, the door opened, and Derek was there.
IV
When Derek had dropped his newspapers into the car and gone up into the High Street, his intention had been to buy two or three of the better-class milliner’s shops for Jenny; for he knew that so charming a girl could not live charmingly for long on nothing more embellishing than one knapsack and a loan of Mrs. Bassett’s wedding-dress. But on looking into his notecase, and finding that he had only thirty shillings with him, he realized that the dangers of choosing a wrong shape or an unfashionable shade were so outstanding that it would be kinder to Jenny to limit himself on this occasion to a box of chocolates, a basket of cherries and a flask of eau-de-Cologne. Having then no more than five and sixpence over, he rejected a passing thought about champagne, being in any case fairly sure that this was either the hour when you could buy a bottle but were not allowed to take it away, or the hour when you could take it away but were not allowed to buy it. Champagne, he felt, might have helped them to come to a wise decision on some of the important problems which would face them to-night; or perhaps not; but anyhow it would have been pleasant . . .
How brave Jenny was . . .
How beautiful . . .
How sweet . . .
How entirely idiotic.
To-night they must really go into the matter seriously, and decide what was to be done . . .
He came into the parlour, one half of his mind still with Inspector Marigold in London, the other half on this new difficulty of opening a door without dropping one of his six newspapers and three parcels; and almost before he could straighten himself, Jenny was adding to the confusion in his arms.
‘Oh, Derek,’ cried Jenny, ‘I’ve killed somebody!’
‘Not again?’ said Derek, surprised. ‘Here, wait till I get these things out of the way.’
‘He says he’s your brother!’
‘Oh, well, that’s all right.’
He put the parcels on the table, Jenny moved out of the way . . . and there was Archibald.
‘Good lord,’ said Derek, ‘so you have.’
Jenny, holding her breath, watched him as he knelt by the body.
‘Is he dead?’ she ventured at last.
‘No,’ said Derek. ‘But he’s much too fat.’
Jenny gave a deep sigh of relief.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
She explained it all . . .
‘I see. Well, now you know why I like him so much.’
He was angry. She loved him for being angry.
‘It must have been rather funny, though,’ said Derek, beginning to laugh.
Now he was amused. She loved him for being amused.
‘Has he fainted?’ she asked.
‘Yes. When he comes round, he’ll say, “Where am I?” What does one do? Their knees have to be higher than their head, don’t they? Or is it lower? At present the only part of him which is quite insistently higher than anything else——’
‘Aunt Caroline used to faint sometimes.’
‘Ah! What happened then?’
‘Well, we used to loosen her stays.’
Derek regarded his brother’s outline thoughtfully.
‘Would you say he was wearing stays?’ he asked.
‘Well, I think you ought to loosen his collar.’
‘That’s a good idea. And, while doing it, we could throw away his tie.’ He removed the tie and held it up to Jenny. ‘There’s a wastepaper-basket just behind you. Do you mind?’
Obediently she dropped it in the basket without quite knowing why. But she supposed that Derek disliked it for some reason; and indeed its colours, red and yellow stripes, assorted ill with the rest of Archibald, and were not wholly at ease among themselves.
‘Club colours of the Royal Society of Literature,’ explained Derek carelessly over his shoulder.
‘Oh, I see.’
‘We won’t take his watch,’ he went on, still busy at the body, ‘because it wouldn’t be fair, but we must think seriously about his eye-glass. How do you feel about that?’
‘Oughtn’t we to do something to revive him? With water or something?’
‘Yes. Now wait a moment.’
He began to wonder what would happen when his brother came back to life. How were they going to behave, the three of them? Were they all going to talk together at the tops of their voices, arguing, recriminating, losing their tempers? Or were they all going to be perfect ladies and gentlemen, pretending that nothing had happened? Or were they——
‘Yes. That’s the way. Now listen.’
‘Yes, Derek?’
‘Fly up to the bathroom. You’ll find a baby sponge there, which I use for cleaning tennis-shoes. Rinse it out a bit and bring it down, wet.’
‘Yes, Derek.’ She turned to fly.
‘Wait. In the little cupboard there’s a roll of bandage—or was. Bring it down.’
‘Yes, Derek.’
‘Wait. There’s a small bowl in my room, or perhaps it’s in the bathroom, or anyhow there must be a small bowl somewhere. Is there any red ink left in your bottle?’ She nodded. ‘Well, fill the bowl with water, and put some red ink in to give it a little local colour, and bring bowl, sponge and bandage down here. Quick!’
She was very quick . . .
‘Good girl. Now then, take all those parcels—they’re yours—and the papers—— Oh, and here’s your letter—and go up to your room, and read and enjoy yourself, and leave everything else to me.’
He opened the door for her.
‘Are you sure——’
‘Quick! Fly!’
She flew. He hurried back to the body.
V
When Archibald came to himself, he was lying on the sofa, his head heavily bandaged. At the table by his side was a bowl of what had once been water, but now was dyed ominously red.
‘Where am I?’ said Mr. Archibald Fenton.
‘With friends,’ said Derek soothingly. ‘How are you feeling now, old boy?’
Archibald put his hand to his head and knew that it was not a dream.
‘She shot me,’ he said weakly.
‘That’s right. You were making advances to her.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘Well, making something.’
‘All I—— I just said—— Anyw
ay, she had no business to shoot me.’
‘She didn’t know what else to do. It was all so sudden.’
‘You can’t go shooting people like that,’ said Archibald sulkily. ‘She might have killed me.’
‘I’ll tell her. She thought you were making advances to her, that’s how it was.’
‘Well, I wasn’t.’
‘I’ll tell her.’
‘She said she was my sister, and naturally I asked her for a kiss. And then she shot me. I say, am I——’
Derek gave him a surprised look.
‘How do you mean she said she was your sister?’ he interrupted.
‘How do you mean, how do I mean she—— I’m telling you. Oh, gosh, I feel sick. She said she was my sister. Our sister. Naturally——’
‘Who did? Miss Benton?’
‘Miss who?’
‘Benton.’
‘Who’s Benton? I’m talking about this girl who calls herself Naomi Fenton.’
‘Naomi Benton, that’s right.’
‘No, Fenton! I tell you she said you were her brother.’
‘Not me. Benton. You’ve got it muddled.’
‘I tell you——’
‘Don’t talk too much, old boy. Not with a head-wound. It’s dangerous.’
‘I said “Then you’re Archibald Fenton’s sister too,” and she said “Yes,” and I said “Well, I’m Archibald Fenton,” and she said “Oh!” and I said “Well, if I’m your brother——” ’
‘You’re not her brother, old boy, you’re mine. It will all come back to you soon. You’re Archibald Fenton.’
‘Look here——’
‘So you couldn’t be Miss Benton’s brother. Cousin, yes. Brother, no. But I’ll explain about that when you’re stronger. How are you feeling now?’
‘You fool, I never thought I—— I say, am I badly hurt?’ He saw the bowl suddenly. ‘I say——’
Derek patted his shoulder reassuringly.
‘Nasty scalp-wound, that’s all. Miss Benton has tied it up for you. She knows all about that sort of thing. She’s a nurse.’
‘Oh, is that what she calls herself?’