William and the Pop Singers (Just William, Book 35)

by Richmal Crompton

  “But I tell you this is diff’rent,” interrupted William impatiently.

  “How’s it diff’rent?” said Ginger, spitting out a mouthful of Worcester Pearmain. “There mus’ be a nest of maggots about somewhere. Every single apple I try’s full of ’em.”

  “Well, you can eat ’em, can’t you?” said William. “They haven’t any taste. I’ve eaten hundreds of ’em.”

  “Well, I’m not goin’ to eat this one. It’s nearly as big as a snake. Go on. Tell me how it’s diff’rent.”

  “It’s got real people in,” said William.

  “Gosh! Here’s a wasp as well. Dunno whether it’s after me or the apple or the maggot.” He wobbled precariously on his branch. “It’s gone now. I bet it didn’t like the look of the maggot . . . What d’you mean, got real people in it?”

  “Well, a friend of Robert’s came to tea on Sunday an’ he writes stories. He mus’ be jolly good, too, ’cause once he nearly got one published. Anyway, he said that people in stories ought to be real. He said if they weren’t real they were jus’—jus’ soulless puppets, he said.”

  “What does that mean?” said Ginger.

  “It means they’re not nat’ral.”

  “Well—gosh! They aren’t meant to be,” said Ginger. “They’re in stories, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, but this man said they’d got to be real, even in stories. He said they’d got to be alive. He said that it was called the School of Nature an’ that all really good writers b’longed to it, so I’m goin’ to b’long to it too an’ put real people in mine, not jus’ soulless puppets.”

  “Seems a bit dotty to me,” said Ginger. “Anyway, how can you get real people in?”

  “I’m puttin’ in the people that live round here,” said William. “We know they’re alive all right because we see ’em walkin’ about every day.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh . . . Mr Monks.”

  “Gosh! You can’t put him in,” said Ginger. “Not the Vicar. He’s high up in the church. He knows the Bishop.”

  “They’re prob’ly both in it,” said William darkly. “Then there’s Gen’ral Moult. He’s alive all right. I’m goin’ to put him in.”

  “I don’t see how he can be a crim’nal,” said Ginger. “He fought in the Boer War.”

  “I bet he only did it to put people off the scent,” said William. “I bet he was a diamond smuggler all the time.”

  “Seems to me you’re going to get in a bit of a muddle with it,” said Ginger, thoughtfully contemplating his apple core and wondering whether to throw it at William or the greenhouse roof or a corpulent thrush day-dreaming on the lawn.

  “No, I’m not,” said William. “What this man meant was that you could have a ’maginary story, but you’ve got to have real people to put in it. Don’t you see?”

  “No,” said Ginger, absent-mindedly eating his core, “but never mind. Go on with it. Who else are you goin’ to have?”

  “Well, I’ve got to have people that are members of the golf club here.”

  “Mr Monks isn’t. Neither is Gen’ral Moult.”

  “No, but the gang’ve got to have one or two that aren’t. It’d look a bit fishy if they didn’t.”

  “It’s goin’ to look a bit fishy anyway . . . Well, who’re you goin’ to have that belong to the club?”

  “Mr Wakely . . . "

  “Gosh! You can’t have him for a crim’nal. He’s head of the p’lice.”

  “Yes, that’s his cunnin’,” said William. “He got himself made head of the p’lice to put people off the scent . . . Then there’s Dr Bell. He b’longs to the club.”

  “Yes, an’ he’s a crim’nal all right,” said Ginger bitterly. “He’s a poisoner, too. Gosh, I can still taste that medicine he gave me when I was ill las’ week. I nearly died of it”

  “I bet he knew you only wanted tot get out of arithmetic,” said William unfeelingly. “You got well jolly quick after you’d tasted it. Anyway, he b’longs to the club an’ so does Mr Kirkham.”

  “But he’s the Mayor of Hadley,” said Ginger. “You can’t have a mayor in a smugglin’ gang.”

  “Huh!” snorted William. “I bet he killed the real mayor an’ made himself up to look like him.”

  “They seem a pretty bad lot,’’said Ginger dispassionately.

  "Course they are,” said William. “They’re crim’nals, I tell you. Well, anyway, all the people in the golf club b’long to this gang.”

  “What happens when people try an’ join that aren't crim’nals an’ think it’s jus’ an ordin’ry golf club?”

  “Not many do. My father hasn’t joined ’cause he says it’s a rotten course. He b’longs to the one in Hadley. I bet they keep it a rotten course so’s people won’t want to join.”

  “Yes, but some must,” said Ginger. “What happens to them?”

  “They kill ’em off,’’.said William simply. “They kill ’em off like flies. Gosh! When you come to think of it, ole Mr Gregson died las’ week an’ he’d jus’ joined the club.” His voice sank to a low sinister note. “I bet he was beginning to know too much.”

  “He died of pneumonia,” said Ginger.

  “I bet one of ’em slipped a pneumonia germ into his beer,” said William.

  “Who’s the head of them?” said Ginger.

  “No one knows who’s the head of them,” said William. “It’s kept a dead secret. They call him X. But axshully it’s a woman.”

  “A woman?” said Ginger incredulously.

  “Yes. It’s a jolly good idea to have a woman ’cause none of them suspect it. They guess it’s someone jolly high up, an’ sometimes they think it’s the bank manager an' sometimes they think it’s the station master but they never think of it bein’ Miss Golightly.”

  “Miss Golightly!" gasped Ginger as his mind went to Miss Golightly, the Headmistress of Rose Mount School, grim-faced, tight-lipped, with brisk staccato voice.

  “I thought she was a good one to have,” said William complacently. “She’s the last one they’d think of an’ she’s a villain of the deepest dye.”

  “Yes, she’s that all right,” said Ginger. “She gave Frankie Dakers’ sister a hundred lines for nothin’ at all— well, jus’ for lettin’ off a quiet little firework in French class. But—gosh! you’d never think she was an international smuggler. You―” He stopped and shrugged helplessly.

  “I keep forgettin’ they’re only people in a story. You know, I still think it’s goin’ to get us into a muddle. I think you’d far better stick to the way you used to do them.”

  “Well, I’m not goin’ to,” said William. “I’m goin’ to join this School of Nature an’ have real people in the story not jus’ soulless puppets.”

  “Who else are you goin’ to have in?”

  “Mr Westonbury. He’s got the look of a crim’nal.” Ginger pictured the earnest, worried little face of Mr Westonbury.

  “He looks pretty innocent to me,” he said.

  “That’s their cunnin” ’ said William. “They’ve got to look innocent to put people off the scent. They’d get caught if they didn’t. Then I’m goin’ to have Lieutenant-Colonel Pomeroy an’ Colonel Hetherly.”

  “But they’ve got titles,” protested Ginger.

  “They haven’t really,” said William. “They only pretend they have to put people off their track . . . Anyway, it’s a jolly excitin’ story. I’ve written some of it down already. Come back to our house an’ I’ll show it you.”

  “What do they all do in it?” said Ginger.

  William dropped with carefree agility from branch to branch of the apple tree till he reached the ground.

  “I’ll tell you on the way,” he said.

  “Where does the story start?” said Ginger, pausing to pick up a couple of conkers. He shelled them with a few deft movements and slipped them into his pocket. “I dunno why they grow ’em with all this green stuff outside ’em. You’ve only got to take it off.”

  “It’s n
ature,” explained William simply. “Well, the story starts in South Africa—that’s where they find diamonds you know—an’ one of this gang goes over there an’ fills the tyres of his car solid with diamonds. Then he drives it back an’ takes it across the channel in a ferry disguised as a fishin’ boat, then he drives it to this golf club here an' puts it in the garage. Then, in the dead of night, they take the diamonds out of the tyres an’ put ’em into golf balls. Then the nex’ day they pretend to play golf an’ play with these balls an’ keep losin’ them in the long grass, but they know jus’ where they are really an’ next night someona goes round puttin’ them into sacks an fillin’ up the tops of the sacks with potatoes, an’ loads them on to lorries an’ takes them up to Covent Garden and there’s more of the gang at Covent Garden disguised as greengrocers an’ they take these sacks an’ put them in their cars an’ take ’em off to diamond fences. ”

  “What’s that?” said Ginger.

  “Gosh, don’t you know what a fence is? It’s a person that buys stolen stuff an’ a diamond fence is a person that buys smuggled diamonds. This gang makes pounds of money that way. They’re rollin’ in money. Why, look at Lieutenant-Colonel Pomeroy havin’ that swimmin’ pool made in his garden. My mother said it mus’ have cost the earth. Well, that proves it, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, ’ agreed Ginger. “An’ its a jolly good story. I think it’s better even than the frogmen one.”

  They were passing the five-barred gate on which they were wont to practise their “vaulting”. Automatically William stopped, hurled himself upon it and performed the ungainly semi-somersault that landed him head first on the other side.

  “I never seem to get it quite right,” he admitted as he picked himself up. “I think there’s somethin’ wrong with the gate.”

  “I think so, too,” said Ginger when he had followed William’s example with the same result. “Somethin’ wrong with its balance. It sort of throws you over before you’re ready.”

  They climbed on to the top rung and sat there side by side. William had picked up a stick blown down by a recent gale. He sat with his elbows on his knees, his frowning gaze bent on the ground, idly flicking the gate with his stick.

  “Go on with the story,” said Ginger. “What happens next?”

  “Well, there’s a man called Meredith at Scotland Yard an’ one of the gang that’s a traitor to them tips him off about this smugglin’ gang an’ he decides to come down here an’ try an’ unmask the plot. So he takes a cottage that’s near the golf club an’ pretends he’s jus’ come down for a golfin’ holiday but they find out who he is.”

  “I bet they finish him off pretty quick, then,” said Ginger with gloomy relish.

  “They’d like to,” said William, “but they’ve got to find out who’s betrayed them an’ given him this tip first, so they invite him to the Golf Club Social—they have one every year, you know—an’ they kidnap him an' put him to the most ghastly tortures to make him tell them who it was gave them away, but he won’t. They’re abs’lutely ghastly tortures. Miss Golightly thinks them up. She tells these crim’nals what to do by secret radio that no one knows where it comes from ’cause they still don't know who this X is . . . Come on. Let’s get on home now."

  They jumped from the gate and went on down the road, William twirling his stick in airy nonchalant manner.

  “Who’re you goin’ to have for this Meredith man?’ said Ginger.

  “I couldn’t find anyone good enough for him,” said William. “I thought ’em all over an’ I couldn’t find one that would make a decent hero.”

  “Well, no,” agreed Ginger, holding a mental review of the inhabitants of the village. “There isn’t anyone really heroic, is there? Robert looks all right, but—”

  “Oh Robert!” said William scornfully, “He’d start falling in love with all these crim’nals’ daughters the minute he saw them. He’d never get round to doin’ any detectin’.”

  “What are you goin’ to do, then?”

  “I’m makin' one up,” said William.

  “You’re not goin’ to have him real like the others?”

  “No, but I’ve thought about him so much that he’s real, all right. He’s not jus’ a soulless puppet.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Gosh, he’s fine,’ said William, his voice fired with sudden enthusiasm. “He’s big an’ strong an’ brave. He’s got red hair an’ he’s got a bit of a limp, too, with havin' all these narrow squeaks, snatchin’ himself out of the jaws of death at Scotland Yard. An’ he’s so brave he’s jus' not afraid of anythin’.”

  “He sounds all right, said Ginger judicially. “I hope he’ll be a match for all these crim’nals.”

  “’Course he will,’” said William. “He . . .”

  He stopped short. They were passing the gate of

  Clematis Cottage. A car had just drawn up at the gate. The door of the car opened and a young man got out. He was tall and muscular. He had red hair and, as he moved round the car to open the boot, they noticed that he walked with a slight limp.

  Wiliam's mouth dropped open. His usually ruddy face had paled.

  “Gosh!” he said beneath his breath. “Meredith!”

  The young man turned to them with a pleasant smile. “Hello,'’ he said. ‘You live hereabouts?”

  William nodded. The power of speech had deserted him “Well, perhaps you’d give me a hand with getting this stuff out,” said the young man.

  He handed two suit-cases to William and Ginger, slung a bag of golf clubs over his shoulder, took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. They entered the snug little hall of Clematis Cottage.

  The power of speech was gradually returning to William! “You—you stayin’ here?” he said hoarsely.

  “Yes,” answered the young man. “I’ve taken the place for a fortnight. I’m going to have a golfing holiday here to blow the cobwebs out of my head.”

  “G-g-golfing?” gasped William.

  “Yes. Bung the things down here and let’s have a look round.”

  They followed him into the kitchen. William’s face still wore a pale and stricken look.

  ‘You’re n-not goin’ to join the golf club here, are you?’ he stammered.

  “Yes, that’s the idea,” said the young man. “It’s nice and handy, you know. Only a few minutes’ walk.”

  “But you m-mustn’t,” protested William. “You—you’ld be runnin’ into deadly danger.”

  “Oh, come,” said the young man smiling. “I’ve been warned that it’s a pretty mouldy course, but deadly danger’s a bit thick. However, let’s introduce ourselves. We don’t know each other’s names yet, do we? What’s your's?"

  “William,” said William, “an’ this is Ginger.”

  “And mine is—”

  “We know yours,” put in William. “It’s Meredith.”

  The young man raised his eyebrows.

  “Meredith?’ he said. “What on earth makes you think my name's Meredith?”

  “We know it is, said Ginger solemnly.

  “Well, it isn’t,” said the young man with a smile. “It’s Wansford. Hugh Wansford. Now let’s inspect the commissariat. The good lady said she’d get in some food for me.”

  He opened the larder door and began to take out packages. “Sweet biscuits. I certainly don’t want those . . . Catch! Dates! I don’t want those either . . . Catch! Potato crisps. Nasty fiddly things! . . .Catch!”

  “Thanks awfully,” said William and Ginger, securing the packages.

  “The rest seem all right—bacon, eggs, cheese.” He opened the door of the fridge. “Milk, chops, sausages. They should ward off starvation for a few days.”

  “You ought to keep your strength up,” said William, sinking his voice to a low mysterious note, “for all you’ve got to go through.”

  “Yes, it’ll be quite strenuous,” said the young man. “I’m badly out of practice.”

  William bent a searching look on him and spok
e with slow emphasis.

  “You’ve come for somethin’ else as well as golf, haven’t you?” he said.

  Again the young man laughed. “If that’s a shot in the dark, it’s a lucky one,” he said. "Well, actually, I have, but I’m not goin’ to start on it till I've put in a few days’ golf and general relaxation.”

  Listen,” said William. His face was tensed, his brows knit till they almost met over his earnest gaze. “Don’t join this golf club here.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “W—well,” temporised William, “it’s a rotten course for one thing. My father says it’s a menace, an’ he ought to know. He once won a prize for golf.”

  “Oh, I’m not all that choosy,” said the young man. I’m a rotten player anyhow. You’d better run off now, boys and I’ll try to get myself organised. Thanks for helping.”

  William and Ginger walked slowly down the road.

  “He’s jolly decent, isn’t he?” said Ginger.

  “’Course he is,” said William. “I told you he was.”

  “Biscuits an’ dates an’ potato crisps! Let’s go to the old barn an’ eat them.”

  “All right,” said William, “an’ we’ve got to make out plans, too. We’ve got to plan how we can save him from this deadly danger he’s goin’ into. He doesn’t know who he’s up against. They stick at nothin’, don’t that gang.”

  A puzzled expression flitted over Ginger’s face.

  “But—his name’s not Meredith,” he said, clinging to this thin, frail thread of reality.

  “Well, nat’rally he’s got to pretend to be someone else when he’s on a job like this,” said William. “Detectives have got to have aliases same as crim’nals. They’ve got to try to put each other off the scent an’ get each other into muddles.”

  They sat on the floor of the old barn and set to work on the biscuits.

  “They’re jolly good,” said Ginger indistinctly.

  William. “Look at this one. It’s got sugar on the top an' chocolate inside. It’s smashin’. Yes, we’ve got to try ’n’ help him after this,”