“I shouldn’t like to be one,” said Douglas.
“I dunno,” said Ginger. “I think it would be rather fun.”
“I say! Here we are!” said William, lowering his voice. “Look!”
They had reached an open gate that bore the name Springfield in Gothic lettering. From the gate a short drive led up to a square Georgian house. A shrubbery bordered the drive, and beyond the shrubbery could be seen a neat square lawn and, on the edge of it, a neat square rustic summer-house.
“Look!” said William excitedly. “There’s the summerhouse, an’ I think I can see someone in it.”
Cautiously, keeping well under cover of the shrubs, they made their way towards the summer-house.
“Yes, that’s him,” said William. “That’s the ghost. Look! He’s wearing a green beret.”
A man sat writing at a rustic table in the summer-house. He was young and good-looking but his face wore an expression of dejection and ill-humour.
“He’s got a guilty look,” whispered Henry.
“It’s ’cause of this wrong he’s done that he’s come back to put right,” said William.
The young man laid down his pen, took a slab of chocolate from his pocket, broke off a small piece, put it in his mouth, then replaced the slab in his pocket.
“He’s got a stomach, all right,” whispered Ginger.
“An’ he looks solid,” said Henry. “I can’t see through him.”
“Is he vis’ble to all of you?” said William.
They nodded.
“He rnus’ be the sort that’s come back lookin’ like he did in his lifetime to put some wrong he’s done right.” They watched for some moments in spellbound silence. The young man wrote with quick jerky movements. Sometimes he looked up from the paper and the four heads would bob hastily out of sight beneath a laurel bush. Sometimes he would take out the slab of chocolate and absently break off a small piece.
“He’s got teeth all right,” whispered Ginger. “You can see him chewin’.”
“I keep tellin’ you,” said William irritably, “he’s got the whole of an inside, same as the one in the book.”
“I wonder what he did,” said Ginger.
The young man raised his eyes from the paper and the four heads bobbed down again, continuing the conversation among the lower branches of the laurel bush.
“P’raps he robbed a bank.”
“Or forged a will.”
“Or didn’t pay his income tax.”
“Or let his motor insurance run out.”
“You couldn’t put any of those right.”
“He’s got a nice face but he looks cross.”
“He’s prob’ly like the one in the book,” said William. “Good at heart but led astray by evil companions.”
The young man had risen to his feet and was gathering up his papers. Intent on watching his every movement, the Outlaws half rose from their hiding-place, and the young man emerged from the summer-house to find four heads confronting him over the top of a bush.
He smiled.
“Hello,” he said. “What’s all this? Cowboys and Indians?”
“N-no,” stammered William, his eyes still fixed with fearful intensity on the young man’s face. “N-no. Not C—Cowboys an’ Indians.”
The young man brought out the slab of chocolate and handed it to them.
“Here! Share it between you—what’s left of it.”
“Thanks,” said William. He gulped and swallowed and spoke in a hoarse breathless voice. “Are—are—are you a ghost?”
The smile dropped from the young man’s face and an expression almost of ferocity took its place.
“I am a ghost—Heaven help me!” he said and strode off in the direction of the house.
“There! He is a ghost,” said William. “I told you he was.”
“He’s a jolly decent one,” said Ginger. “There’s more ’n’ half the chocolate left.”
“He couldn’t have done anythin’ really bad,” said Douglas.
They divided the chocolate and their voices became somewhat indistinct as they proceeded to discuss the situation.
“It mus’ be somethin’ to do with this house,” said William, “’cause it’s this house he’s hauntin’.” He peered through the laurel bushes. “Yes, he’s gone into the house . . . He’s hauntin’ it, all right.”
Ginger, who had been looking through the small dusty windows of the summer-house, suddenly gave a shout.
“Look! He’s left somethin’ behind.”
He entered the summer-house, picked up a piece of paper from the floor and brought it out to the others. It was a sheet of writing-paper, blank except for one sentence written at the top.
If only I could find the wretched papers and destroy them I could escape.
“Gosh!” breathed William. “That proves it. It’s jus’ the same as that man in that book. He’d got some secret polit’cal papers to give to the en’my, an’ then he repented after he’d died an’ came back to put it right an’ now he wants to get them destroyed an’ we’ve got to help him.”
“There isn’t any en’my now ’cause there isn’t any war,” said Ginger.
“There’s people that might turn en’mies any minute,” said William darkly, “so I ’spect it was one of those he was goin’ to give them to.”
“Why can’t he jus’ destroy them himself?” said Douglas.
William considered this for a few moments in silence.
“I ’spect he’s forgot where he hid them,” he said. “Well, he said he couldn’t find them in that paper, didn’t he? Prob’ly ghosts lose their mem’ries when they come back. They’ve got stomachs an’ bones an’ things but they’ve not got mem’ries. So we’ve got to help him.”
“Yes, but how?” said Ginger.
William drew his brows together in the ferocious scowl that always accompanied his moments of mental exertion, then the scowl cleared.
“First of all we’ve got to find out about the people that live in this house he’s hauntin’,” he said. “’Course, this ghost may’ve lived here hundreds of years ago. There’s no proof when he lived.”
“His clothes weren’t historical,” said Henry.
“Well, everyone’d be starin’ at him if he started walkin’ about in historical clothes. I expect ghosts can dress up in any clothes they like . . . Anyway, we’ll find out from our fam’lies about the people who live in this house an’ we’ll meet in the old barn this afternoon an’ make a plan.”
The four met immediately after lunch in the old barn. All had managed to collect some pieces of information about the inhabitants of Springfield.
“A man called Mr Raglan lives there now,” said William. “He’s written a book called Hedge of Thorns that’s made him famous. No one likes him, but he’s famous, all right.”
“An’ he inherited the house from his uncle,” said Ginger. “His uncle used to live there before Mr Raglan.”
“Yes, an’ his uncle was called Alec Merrivale,” said Henry, “and he wrote books, too, an’ jolly good ones.”
“My mother says writin’ runs in fam’lies,” said Douglas.
“An’ this Mr Raglan’s writin’ his autobiography now,” said Henry.
“What’s that?” said William.
“The story of his life,” said Henry.
“Oh,” said William with interest. “That’s not a bad idea. I’ve a good mind to write mine soon as I get a bit of time.”
“Well, where does this ghost come in?” said Ginger. “He mus’ have lived there before that Merrivale man,” said William, “an’ it was then he got these polit’cal papers an’ hid ’em.”
“They’ll be a bit out of date by now,” said Henry.
“They might not be,” said William. “They might be future inventions he’d got hold of . . . Anyway, we’ve got to help him. He’s a jolly nice man—ghost, I mean—an’ it was decent of him to give us that chocolate.”
“I wonder if other people s
ee him besides us,” said Ginger.
“Those two women had seen him.”
“That only makes six. If only six people can see him it’s goin’ to be difficult for him to get any help.”
“Oh, come on!” said William. “He may be doin’ somethin’ desp’rate while we’re wastin’ time hangin’ about like this.”
“Well, he can’t kill himself, anyway,” said Henry. “I bet that’s one of the things a ghost can’t do.”
“I wish you’d stop talkin’ for two minutes," said William irritably, “an’ let me think . . . Now listen.” He drew the paper from his pocket and studied it frowningly. “We’ve got to find those papers an’ destroy them so’s he can stop walkin’ the earth an’ his spirit can find rest.”
“How’ll we start?” said Ginger.
“First we’ve got to find out where they’re hidden an’ they mus’ be hidden somewhere in that house ’cause that’s the house he’s hauntin’.”
“It’s not so easy, you know,” said Douglas, “gettin’ into other people’s houses an’ I bet it’ll end in a muddle.”
“No, it won’t,” said William. “I’m jolly good at gettin’ into other people’s houses . . . Come on. Let’s have a try now.”
They set off briskly across the fields to Steedham, slackening their pace as they approached the gate of Springfield. Then silently, in single file, they crept up to the house under cover of the shrubs. A french window stood open on to a terrace at the back of the house. William peered furtively into the room.
“There’s no one there,” he said. “Come on . . . We can have a look round, anyway.”
Crouching, almost crawling, they crossed the terrace and entered the room by the french window.
“It’s all right,” said William, looking round. “There isn’t anyone . . . Come on, let’s start.” He opened a drawer in a small bureau that stood against the wall. “There’s nothin’ here but envelopes an’—”
He stopped.
A man had risen from an arm-chair, whose back had been turned to the window, hiding its occupant. He was a stout stocky man with an oily smile and small malicious eyes.
“And what can I do for you, my young friends?” he said.
The envelopes fell from William’s hands.
“W-well,” he stammered, “we’re jus’ sort of lookin’ for somethin’, that’s all.”
“And what are you looking for?” said the man.
“Jus’ some papers,” said William, picking up the envelopes and replacing them in the drawer. “Don’t bother about us. We—we’ll go now . . "
“Oh no,” said the man, interposing himself between the boys and the french window. “You mustn’t run away as soon as you’ve arrived. I should like an explanation of your visit, you know.”
“Are you Mr Raglan?” said William.
The man bowed in mock politeness.
“I am Mr Raglan,” he said, “and this is my house. Perhaps I might trouble you again for an explanation of your presence here . . .What exactly are you looking for?”
“Nothin’.” said William, maintaining his air of nonchalance with some difficulty. “We jus’ sort of got lost. We sort of took the wrong turnin’ an’ got in here by mistake.”
“It’s about the ghost,” said Ginger. “You see—”
“He gave us some chocolate,” said Douglas.
“Shut up!” said William.
“Oh.” The man’s slow silky voice became slower and silkier. “You like chocolate, do you?”
“Gosh, yes,” said Douglas.
“Well, well,” said Mr Raglan, “I’ll fetch you some. I have some in my study. One must entertain one’s guests.”
He left the room abruptly. The Outlaws looked at each other uneasily.
“I don’t like him,” said Ginger.
“You were an idiot to tell him about the ghost,” said William.
“I thought he might help us find the papers,” said Ginger.
“Well, he won’t,” said William. “You can see that by jus’ lookin’ at him.”
“Let’s go away quick before he comes back,” said Douglas.
“No, we jolly well won’t,” said William. “He’s actin’ jolly suspicious an’ I bet he’s got somethin’ to hide. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s one of those evil companions that led this ghost astray.”
They wandered aimlessly about the room.
“It’s a pretty large house to have to hunt through,” said Ginger dispiritedly. “It’ll take us weeks . . .”
“Sh!” said William. “He’s comin’ back.”
The door opened and Mr Raglan reappeared. He held a chocolate box that contained four chocolates. His smile was larger and oilier than ever.
“Only four left, I’m afraid,” he said, “but it makes one each, doesn’t it?”
“Er—thanks,” said William, disarmed by this kindly attention. “Thanks very much.”
“One each, better than nothing,” chuckled the man. “Now put them into your mouth at the word of command . . . One . . . two . . . three . . . go!”
Each of the Outlaws popped a chocolate into his mouth . . . then spluttering, sneezing, gasping, they staggered about the room.
Mr Raglan watched them with impish glee, chuckling maliciously, rubbing his hands together.
“Ha-ha!” he chuckled. “That’ll teach you to respect the laws of property, my young friends! Didn’t take me long, did it? Just scooped out the cream from four chocolate creams, mixed it freely—very freely—with red pepper—I
have a specially pungent variety of red pepper—and plugged it up neatly with a piece of plain chocolate. You really ought to see yourselves, you know. It’s the funniest sight I’ve seen for a long time.”
The Outlaws stumbled towards the door.
“One moment!” said Mr Raglan.
They stopped, irresolute, on the threshold.
“There is a dark cellar beneath this house, and if you ever dare to repeat this exploit you will find yourselves imprisoned there and it is unlikely that your friends will ever set eyes on you again. In years to come, of course, four little skeletons might be discovered, but . . .”
It was a meaningless threat, uttered in a half-joking fashion, but there was malice behind it—malice and intent to terrify the four small boys who confronted him.
“Huh!” spluttered William, infusing—as far as he could—an air of bravado into his spluttering. “Huh! . . . Come on!”
He led the way out of the french window and, once outside the window, still spluttering and choking, they ran across the lawn and out of the front gate. They did not stop till they reached the refuge of the old barn. Their choking and spluttering had by that time somewhat abated.
“Well, what do we do now?” said Ginger.
“Give it up,” said Douglas.
“No, we jolly well won’t,” said William. “He’s a villain, all right. We only jus’ escaped with our lives. I bet those secret papers are hid in that house an’ I bet he knows where they are an’ I bet he’s goin’ to hand them over to the en’my soon as he gets the chance. He was tryin’ to poison us ’cause he knew we were on his track.”
“It was only pepper,” Henry reminded him. “It was jolly beastly, but it was only pepper.”
“Pepper!” jeered William. “It was somethin’ worse than pepper. I’ve tasted pepper an’ this wasn’t jus’ pepper. It was poison. I could taste the poison in it. We only jus’ got out alive.”
“An’ we can’t go back,” said Ginger. “He’ll be on the look-out for us.”
“Y-yes,” said William thoughtfully. Then his brow cleared. “But listen! He’s havin’ a sort of party on Saturday. I heard my fam’ly talkin’ about it. It’s to mark this book he’s written sellin’ its fifty thousandth copy or somethin’ like that. He’s invitin’ critics an’ publishers and lit’ry people as well as people in the village. I b’lieve everyone's goin’ to it. He thinks an awful lot of himself jus’ ’cause he’s written a book
. I bet it’s not as good as that one I wrote called The Bloody Hand."
“’Course it isn’t,” said Ginger. “That was a smashing book.”
“Well, I don’t see how any of this is goin’ to help,” said Henry.
“’Course it’s goin’ to help,” said William. “They’ll all be busy with this party. They’ll be havin’ it in that big room we were in, an’ the servants will all be in the kitchen, an’ the rest of the house’ll be empty. So that’s what we’ll do. We’ll search the house while they’re havin’ the party. It’s a jolly good idea.”
The other three looked doubtful.
“He’s sure to find us,” said Henry.
“An’ I don’t see what’s to stop him poisoning us again,” said Ginger.
“I don’t think my mother’d like me to do it,” said Douglas.
William assumed his air of leadership.
“Well, you’re goin’ to. We’re all goin’ to. We’re goin’ to find those papers an’ destroy them, an’ rescue this ghost from havin’ to walk the earth so’s his spirit can find rest. An’ if you don’t want to come, I’ll do it myself. I can do it myself easy. I bet they’re hidden in the attic. You can’t hide things in ordin’ry rooms ’cause someone always finds them, but no one looks for things in attics. I once kept a c’lection of insects in the attic an’ no one ever found them till they escaped an’ came downstairs. They’re full of junk, attics are, an’ you could hide secret papers in one for years.”
Already they felt committed to the plan. Their spirits were rising to meet the challenge of adventure.
“It’s worth tryin’,” said Henry.
“Huh! I should jolly well think it is,” said William. “Now listen.” He sank his voice to a whisper and they gathered closely round him. “We’ll wait till this party’s got started, then we’ll go up to the attic and have a good hunt all over it an’ I bet we find those secret papers. The party starts at six so we’ll meet here at quarter to.”
They saw the young man twice in the interval before the party. On the first occasion they met him striding over Ringers Hill and he waved to them as he passed.
William and the Pop Singers (Just William, Book 35) Page 13