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

by Richmal Crompton

  “He’s still walkin’ the earth,” said Henry, looking back to him sorrowfully.

  On the other occasion he passed them on a motorcycle.

  “He can ride a motor-cycle,” said Ginger with interest.

  “P’raps it’s a special sort,” said Douglas.

  “No, I told you,” said William impatiently. “He’s the kind that has bones in his legs, same as you an’ me.”

  They met in the old barn on the evening of the party, made their way over the fields to Springfield, crept up the drive in the shelter of the shrubs, and took up their positions near the house. Through the branches of a thick laurel bush they watched the guests arrive—the London contingent of critics, publishers and writers; the local contingent of Monks, Botts, Miss Milton, General Moult and the rest.

  William peered out cautiously from his laurel bush as his parents approached.

  “She looks all right,” he said with ill-concealed pride. “She’s got that hat on that she said made her look like a pineapple, but it looks jolly nice to me.”

  Ginger, Henry and Douglas also subjected their parents to critical scrutiny as they passed. Douglas’s father threw a searching glance in their direction that made them shrink still farther into their hiding-place, but he was merely pointing out that a spindly weigela in the neighbourhood of the laurel had been insufficiently pruned.

  Gradually the last stragglers entered the front door of Springfield. The guests could be seen through the window, glasses in hand, moving to and fro . . . chatting . . . greeting each other. A small crowd surrounded a tall thin man with a bald head and busby eyebrows, and a short squat man with a black goatee beard was holding forth to an earnest-looking group, all of whom obviously belonged to the London contingent. The largest group was clustered round Mr Raglan, who was smiling his oily smile and waving his plump white hands as he talked. The young man was standing apart from the others, looking morose and detached.

  “No one’s takin’ any notice of him,” said Ginger.

  “I don’t s’pose they can see him,” said Douglas.

  “Never mind that,” said William. “Come on. They’re all inside the room now. Let’s go up to the attic."

  They made their way to a small side door. It was open. In single file, huddling against the wall, they crept along a stone passage . . . and up a narrow back staircase. Voices and the clink of glasses and crockery came from the kitchen regions, but passage and staircase were deserted. Up the stairs to the top storey . . . then up the small steep ladderlike flight of steps . . . and into the attic.

  They stood gazing round, wide-eyed with interest. Cardboard boxes, suitcases, trunks, hampers, stringless tennis racquets, old picture-frames, an ancient hip-bath, oil lamps, broken deckchairs, piles of old books and magazines, a phonograph, a punch-ball, tricycle, a crumbling bird-cage, a dilapidated flour-bin . . .

  Henry began a cautious attack on the punch-ball and Ginger climbed on to the tricycle.

  “Stop messing about,” said William sternly. “We’ve got to go through all those boxes till we find those papers.”

  Reluctantly they left punch-ball and tricycle and set to work on the hunt, emptying box after box, scattering the contents on the floor around them.

  “Nothin’ here . . .”

  “Rusty old skates . . .”

  “Old curtains an’ things . . .”

  “Old photographs ...”

  “Old books . . .”

  William was becoming somewhat bored by the search. He stood up and surveyed his surroundings. His eyes rested on a roof beam that ran from end to end of the long low room.

  “I bet I could swing myself right from one end of this to the other,” he said.

  “Thought you said ‘don’t mess about’,” grumbled Douglas.

  “Well, it won’t take a minute an’ I’m beginnin’ to get stiff, emptyin’ boxes. I need a bit of exercise.”

  He climbed on to an old wicker hamper, clasped the beam with both hands and set off, swinging his way across the room.

  “I’m doin’ it jolly well,” he said exultantly. “I’ve nearly got to the end. I bet a real acrobat couldn’t do it better."

  He wobbled precariously, lost his grip with one hand, waved it wildly in the air, lost his grip with the other and fell heavily on to an open suitcase that happened to be just beneath him.

  “Well, I’ve jus’ about broken every bone in my body,” he said, as he rose from the wreckage and stood rubbing his thighs, “but I nearly did it. I bet I’ll do it all right if I try again. I—” He looked down at the broken suitcase and his eyes widened. “Gosh!” His voice sank almost to a whisper. “Look!”

  They looked down at the suitcase. William’s fall had broken the sides but had also evidently released a spring. What had appeared to be the bottom of the case had opened, revealing a secret compartment. And in the secret compartment was a pile of papers.

  “The poli’cal papers,” gasped William. “The ones he’d hid and forgot where he hid them . . . They’re here!”

  They fell eagerly upon the papers, taking them out of the suitcase, spilling them over the floor. Each page was closely covered with erratic, almost illegible handwriting. The lines sloped up the pages at an abrupt angle. Whole

  sections had been crossed out and corrections written and rewritten on every available space.

  The Outlaws had each seized a handful of papers and were studying them with frowning concentration.

  “Can’t read a word,” said Ginger at last. “I think it’s in some foreign language.”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Henry. “It goes into English every now and then . . . I can read ‘geranium’ here quite clear.”

  “It mus’ be a code word for somethin’ else, then,” said William. “I know! It’s a code for ‘uranium’. Well, that proves it. It was atom bomb secrets he was goin’ to give away an’ we’ve got to destroy them quick so’s his spirit can find rest.”

  “How can we destroy them?” said Ginger. “We don’t know where the dust-bin is an’ even if we put them there someone’d be sure to find ’em an’ fish ’em out.”

  William had climbed on to the wicker basket again and was looking out of the open skylight.

  “There’s a bonfire down there,” he said. “I think it’s in a sort of kitchen garden. No one’s with it. It’s jus’ bumin’ away by itself . . . There’s no one about. It’ll be all right. Come on! Let’s take them there now.”

  They gathered up the papers and William tied them into a loose bundle with a length of string that trailed from an overturned box.

  “Come on,” he whispered hoarsely, “an’ don’t make a sound.”

  Silently, cautiously, their faces tense and earnest, they tiptoed down the stairs and reached the small side door by which they had entered. William stood in the shadow of the doorway, gazing warily around.

  ‘We’ll have to go across the lawn to get to the part of garden where the fire is,” he said, “but they’re all in that room havin’ drinks an’ things so it should be all right.”

  Casting fearful glances over their shoulders at the house, they began the perilous crossing.

  Suddenly the front door was flung open and a burst of conversation issued forth.

  “You must certainly see the garden,” they heard in Mr Raglan’s voice. “Especially the herb garden. My uncle made a delightful little herb garden.”

  William gazed desperately around. There was a beech tree by the edge of the lawn with low-growing branches.

  “Let’s get up there,” he said. “We can stay there till they’ve gone in again,”

  The guests had now emerged from the house and were clustered round a rather showy little fuchsia shrub that grew by the front door. Their backs were turned to the Outlaws but there was not a moment to be lost. William bundled the papers under his pullover and began the ascent. The others followed and, when the guests turned from the examination of the fuchsia shrub, the Outlaws were all safely up the tree and the coast w
as clear.

  But not quite clear.

  For one of the sheets of paper had escaped from the bundle and lay on the ground beneath the tree. The tall man whom the Outlaws had seen through the window at the beginning of the party strolled across to it casually and picked it up. As he read it his brows shot together and his lips tightened. Turning round, he beckoned to the bearded man and together they bent their heads over the sheet of paper.

  “It’s the first page of the opening chapter of Hedge of Thorns,” said the tall thin man. “And it’s in Alec’s handwriting. I was his agent for thirty years and I’d know that hand in a hundred. I’d take my oath to every letter.”

  “Good Lord!” said the bearded man. “So would I. There’s no possibility of doubt. I published all his books, and every page of his typescript consisted largely of corrections. I’ve spent years of my life wrestling with this fist of Alec’s. It’s certainly the opening page of Hedge of Thorns—but why in Heaven’s name is it in Alec’s handwriting? Where has it come from? Where’s the rest of it?”

  As if in answer to his question, a shower of manuscript suddenly descended on him from the branches above.

  William had made an incautious movement that released the bundle of papers from their insecure mooring beneath his pullover. They fluttered down in the breeze. Guests caught them in their hands or picked them up from the ground with expressions of growing bewilderment.

  “Is it a sort of advertisement?” said Mrs Brown.

  “A message from Outer Space, perhaps,” said Miss Thompson vaguely.

  But the tall thin man and the bearded man were collecting the papers and examining them with expressions that changed from bewilderment to suspicion, from suspicion to grim certainty.

  They approached their host. A yellow tinge had invaded Mr Raglan’s countenance. His eyes wore a glazed set look.

  “As your publisher, Mr Raglan,” said the bearded man, “I should like an explanation of this.”

  “As your agent,” said the tall thin man, “I, too, would welcome enlightenment.”

  Mr Raglan’s teeth were bared in a ghastly smile.

  “Of what?” he gibbered. “I don’t understand. I—” The guests had gathered round. The young man stood by Mr Raglan with a look of interest and curiosity on his face.

  “Of this manuscript,” said the bearded man. “It is—word for word—the manuscript of Hedge of Thorns, which you submitted to me as your own work and which I published under your name early this year. Yet it is indubitably in your uncle’s handwriting. Everyone who had any dealings with him would swear on oath that this was his handwriting.”

  “I was his agent,” said the tall thin man, “and certainly I would swear to his handwriting in a court of law.”

  “We are waiting for your explanation, Mr Raglan.”

  Mr Raglan’s face grew yet more yellow, his eyes more glazed, his lips more fixed in their nightmarish grin. Drops of perspiration stood out on his brow.

  Then suddenly a commotion arose from behind them and they all turned to see four boys slithering down the tree

  “Heavens above!” groaned Mr Brown. “It’s William.”

  But William was making his way to the group round Mr Raglan. He had not caught the words but he felt that the moment for intervention had arrived.

  “I can ’splain,” he panted. “It’s nothin’ to do with Mr Raglan.” His finger shot out in the direction of the young man. “It’s him.”

  Mrs Brown started forward in anguish, but her husband laid a restraining hand on her arm.

  “Ignore him,” he said. “Forget you ever had a younger son.”

  “Oh, but I did,” wailed Mrs Brown, “and the poor boy’s out of his senses.”

  “He never had many to be out of, my dear,” said Mr Brown. “Let’s go and inspect the fuchsia again. I feel a sudden overpowering interest in the plant.”

  The guests were staring at William—the faces of the London contingent in frozen amazement, the faces of the locals in weary resignation . . . William Brown at the bottom of every piece of mischief, as usual.

  William had pushed his way to the front of the group. The undergrowth of the shrubbery, the dust and cobwebs of the attic, the lichen of trunk and branches, had left plentiful marks on his person. His hair was dishevelled, his tie askew, his pullover torn, his features barely discernible, but his face was set and purposeful as he pointed a grubby finger at the young man.

  “It’s him,” he repeated. “It’s the ghost. He’s got to go on walkin’ the earth till he’s set this wrong right.” His grubby finger now indicated the pile of manuscript in the publisher’s hands. “It’s got to be burnt so’s his spirit can find rest.”

  “My dear boy,” said the publisher, “I see no ghost.”

  “No, p’raps you don’t,” said William. “We can see him but I don’t s’pose everyone can. He wrote these secret papers in his lifetime.” The young man’s jaw had dropped open. “They’re about atom bombs. He wrote them for the en’my then repented an’ they’ve got to be destroyed.”

  “He meant no harm,” said Ginger.

  “He was led astray by evil companions,” said Henry. Suddenly the general interest was directed elsewhere. For Mr Raglan was quietly and unobtrusively sloping off. Probably he did not himself know where he hoped to slope off to, but it was evident that he was driven by an irresistible urge to escape from his present surroundings.

  “Quick!” called the tall thin man. “Stop him!”

  Mr Raglan was nimbler than he looked. Already he was well on his way to the garage where his large Daimler stood by, as if waiting to take part in his escape. The two men set off after him. Some of the guests joined in the chase. William was starting forward to follow them when the young man laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “One moment!” he said. “Now will you kindly tell me what all this is about?”

  The Outlaws and the young man were in the attic among a chaos of upturned boxes and their scattered contents. The shouting and the tumult had died. Host and guests had departed. Only the young man had stayed behind to sort out the situation with the Outlaws and inspect the scene of the discovery. He sat on the upturned flour-bin and the Outlaws on the floor around him. Introductions had been performed and it turned out that the young man was no ghost but an ordinary mortal called Nicholas Bolton.

  “You see,” he was saying, “this Raglan chap had come across the manuscript of a novel that his uncle had written shortly before his death, made sure that no one knew anything about it—his uncle was always very cagey about his work and never told anyone anything about a book till it was ready for publication—and decided to pass it off as his own. He just typed it out—Heaven knows how he managed to decipher the handwriting—and sent it to the publisher. It was rather different from his uncle’s usual stuff and no one suspected that it hadn’t been written by Raglan.”

  “They said writin’ runs in fam’lies,” said Douglas.

  “Yes, that helped him to get away with it.”

  “Why didn’t he burn the manuscript?” said William.

  “Well, his uncle had left some notes at the end explaining some rather obscure points in the novel, so Raglan kept for reference in case any questions were raised. He had this suitcase with a false bottom—presumably he’d used it for circumventing the Customs at some time or other—so he hid the manuscript there and thought it would be safe, especially among all this junk.”

  “What’ll happen to him?” said William. “Will he go to prison?”

  Mr Bolton shrugged.

  “I don’t know anything about the legal side of it. He’s gone to see his solicitor now: but the publisher’s got the manuscript and I suppose he’ll be going to see his solicitor. Whatever happens Raglan will be completely discredited.”

  “His name will be mud to the end of time,” said Henry solemnly.

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m sorry for us you’re not a ghost,” said William regretfully “but I’m glad for y
ou.”

  “Yes, it would have been rather a wearing life,” agreed Mr Bolton.

  “But you did write that about destroyin’ papers an’ escaping’,” said William.

  “Oh, yes . . . well, it’s rather a long story.”

  “We don’t mind,” said William.

  “We like em’ long,” said Ginger.

  “There’s lots of time,” said Douglas.

  “Yes, I suppose so . . . I’m leaving early tomorrow morning and my packing won’t take long.”

  “An’ those women said you were a ghost,” said Henry.

  “Yes, but they used the word in a special sense. You see, this Raglan chap had got a bit above himself. The success of Hedge of Thorns had gone to his head. And people were urging him to write his autobiography. He couldn’t write for toffee, but he didn’t want to refuse so he engaged another chap to write it for him pretending that he hadn’t the time to do it himself. And the man that writes another man’s stuff for him is called a ‘ghost’.”

  “But that paper in the summer-house . . .” said Ginger. “Ah, yes, that was part of a letter I was writing to a friend confiding my troubles. You see, the first man Raglan got to write for him packed up after a week. He could tell that the chap was phoney and the stuff he was drooling out as his life story just didn’t hold water. So Raglan got me and tied me hand and foot by a legal agreement to stay with him till the autobiography was written to his satisfaction.”

  “Gosh!” muttered William.

  “I didn’t know anything about the other man, of course, and I’d read Hedge of Thorns and admired it tremendously. I was out of a job and thrilled to get this one . . . then I was offered another job that I’d have given my soul to take but I was bound hand and foot to this wretched blighter by the agreement I’d signed. I’d found out by then, of course, how phoney he was and I suspected that the stuff he was pouring out as his life story was pure invention, but he wouldn’t release me from the agreement. It was the legal agreement, of course, that I wanted to destroy.”

  “Can you take the other job now?” said William.