William

by Richmal Crompton

  They had reached the point where a lane ran by the side of Farmer Jenks’ field. The Outlaws, as habitual trespassers on his property, were cordially detested by Farmer Jenks.

  ‘We’d better go by the lane,’ said William regretfully, for his proud spirit hated to surrender to a foe. ‘I’m not quite sure how I c’n run in these trousers of Robert’s. They may be all right for runnin’ in or they mayn’t. They feel sort of big an’ as if they’d come off rather easy so we’d better go by the lane ’cause we’d better be a bit careful till we’ve caught him. D’you remember last time Farmer Jenks ran after us he said he was goin’ to tell the police about us, so p’raps we’d better be careful for a bit.’

  They went slowly down the lane to where the two cottages, Oaklands and Beechgrove, stood together by the road side. The other Outlaws cast sidelong glances at William. Their doubts as to his appearance were growing stronger. His trousers were cut unevenly, his beard was obviously meant to adorn a larger face than William’s and his wig was askew. Moreover, what of his face could be seen was, if not beautiful, uncompromisingly youthful. Only William himself had no doubts at all of the success of his disguise.

  ‘Won’t he get a shock when he sees me,’ he said with a chuckle that dislodged the insecure ear hook of his beard. ‘When he sees, as he thinks, his vict’m come back to life to avenge his foul murder. It said it that way in the Myst’ry of the One-Eyed Man,’ he admitted modestly as he hooked his beard over his ear again. ‘I di’n’ think of it myself. I think it was a jolly clever way to say it. All those myst’ry tales are written by speshully clever writers. Not the ornery sort of writers that write books with girls’ faces on the backs an’ such-like. I may start writin’ myst’ry books too after I’ve finished catchin’ murd’rers. An’ if I do, I’m goin’ to have pictures of splashes of blood on the backs of all my books jus’ to make sure of everyone buyin’ ’em. I bet I’ll be one of the richest men in the world by the time I’ve finished.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ginger, ‘but what’re we goin’ to do now? We’ve got to his house.’

  Brought down to earth, William looked about him.

  Both gardens were empty, though the tenant of Beechgrove could be seen in a further greenhouse.

  ‘Let’s get round to the other side of his house,’ said William, ‘so’s he can’t see us. ’S no good spoilin’ it all by lettin’ him see us too soon. Tell you what, I’d better wait till he’s workin’ in his garden an’ come walkin’ out of the door of ole Scraggy’s house. He prob’ly murdered him in his house so that’d be quite all right. Come walkin’ out of the door of his house. An’ then he’ll be so scared he’ll start tellin’ all about the murder. You all got your pieces of paper an’ pencils?’

  ‘Mine hasn’t a point,’ admitted Douglas gloomily. ‘It had one when I started but it got broke in my pocket.’

  ‘Well, find the point an’ write with that,’ suggested William.

  Douglas took the larger objects out of his pocket and then began to burrow among the residuum of shaving chips, marbles, nut shells, spent matches, boiled sweets, pieces of string, and bits of putty. His search was unavailing. Moreover, so many boiled sweets adhered to the piece of paper he had brought that writing on it would have been impossible.

  ‘I’ll learn it off by heart as he says it,’ he said, giving up the attempt. ‘That’d be best. If he doesn’t talk too quick, of course.’

  ‘All right,’ said William. ‘Yes, that’d do all right. You learn it off by heart as he says it.’

  Ginger produced a fountain pen of uncertain habits and the crumpled back of an envelope. William looked at them with the air of a general holding a review.

  ‘If I know anythin’ about that pen of yours,’ he said sternly, ‘it’ll stop writin’ jus’ when he’s got to tellin’ about the murder.’

  ‘’T oughtn’t to,’ said Ginger, inspecting it earnestly, ‘it’s full of ink. At least,’ he corrected himself as his eye fell upon his ink-soaked fingers and handkerchief, ‘at least it was when I started.’

  ‘Yes, but it dun’t seem to know what ink’s for, that’s what’s wrong with your pen,’ said William, still very sternly; ‘dun’t seem to know anythin’ about writin’. Seems to think that ink’s jus’ for splashin’ about. That’s what’s wrong with it in my opinion,’ he ended with heavy sarcasm.

  ‘It’s a jolly good pen,’ said Ginger indignantly, ‘a jolly good pen.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a jolly good pen for splashin’ ink about,’ said William, ‘I never said it wasn’t a jolly good pen for splashin’ ink about. If anyone ever asked me to advise them a good pen for splashin’ ink about I’d advise yours. I’d say no one could have a better pen for splashin’ ink about than yours. But writin’s a different matter an’—’

  ‘Oh, shut up talkin’ so much,’ said Ginger. ‘I don’t see how you think you can catch murd’rers an’ suchlike if you never stop talkin’ from mornin’ to night.’

  ‘I do stop talkin’,’ said William indignantly. ‘I’m only doin’ absolutely necess’ry talkin’ now. How d’you think anyone can arrange about catchin’ murd’rers an’ such-like without talkin’? ’F you know of any deaf and dumb man what’s become a famous detective kin’ly tell me his name.’

  Ginger, thus challenged, sent his mind back over the vast amount of lurid literature on which it had lately fed in search of a famous deaf and dumb detective, and William seized the opportunity to continue.

  ‘An’ I don’ think you c’n get a whole murder on the back of a little env’lope either. You oughter’ve brought somethin’ bigger for a murder. Not that I s’pose it’ll matter much ’cause if you had a whole book full of paper your pen’d splash ink over it stead of writin’ murders.’

  Henry, however, retrieved the honour of the company. With an air of conscious virtue he brought out a little note-book, and a small neat pencil with a sheath over its point. William was touched and softened. He gazed at Henry admiringly.

  ‘That’s jolly good,’ he said. ‘That’ll be all right, then. I mean, with one thing like that it won’t matter the others not havin’ proper things. One’ll be enough. It’d prob’ly only be muddlin’ havin’ three people takin’ it all down, anyway. I vote that jus’ Henry takes it down an’ the rest of you jus’ listen an’ tell him how to spell the words he doesn’t know.’

  ‘I bet I c’n spell as well as them,’ said Henry indignantly, and with perfect truth.

  ‘Well, we’d better be gettin’ on with the plan,’ said William briskly. ‘We’ve gotter find some way of gettin’ into his house an’ then I’ve gotter walk out of his door when he’s workin’ in the garden. An’ you be hid behind the door to take down what he says when he’s all scared stiff at seein’ me. He’s sure to let out all about the murder same as the man did in The Mystery of the One-Eyed Man.’

  ‘How’re we goin’ to get into his house?’ said Ginger.

  William had entered the little back garden gate and the others had followed. Fortunately the lane was empty and so their operations were undisturbed and unchallenged. Had anyone come down the lane, William’s strange appearance would certainly have attracted comment and investigation.

  ‘I bet if I climbed up that pipe an’ over that little roof I could get into that little window. I bet it isn’t locked.’

  He was quite right. It wasn’t locked. After a precarious ascent, during which both beard and wig (with bowler hat attached) were dislodged and rolled down to his watching assistants, he managed to make his way up to the little window, open it and tumble through. Then, after tying the string of his trousers (which his efforts had broken) round his neck again, and brushing off some of the dust from his person, he went downstairs to unlock the back door. Cautiously the Outlaws crept into the little kitchen and handed William his properties. He readjusted his wig and beard and hat with a jaunty air. He was feeling exhilarated and stimulated by the adventure.

  ‘Well, we’ve nearly got him now,’ he said, ‘he hasn’t got
much chance now . . . Go ’n’ see if he’s in the garden, Ginger.’

  Ginger peeped very cautiously out of the window.

  ‘Yes, he’s jus’ goin’ into his garden,’ he said excitedly, ‘he’s lookin’ at his rose bed again . . . Look.’

  The Outlaws peeped from behind the blind. The tenant of Beechgrove was standing in his garden, leaning on his spade and gazing sorrowfully at his roses. They still looked sickly. Perhaps he’d overdosed them with liquid manure . . . He didn’t quite know what to do about it.

  ‘Look at him,’ said William excitedly. ‘Jus’ like the man in The Myst’ry of the Sundial. Can’t keep his eyes off the place where he buried him. Keeps goin’ out to look at it. Gotter sort of fascination for him jus’ like what the place had for the man in The Myst’ry of the Sundial. Look at him lookin’ at it. Jus’ standin’ lookin’ at it. Sort of mournful. That’s his guilty conscious. Some of ’em do repent. It comes over them how wicked they are. It did over the man in The Myst’ry of the Blue Cat. But of course it’s not so excitin’ when they do . . .’

  The tenant of Beechgrove turned away from the rose bed and the Outlaws moved hastily from the window.

  ‘Well,’ said Henry, taking out his note-book and pencil with an air of importance. ‘You goin’ out to him now?’

  ‘In a minute,’ said William, picking up his beard which had fallen off again. ‘Now we’re here, we may as well have a look round.’ He gazed about the neat and spotless little room. ‘Look!’ he said, ‘that shows you how clever he is. He must’ve been lookin’ here every day for the money but he leaves it lookin’ jus’ as if no one had been in it. He’s one of the very clever ones. I said so right from the beginning . . . I say, now we’re here, I vote we have a try at findin’ the money ourselves. Come on.’

  The Outlaws instituted a thorough search of the downstairs room. In one of the cupboards they found a tin of biscuits and for a few minutes they forgot the money. It was William who first remembered the stern purpose of the expedition. He was reminded of it by the sudden descent of his beard, caused by the energetic movements of his mouth.

  ‘Well,’ he said, swallowing half a biscuit unmasticated, ‘what’ve we come here for?’

  ‘Dates!’ said Douglas excitedly. ‘Look! Dates. A box of dates in the corner of that cupboard.’

  ‘We’ve come here to catch murd’rers,’ said William sternly, ‘not to eat dates.’ He replaced his wig, which had slipped over one ear, replaced his bowler hat, and assumed his air of leadership.

  ‘Look ’n’ see if you can see him in his garden again,’ he said to Ginger.

  Ginger peeped from behind the blind.

  ‘Crikey!’ he gasped, ‘he’s comin’ along.’

  The Outlaws hastened to the window. It was true. The incredible spectacle was there before their very eyes. Old Scraggy himself was walking up the road carrying a bag. Anyone but William would have owned himself beaten and retreated. Not so William. When William formed a theory all the facts of the situation had to fit into it or William would know the reason why.

  ‘Well, I never,’ gasped William. ‘Someone else dressin’ up like him to give him a fright. I bet it’s someone from Scotland Yard. I bet it’s someone from Scotland Yard who’s read The Myst’ry of the One-Eyed Man same as I have an’ thought it was a good trick same as I did. It is a good trick, too. Fancy both of us thinkin’ of it. Nacherally I’m not the only one to get suspicious with him sudd’nly disappearin’ like that an’ him standin’ all day watchin’ the place he buried him when he isn’t goin’ to his house lookin’ for the money . . .’

  The figure was drawing nearer.

  ‘He – he’s got up jolly well,’ said Ginger doubtfully.

  ‘Yes,’ admitted William. ‘Of course they’ve gotter lot of things for that sort of thing at Scotland Yard. Yes,’ he went on as the figure drew still nearer. ‘Yes, he is got up jolly well. He’s done somethin’ to his neck to make it look scraggy same as the real one’s did. Yes, he’s done his neck very well indeed. But of course they’ve got people at Scotland Yard what have nothin’ else to do but make people look like other people. It’s quite easy when you’ve had a bit of practice. I don’ think he looks much more like him than me. It’s his neck he’s managed better, that’s all – Course, he may’ve had a neck like that to start with. That’s prob’ly it. That’s prob’ly why they chose him out to do it ’cause he had a neck like that to start with . . . Look, he’s goin’ to speak to him. Now – listen.’

  Henry took out his note-book again, importantly.

  ‘He’s not got anyone to take down what he says,’ he said, ‘so I’d better do that.’

  They opened the door very slightly and peeped out.

  The old man paused at the gate of Beechgrove and said:

  ‘Afternoon, Mr Smith.’

  The tenant of Beechgrove looked up from his rose bed and said:

  ‘Afternoon, Mr Barton . . . you back from your holiday?’

  ‘Well!’ said William. ‘Well! Jus’ listen to that. He’s cleverer even than I thought he was. He knows it’s a trick an’ he’s not goin’ to be took in by it. You see? He’s pretendin’ he thinks it’s the real Scraggy jus’ to put ’em off the scent though he knows that poor ole Scraggy’s dead an’ buried in his rose bed. Let’s listen to what he’ll say now . . .’

  They listened, but there was nothing more to hear as the tenant of Oaklands was coming up to the front door. It occurred to the Outlaws suddenly and for the first time that their position was open to a certain amount of misconstruction.

  ‘Upstairs, quick!’ gasped William as the old man opened the garden gate.

  The Outlaws followed their leader up the narrow stairs and into a little bedroom at the top. William held the door ajar and placed his ear against it for some moments in silence. Then he spoke in a hoarse and sibilant whisper:

  ‘I c’n hear him messin’ about downstairs. I tell you what. I b’lieve he’s another thief after the money, dressed up like ole Scraggy to avoid suspicion. That’s what I think. I think he’s another thief after the money. There was a man like that in The Myst’ry of the Creaking Stair. There was a man who—’

  ‘Look, William,’ whispered Ginger, ‘come and look out of the window at what he’s doin’ in his garden. He’s squirtin’ stuff on to his rose bed again.’

  The Outlaws clustered about the window.

  ‘Poison,’ explained William. ‘Jus’ to make quite sure he’s dead. He—’

  At that moment the Outlaws were startled by the sound of the door being suddenly pulled to and the key turned in the lock. Then came the sound of steps descending the stairs. William tried the door. It was locked. They were prisoners.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘They know we’re on their track an’ they’re tryin’ to get rid of us. Yes, that’s what it is. He isn’t a Scotland Yard man tryin’ to find out the murd’rer. I was on the wrong track there. They gen’rally get on the wrong track first even in books. He’s a confederation. That’s what he is. An’ he’s dressed up like the man they killed so’s to be able to come into the house lookin’ for the money without arousin’ suspicions. There was a man like that in one of the myst’ry books. I’ve forgotten which one but there was a man like that in it an’—’

  ‘Well, what’re we goin’ to do?’ asked Douglas nervously.

  ‘It’s jus’ what happened to the detective in one of the myst’ry books,’ said William. ‘He got locked in the room by the murd’rer but he’d got a pistol an’ when the murd’rer unlocked the door an’ came in to kill him he got out his pistol before the murd’rer got out his an’ he walked the murd’rer downstairs an’ out to the police station. I said all along I oughter have a pistol. If I’d got a pistol now I’d be all right. It’s not having a pistol that’s the trouble. I—’

  He stopped. They could hear voices coming up the stairs . . . a deep, bass voice and a high, squeaky one that they recognised as belonging to the master of the house.

  ‘
Heard voices,’ the squeaky voice was saying, ‘heard voices . . . house supposed to be empty . . . been away for holiday . . . went upstairs and just caught sight of them in room . . . several men there – large, powerful-looking men . . . slammed door on ’em, locking ’em in . . . then went out for you. Lucky to find you just at corner . . .’

  The bass voice answered rather dubiously:

  ‘Four of ’em, you say? An’ powerful-lookin’ men . . . well, I’d p’raps better go back to the station first an’—’

  ‘One was a fairly elderly man,’ said the squeaky voice. ‘I noticed a beard – noticed a beard distinctly . . . the others all young and powerful-looking . . .’

  ‘Well,’ said the bass still more dubiously. ‘I dunno but what I’d better – Wait a sec . . .’

  He evidently withdrew the key from the keyhole and applied his eye to it. Then he unlocked the door and flung it open. The Outlaws stood there before the gaze of old Scraggy and the village policeman. The policeman said: ‘Well, I’m—’ and forgetting the dignity of his office burst into a guffaw of laughter. Then he quickly remembered the dignity of his office and changed the guffaw to a cough.

  ‘NOW,’ THE POLICEMAN DEMANDED STERNLY, ‘WHAT’S ALL THIS ’ERE?’

  ‘THIEVES,’ SPLUTTERED OLD SCRAGGY; ‘THIEVES, THAT’S WHAT THEY ARE!’

  WILLIAM, GINGER AND DOUGLAS STARED BLANKLY. HENRY TOOK HIS NOTE-BOOK OUT WITH AN AIR OF IMPORTANCE.

  ‘Now look ’ere,’ he said sternly, ‘look ’ere, look ’ere, look ’ere. What’s all this? What’s all this ’ere?’

  He took the ears of Ginger and William in one enormous hand, the ears of Douglas and Henry in the other and led them downstairs to the garden. There he surveyed them in the full light of day, and at the sight of William another guffaw burst from him which he turned again in a masterly fashion into a cough.