William Again

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘We are not strangers, darling,’ ran the letter; ‘even as I write, though I have never seen you, I can see your fair curly hair – Peter’s hair – and your dear blue eyes – Peter’s eyes. When I think that I am going actually to see you two darlings, whom I feel I know so well, I can hardly believe my happiness. A kiss to you and darling Peter.’

  As he had raised his anguished eyes from this letter, he had met the strange scowling face of a boy just outside his window. A gleam of hope came into his heart. The situation might yet be saved. He might yet escape being held up to the scorn and ridicule of the readers of The Monthly Signal: A Magazine for Women. Looking again at the face of the boy, he had distinct misgivings, but he decided to try . . .

  William remained at the front door till the tall, angular figure reached it. Then they stared at each other. William had a gift for staring. People who tried to stare him out soon realised their inferiority in the art.

  ‘Good morning, little boy,’ said the visitor.

  ‘Umph,’ replied William.

  He was determined to earn that tricycle and pond and wood and birds’-nests and ten-shillings, and he felt that the less he committed himself to any definite statements outside his role the better.

  ‘What’s your name, dear?’

  William inspected her. She looked harmless enough. She had a weak, good-natured face and greying hair and kind short-sighted eyes behind spectacles. She ought to be easy to make a mug of, thought William, out of the vast store of his knowledge of human nature.

  ‘Peter,’ he said.

  The disappointment upon the good-natured face made William feel slightly annoyed.

  ‘Peter? Surely not?’ she quavered.

  ‘That curly hair wot I had,’ he explained, swallowing his annoyance, ‘all came off – got clawered off by a monkey, at the zoo.’ His imagination was coming to his aid as usual. ‘I went too near the cage an’ it stuck out its clawer an’ clawered it all off – every bit. They took me home bald an’ the nex’ day it grew again but a bit different.’

  ‘How terrible!’ the visitor murmured, shutting her eyes. ‘Wasn’t your dear mother sad when it grew that colour?’

  ‘No,’ said William, coldly, ‘she likes this colour.’

  ‘That’s so like her,’ said the lady tenderly, ‘to pretend to you that she likes it.’

  William began to dislike the lady. He waited for her to continue the conversation.

  ‘Somehow you’re quite different in every way from what I expected,’ she went on, with a distinct note of regret in her voice which William felt to be far from flattering. ‘You’re taller and stouter, and your expression . . . yes, that’s QUITE different.’

  ‘Yes,’ said William, still anxious to carry out his part of the bargain. ‘I’ve changed a lot since I had those pictures took. Got a bit older, you know, an’ had some awful illnesses.’

  ‘Really?’ said the lady, in sympathy. ‘Your dear mother never told me in her letters.’

  ‘She never knew,’ said William. ‘I never told her, so as not to worry her. I jus’ went about as usual, an’ she never knew. But it made me look different afterwards.’

  ‘It would,’ said the lady, with a bewildered air. ‘Well, shall we go in to your dear mother? She expects me, I believe. My name is Miss Rubina Strange.’

  ‘Oh,’ said William, ‘she’s ill. She said I was to tell you. She can’t see you. She’s very ill.’

  ‘Ill? I am so sorry. But I would like to go to her. Perhaps I could do something for her.’

  ‘No you can’t,’ said William, ‘no one can. It’s too late.’

  ‘But – have you had the doctor?’

  ‘Yes – he says it’s too late to do anything.’

  ‘Good Heavens! She’s not—?’

  ‘Yes, she’s dyin’ all right,’ said William.

  ‘But can’t anything be done? This is dreadful! I feel absolutely heartbroken. I must just come into the house. There’s surely something I can do!’

  William followed her into the house. Mr Monkton Graham had not expected this. He was standing by the window of his study waiting till Miss Rubina Strange should depart. When he saw her about to enter the room, he did the only possible thing. He disappeared.

  Miss Rubina Strange looked round the room with the air of a pilgrim visiting a holy place.

  ‘And is this, dear Peter,’ she said in a hushed whisper, ‘where she writes those wonderful words?’

  ‘Umph,’ answered William.

  ‘Oh, my dear! To think that I see it with my poor unworthy eyes. I have imagined it so often!’

  Then she raised her long, thin nose, and sniffed.

  ‘Peter, dear, there’s just a faint smell of it . . . surely your dear mother doesn’t smoke cigarettes?’

  ‘No,’ said William, absently, ‘it was a pipe he was smoking.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Him,’ said William, who was beginning to tire of the whole thing. It was the thought of the tricycle alone that upheld him.

  ‘Your poor mind is unhinged,’ said Miss Rubina, soothingly. ‘I expect you are worrying over your mother’s illness, which I’m sure you exaggerate, darling. I’m sure she’d have written to tell me if she’d been really ill. Is this the pen she writes with? And is this blotting-paper she’s actually used? Peter, dear, do you think I could take just a corner of it – just a corner, just to remember my visit by for always?’

  Mr Monkton Graham was growing uncomfortable. There was not really room under the table for a full-sized man to dispose his limbs. He stirred uneasily, and Miss Rubina Strange turned startled eyes to William, placing her finger on her lips.

  Then, snatching up the sacred pen she wrote on the sacred paper. ‘Peter, there is a man underneath the table. Don’t be alarmed. I am going to deal with him. Above all, do nothing to disturb your dear mother.’

  William said nothing. He felt that the affair had got beyond him. Miss Rubina Strange crept cautiously about the room. She took a long narrow tablecloth from an occasional table, she took a length of picture-cord which she found in a drawer of the sacred writing desk, she took an ornamental dagger from a cabinet, she took a cushion from an armchair. Then she whispered to William, ‘No noise or disturbance. Remember your mother is ill!’

  Just as the innocent Mr Graham was trying to ease the ache in his neck by resting his head on his knee, he felt a sudden and violent attack in the rear. He was dragged out forcibly by a tall, thin female, who was nevertheless evidently possessed of unusual strength. Before he could remonstrate his feet were firmly tied together with a tablecloth, and he was half dragged, half helped to a sitting position on a chair. Then, leaning over him threateningly, with the dagger in one hand, the woman spoke.

  ‘Make a sound,’ she said in a low, hissing voice, ‘utter one word, and I will strike. There is a sick woman in this house, and I will stop at nothing to protect her. You have come to rob a woman who is a dear friend of mine, and of every woman and, if necessary, I will take extreme measures—’

  THE INNOCENT MR GRAHAM WAS DRAGGED OUT FORCIBLY FROM HIS HIDING PLACE BY A TALL, THIN FEMALE OF UNUSUAL STRENGTH.

  Mr Graham looked apprehensively at the dagger. It had, as he knew, a nasty sharp point. He therefore obeyed her orders. He made no sound and uttered no word while she tied the cushion over his face and pinioned his arms to his side with the picture-cord. Then she turned to William. William had for the moment lost all power of action. Things were moving too fast for him.

  ‘She must know,’ whispered Miss Rubina Strange. ‘I’ll break it to her gently. Don’t let him move till I come back. I’ll find out if she wishes to prosecute. Which is her bedroom?’ He stared at her open-mouthed. ‘Never mind,’ she went on. ‘I’ll soon find her.’

  When she had gone, William turned his gaze to the figure in the chair. All that could be seen above the pinioned arms was a large cushion. The cushion began to move spasmodically, to shake convulsively, and to utter muffled curses. The whole figur
e began to writhe in its bonds. From what he could make out of the words that came from the cushion, William instinctively felt that the monologue was one that his mother would not wish him to hear. He therefore listened attentively, mouth and ears wide open. The words appeared forcible if somewhat inaudible.

  Just as Mr Graham had bent down his invisible head to try to bite the bonds round his knees through his cushion, Miss Strange, looking wild and dishevelled, returned.

  ‘She’s GONE . . .’ she burst out. ‘She’s not in the house, not in any of the bedrooms . . . What SHALL we do?’

  At this point, with a bellow of rage, the man in the chair managed to shake off his cushion. The face that emerged was hardly human. Something violent had happened to its hair. Something violent had happened to its collar. Something violent had happened to its expression. Before he could utter anything that was in his mind, a housemaid came into the room.

  ‘Oooo—’ she said, ‘it’s the master. They’re amurdering of him! Ooo-oo!’ With which remark she fled.

  ‘The master!’ gasped Miss Strange. She turned to William, ‘I didn’t know your father was alive.’ Then she turned to the figure who was obviously seeking words capable of expressing his feelings. ‘Where is your wife?’ she ended sternly. ‘Miserable man, where is your wife?’

  ‘I haven’t got any wife,’ he shouted.

  ‘But who wrote—’

  ‘ I wrote,’ he yelled.

  ‘Then Peter’s mother—’

  ‘There isn’t any Peter’s mother—’

  ‘My poor man, have I touched on painful ground?’ She placed a kind hand on William’s head. ‘Poor little orphan Peter,’ she murmured softly. ‘How long ago was it since she wrote to me?’

  ‘There isn’t any Peter,’ shouted the man, like one distraught. ‘There isn’t any Peter’s mother. There isn’t any Peter. There isn’t any Peter’s mother. There’s only ME, and you’ve nearly throttled me, and you’ve nearly suffocated me, and you’ve nearly knifed me, and would you mind going away? I don’t know who the boy is,’ he went on, following her gaze, ‘except that he’s some young ruffian trespassing in my garden, and who’ll make my life a misery for the next few weeks till he kills himself or me, or I kill him or myself—’

  Miss Rubina Strange, baffled for the first time that afternoon, sat down weakly.

  ‘But I don’t understand,’ she said.

  When she did understand, she did not sweep out of the room in disgust as he had hoped she would. Instead, she looked at him with bright eyes.

  ‘But how wonderful of you,’ she said. ‘Of course, I will keep your dear secret. What sympathy and understanding of a woman’s heart you have shown! It’s all the more wonderful that you are a man. And we are friends, are we not? – old friends. We must have a chat.’ She looked round the room. ‘Let me tidy up a little first. Ah, the room needs a woman’s touch . . . Then we will have a talk. There are so many things I want to ask and to tell you – ours will be a very beautiful friendship . . .’

  Mr Monkton Graham threw a pathetic and pleading look at William.

  ‘You may stay a little . . .’ he said.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said coldly, ‘I’d rather go jus’ now. You won’t forget those things you promised me, will you?’

  ‘Er – no,’ said Mr Graham, whose spirit was broken.

  ‘My aunt’s not got much of a garden,’ said William, ‘so I expect I shall be here most days. I’ll come for the tricycle and money after tea.’

  ‘We mustn’t be shy of each other,’ Miss Strange said in low, confidential tones; ‘my friends call me Ruby . . .’

  Mr Monkton looked wildly from her to William. His face was the face of a man in the depths of despair.

  After tea, William’s mother was anxious to know how William had spent his afternoon.

  ‘I met a man,’ he said casually, ‘who’s going to let me play in his garden an’ he’s given me a tricycle and some money.’

  ‘Where does he live, dear?’ said Aunt Ellen.

  At the end of the road,’ replied William.

  ‘Oh, I know,’ said Aunt Ellen, ‘it’s a beautiful big garden. You’re a very lucky boy, William. But I can’t think why—’

  ‘He must have taken a fancy to William,’ said William’s mother. ‘SOME people do . . .’

  ‘Now I must find you something to read,’ went on Aunt Ellen to William’s mother. ‘I’ve got some perfectly charming books that I know you’ll love.’

  ‘They’re all about a little boy – such a dear – called Peter. They’re written by his mother. They’re perfectly true. She tells you so in the preface. They’re so beautiful that they make me want to cry whenever I read them. I lent one to William before he went out this afternoon – Peter, the Sunshine of the Home – but he seems to have mislaid it. However, I’ve got heaps more. She – the mother – writes very beautiful little articles in one of the magazines. She must be a charming woman – to say nothing of Peter.’ She threw William a smiling glance. ‘There are some things our William might learn from Peter.’

  With all his faults, William knew when to keep his own counsel.

  He merely winked at the cat.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE GREAT DETECTIVE

  The play was produced by the village Dramatic Society William watched it spellbound from the front row, sitting between his mother and father. It was to him like the gateway to a new and enthralling life. He could not see why his elder brother and sister were laughing. The scene opened immediately after a murder. The corpse had been removed (somewhat to William’s disappointment), otherwise the room was as the murderer had left it. William held his breath as innumerable uniformed policemen moved about the stage with notebooks, looking for clues, crawling under the table, and examining the floor with magnifying glasses. The only clue they could find left by the murderer had been a red triangle drawn upon a piece of paper and neatly pinned to the body by a dagger. This, they informed the audience many times, was the mark of a criminal gang of robbers and murderers who were baffling Scotland Yard.

  Then the Great Detective came upon the scene, followed by a very bored-looking and elderly bloodhound, with its tail between its legs. The bloodhound, having made its appearance amid applause, contented itself with sitting in the corner of the stage and gazing scornfully at the audience. The Great Detective advanced to the centre of the stage, bent down, and picked up a cigarette end from the floor. It had been left by the murderer. The police, who had failed to notice it, fell into postures of ardent admiration. The cigarette end, naturally, bore the name of the maker, and yet more naturally was a blend made specially for the murderer. So justice set off hot upon the track, and the bloodhound yawned sleepily and shuffled off in the wake of the Great Detective.

  The next scene showed the murderer moving in scenes of luxury and magnificence, wearing evening dress at all hours of the day, entertaining earls and ambassadors amid tropical palms and gilded pillars, and waited on by an army of obsequious footmen.

  There was also the adventuress in a low (very low) red evening dress, smoking cigarettes upon a gilded settee. The plot was rather involved. There was a young man in a tweed suit, who kept appearing and calling to heaven to support his claim to the villain’s place and wealth, which the villain himself dismissed with a most villainesque snarl. There was also a simple maiden in sky-blue muslin, with golden (very golden) hair, who was generally clinging to the young man or sobbing on his shoulder while he appealed to heaven to make him worthy of her.

  But the Great Detective was the real hero of the play He appeared (always in a dressing-gown) in his room smoking a pipe and working up clues, with his hand upon the collar of his amiable bloodhound, who tried to assure the audience by little deprecating wags of his tail that he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

  The last scene was the great excitement. The villain, still in evening dress, with his background of palms and pillars, was packing to go away. The Great Detective arrived, tore open his suitcase, and th
ere were his handkerchiefs, adorned round the edges with red triangles – irrefutable proof – policemen with handcuffs spring from behind the palms – the young man, still wearing the young woman round his neck, appeared from nowhere and thanked heaven for bringing the guilty to justice – the bloodhound, in a sudden spasm of emotion, licked the villain’s hand as he was led out, and all was over, leaving only the young man and young woman wringing the hand of the Great Detective, who was still wearing his dressing-gown and smoking his pipe.

  William walked out of the hall in a dream. It all seemed so wonderful and yet so simple. Probably half the people one saw about were criminals and murderers, if only one knew

  You just found a clue and worked it up. It would be fine to be a detective. Of course, one needed a dressing-gown and a bloodhound, but he had a dressing-gown, and though Jumble wasn’t exactly a bloodhound, he was a bloodhound as much as he was any kind of a dog. Jumble was all sorts of dog. That was what was so convenient about him.

  Before William had retired to bed that night he had firmly made up his mind to lose no time in bringing some great criminal to justice with the aid of Jumble and his dressing-gown.

  ‘There have been,’ said Mrs Brown, William’s mother, at breakfast the next morning, ‘a lot of burglaries around here lately.’

  William stiffened. A little later he went out, calling Jumble. He walked down the road, scowling at the houses as he went. In one of those larger houses the criminal must live, somewhere where there were palm trees and a butler. Of course, a murderer was more exciting, but a burglar would do to begin with.