The musician stopped short and scowled at him. “Yes?”
“Er – are you going to the Hall?”
“Yes,” snapped the musician.
“To play to them?”
“Yes.”
“Are you Mr Zevrier?”
“I’m Zevrier,” said the man, tossing back his hair and striking an attitude.
“Well – well – I wouldn’t go to play to them if I was you.”
“Why not?” snapped the musician.
William silently considered this question.
“Well, I wouldn’t,” he said mysteriously, “if I was you. That’s all.”
The musician was feeling particularly annoyed that afternoon. He was engaged in writing his autobiography, and he could not find anything interesting to put into it. He wanted it to abound in picturesque episodes, and he couldn’t find even one picturesque episode to put into it.
Moreover, he disliked Mrs Bott, though he had never met her. She began all her letters to him, “Dear Mr Zebra”.
“Pigs!” he burst out suddenly. “Buying immortal genius by the hour, as if it were tape at so much a yard.”
“Yes,” said William, “yes, that’s just what I think about it.”
“You!” said the musician, glaring at him. “How can you understand?”
“I do understand,” said William fervently. “I – well, I do understand. I mean, you tell me a bit more what you feel about it. I – I mean, I want to know what you feel about it.”
William’s attitude was that every word postponed the inevitable moment of reckoning.
“You – you don’t know what music is to me,” said the musician striking his chest dramatically.
“Yes, I do,” said William.
Experience had taught him that with a little care and skill, any argument can be prolonged almost indefinitely.
“You don’t love music.”
“Yes, I do.”
“It isn’t – life and breath to you.”
“Yes, it is.”
The musician looked at William closely. William’s expression was guileless and innocent. He could not know, of course, that William was probably the most unmusical boy in the British Empire.
“Suppose,” said the musician, tossing back his long hair, “suppose I played to you instead, would it be something that you’d remember all your life?”
“Yes,” said William, fixing an idiotic smile upon his lips.
“I will,” said the musician, already beginning to compose the episode – with picturesque additions – in his mind. “Let us go—”
His gaze rested on a haystack in a field next to the road. That would look well in a book of memoirs. Perhaps some artist would even be inspired to paint the scene. With an idealised boy, of course.
“Let us go there.”
Arrived at the haystack, he sat down in the shade of it, with William next to him, and drew out his violin.
He played for a quarter of an hour. Then he looked at William. William sat with a look of rapt attention on his face.
The musician could not know, of course, that in sheer boredom William had returned to his role of world potentate and was engaged in addressing his army on the eve of a great battle.
He played again, then again he looked at William.
“Another one,” said William in a peremptory tone of voice that the musician took to be one of fervent appreciation.
He could not know, of course, that William was now a pirate, and was ordering his men to send yet another captured mariner along the plank.
He played again, then again looked at William. William’s eyes were closed, as if in ecstasy.
He could not know, of course, that William was asleep.
He played again. The clock struck six. William sat up and heaved a sigh of relief.
“I’ve got to go home now,” he said. “It’s after my tea-time.”
The musician glanced at him coldly and decided that the boy should make quite a different sort of remark in his memoirs.
They went back to the road in silence, and there parted – William to his home, and the musician to the station.
Mrs Bott, now on the verge of hysterics, went slowly down to the tent. To her amazement, a burst of loud laughter and clapping greeted her. She peeped in at the open flap. A Punch and Judy performance was in full and merry swing!
“I’m dreaming,” she said. “Where’s Zebra? Where did this thing come from?” Her eyes went to the noble lord. He was leaning forward in his seat, laughing uproariously.
After the first moment’s stupefaction, everyone else had settled down to follow his example and enjoy the show. Signor Manelli was a born comedian. Toby carried his little sword with swagger.
“What’s happened?” murmured Mrs Bott wildly. “I’ve gone potty.”
But the performance was drawing to a close, amid a riot of applause. The noble lord had mounted the platform and was shaking Signor Manelli by the hand.
“Bravo!” he was saying. “I’ve not enjoyed anything so much for years. Not for years. Now, look here, I want to book you for a party at my place in town next month. Have you a free date?”
It appeared that Signor Manelli had a free date. A fee was named, at which Signor Manelli almost fainted in sheer surprise. Suddenly the noble lord saw Mrs Bott.
“Ah!” he said genially. “Here is our hostess, to whom we owe this delightful entertainment.”
Signor Manelli started forward to her eagerly. “And where is my little host?”
The mystery was suddenly clear to Mrs Bott. Botty must have engaged this man for her to fall back on, in case the Zebra person didn’t turn up. It was just like Botty to do a thoughtful thing like that and not mention it.
“He’s resting in the library,” she said.
“I won’t disturb him then,” said Signor Manelli, “but give the dear little man my most grateful respects, and tell him that I shall never forget his kindness to me.”
“Yes, I’ll tell him,” said Mrs Bott, and was at once surrounded by an eager crowd congratulating her on the success of her entertainment.
To her amazement, Mrs Bott discovered that her party had been a roaring success and that she was at last, “somebody”.
When her guests had departed, she sought out her husband in the library.
“Oh Botty,” she said hysterically, “how kind, how thoughtful of you to think of it. I shall never forget it – never.”
He laid his hand gently on her shoulder. “You go and lie down, my dear,” he said. “The excitement’s gone to your head . . .”
The Browns were walking slowly homeward.
“I didn’t see William there, apart from at first, did you?” said Ethel.
“He must have been there somewhere,” said Mrs Brown. “I’m sure he loved the Punch and Judy show.”
It was several months later. William sat at the table ostensibly engaged upon his homework. Mrs Brown was reading the paper and keeping up a desultory conversation with Ethel, who was embroidering a nightgown.
“It says that Punch and Judy is still all the rage in London,” said Mrs Brown, “but that Signor Manelli, who started it, is taking no more engagements because he’s going back to Italy. Do you remember him, dear? We saw him at that party of Mrs Bott’s.”
“Yes,” said Ethel.
“And here’s something about that Mr Zevrier, the musician that Mrs Bott once thought of having to her party, you know, before she decided to have the Punch and Judy . . .”
“What?” said Ethel absently.
“His book of memoirs has just been published. And it quotes an extract from it here. All about a musical child that he met when he was going to play at some sort of party and he stayed playing to it, and forgot the party and his fee and everything.”
She looked up.
“I wonder – you know, people said that Mrs Bott had engaged him for her party, as well as the Punch and Judy show, and he didn’t turn up. Could it have been here that he met t
his musical child?”
“What sort of child was it?” said Ethel.
“It quotes a description from the book,” said Mrs Brown. “Here it is: ‘He had deep-set, dark eyes and a pale, oval face, sensitive lips, and dark, curly hair. I saw at once that to him, as to me, music was the very breath of life.’”
Ethel laughed shortly. “No, it couldn’t have been here,” she said. “There isn’t a child like that about here.”
His head shielded by his hands in the attitude of one who wishes to devote himself entirely to study and shut out all disturbing influences, William grinned to himself . . .
WILLIAM AND THE HIDDEN TREASURE
& OTHER STORIES
Contents
William and the Hidden Treasure
William and the Snowman
Violet Elizabeth Runs Away
William Goes Shopping
“I’m going to be a millionaire when I grow up,” announced William to the Outlaws. “I’ll d’vide it with you three. We’ll all be millionaires.”
The interest of the others became less impersonal.
Then Henry said, “William, how’re we going to start gettin’ the money?”
William looked at him rather coldly.
“There’s a hundred ways of gettin’ to be millionaires. There – there’s—” then a flash of inspiration “—there’s findin’ hidden treasure. Why, when you think what a lot of pirates and smugglers there must have been, the earth must be full of hidden treasure if you know where to dig. An’ if you’ve got a map . . .”
They scuffled joyfully homewards down the lane, playing their game in which the sole object was to push someone else into the ditch. William was neatly precipitated into it by a combined attack from Ginger and Douglas.
Then they saw William sit up and take something from the hedge.
“What is it?”
“Bird’s nest.”
He was frowning thoughtfully. From among the moss and feathers he had taken a small piece of crumpled paper.
He spread it out.
“Crumbs!” he breathed. “It’s a map, of hidden treasure!”
They all tumbled down into the ditch with him. The piece of paper was crumpled but the markings on it were quite plain.
There were two circles. Under one were the words “Copper Beech”, and under the other, the word “Cedar”. And between the two circles – in the centre – was a large cross. At the bottom of the paper was written “P.M. 7.10”.
“It’s a map,” said William. “Look at it. All yellow and old. I expect that the pirate what made it jus’ threw it into the hedge when they were takin’ him off to prison, an’ it’s been here ever since . . . The cross is where the treasure is, of course.”
“I say,” said Henry. “There’s a copper beech an’ a cedar tree in Miss Peache’s garden. He must’ve buried it in Miss Peache’s garden.”
“Right,” said William. “We’ve got to find the ’xact spot, an’ dig for it. I bet it’s not as easy as it looks. He must’ve put some catch in it, so’s if anyone who wasn’t his mother or wife found the map, they wun’t be able to get hold of the treasure.”
“What does ‘P.M. 7.10’ mean?” said Ginger.
“I guess that’s the catch,” said William gloomily.
“There were witches in those days, you know,” said Henry, “an’ I bet they used to get witches to put spells on maps of hidden treasure so’s only the people they meant to find ’em could find ’em.”
“Yes,” agreed William. “P.M. 7.10. That’s the spell. It means ten minutes past seven in the evening . . . it means you’ll only find it if you dig for it at ten past seven. That’s it!”
They met outside the gate of Miss Peache’s house a little before ten past seven that evening, armed with various implements.
Exactly between the copper beech and the cedar was a rose-bed, which would considerably facilitate digging operations. They advanced cautiously across the lawn.
But Miss Peache, prim and middle-aged, was sitting writing at a desk at a window overlooking the lawn. They returned to the road.
“We’ll jus’ have to wait till she’s not there,” said William philosophically. “It doesn’t matter which day we do it, so long as it’s ten minutes past seven . . .”
There followed a week of daily disappointment.
“We’ve gotter get her away somehow,” said William. “Get her away by ten minutes past seven one day, so’s we can go an’ find the treasure. We’ll have to find out the sort of things she’s int’rested in.”
“It’s dreams she’s int’rested in,” said Douglas. “She writes about ’em in a magazine. I know ’cause I heard my mother talking about her the other day. And she’s most int’rested in people who have real dreams, or somethin’.”
“All right,” said William, “then we’d better start havin’ real dreams.”
The next afternoon when Miss Peache emerged from her gate as usual at two-thirty, four boys were standing there.
She could not help noticing that one of them gave a violent start of surprise, and pointed her out to the others.
“What is the matter, little boys?” she said sharply. “Is – is there anything strange about me?”
“Oh, no,” said one of them hastily. “Oh, no. It’s only that – that I dreamed about you last night, an’ I was so surprised to see you comin’ out of the gate ’cause I din’ know you were a real person. I thought you were only in a dream. I’m sorry,” ended the ingenuous child smugly, “if I was rude.”
“Not at all. This is most interesting. Am I – er – exactly like the lady in your dream?”
“’Xactly,” said the boy earnestly, “but in my dream you hadn’t got a coat on. You’d got a sort of – black dress with blue in it.”
“B-but how amazing! I’ve got a dress like that. I was wearing it last night. Do tell me – where was I in your dream? Wait a minute.”
And she took out her notebook.
“You were in a sort of room,” said William slowly. “There was a sort of writing-table in the window, and bookcases all round the room, and there was a sort of big blue pot umbrella-stand in a corner of the room—”
“A Nankin vase, dear,” said Miss Peache, as she scribbled hard in her little notebook. “But it’s all most amazing. One of the most wonderful pieces of material that’s ever come my way. Now what was I doing in your dream?”
“You were writing at the table,” said William. “An’ you put your pen in a sort of big silver inkpot.”
“Yes, that was presented to me, dear boy, by the members of a little society I was once president of. A little society for the interpretation of dreams. It has always been a great treasure to me. I could not work at all without it. If it were not in its place there on my writing-table I should not, I am quite sure, be able to carry on my wonderful work at all. Now, what did I do next, dear boy?”
But it was at this point that the Outlaws had left their point of vantage near Miss Peache’s window, to go home to bed.
“I woke up,” said William simply.
“Dear, dear. Never mind.” She closed her notebook. “Now I want you to come to me tomorrow and tell me exactly what you dream tonight. This is all most valuable material for me. It will form the basis of my next article.”
“The thing to do,” said William, after she had gone, “is to take away her inkstand. Then she won’t be able to write, so p’raps she’ll go out . . .”
So they crept through the bushes and snatched the inkstand from the table that stood at an open window.
But even this daring step was not successful. True, Miss Peache did not write. But neither did she go out.
She sat in her study ringing up the police station every five minutes to ask if they’d had any news of her inkstand yet, and receiving messages of condolence from her friends.
William went to Miss Peache the next morning, and described a dream in which Miss Peache busied herself continually with the telephone and wept and
wrung her hands.
“Dear boy,” she said, “I really feel that perhaps you might dream where my dear inkstand is. Before you go to sleep tonight, you must concentrate on where my dear inkstand is . . .”
“Where are you goin’ to dream she found it?” asked Henry.
“I know!” said William. “Mr Popplestone’s house. I know she knows him, ’cause I saw them talkin’ in the road. An’ I know what his study’s like, ’cause once I was in it with Father . . .”
Miss Peache listened to William’s dream, open-mouthed.
“It’s – it’s simply amazing. You say that in your dream you saw me going into Mr Popplestone’s study?”
“Yes, an’ it was jus’ ten minutes past seven by the clock on the mantelpiece.”
“And I went to the cupboard in the wall and opened it?”
“Yes.”
“And I found my beloved silver inkstand in it?”
“Yes, and found your b’loved silver inkstand in it.”
“And did you, in your dream, infer that he’d taken it?”
“Er, yes,” said William. “That’s how it seemed to me. It seemed to me as if he’d taken it.”
“I’d have said that he was the last person in the world to do a thing like that. But, his hobby of bird study. It may be a blind to cover his secret career. However – you said that the time by the clock was ten minutes past seven?”
“Yes,” said William emphatically. “Ten minutes past seven . . .”
Concealed in the bushes, the Outlaws watched Miss Peache set off from her house. Then they crept forth on the lawn.
Outside in the road was the wheelbarrow that they had brought to take the treasure home. They carried their spades and shovels.
William also carried the silver inkstand, which was to be slipped back on to Miss Peache’s study table as soon as the treasure was found.
They stood solemnly by the rose-bed, and William took out the map.
“Here it is. An’ we can see the church clock so the minute it gets to ten past seven we’ll start diggin’ . . .”
William's Birthday and Other Stories Page 4