The Box of Delights (19 page)

Presently Kay could distinguish the voices of those who were approaching. He heard the unmistakable high voice of the foxy-faced man saying, ‘So you’ll get them all in the soup,
ha-ha, what?’

Then something followed which Kay couldn’t quite catch; but the next voice which spoke was undoubtedly that of Abner.

‘As to that matter, sir,’ Abner was saying in his silky, soft voice, ‘that’s a question that must wait till we have had our bathe and our breakfast. Perhaps they will be
in a better mood and more disposed to be reasonable after their good night’s rest.’

The men passed where Kay was hidden without seeing him. The foxy-faced man said, ‘It will be mighty cold. One plunge and then out will be enough for me.’

‘It will be exhilarating,’ Abner said. ‘By the way, I think I shall recommend Eleven for service abroad. But my head will be clearer after my bathe.’

Kay heard the men enter the bathing-box a little distance from him. He heard feet running upon springboards and two splashes, followed by sputterings. The foxy-faced man was saying,
‘It’s like iced water, what?’ Kay heard them crawling up the steps from the water and Abner saying,

‘Enough for honour: we will leave the rest to the British.’

He heard them rubbing themselves down and muttering with clacking teeth that ‘their blood would never run warm again.’ Soon they had their robes round them and were running back
along the path by which they had come.

Kay went out from his hiding-place and crept along in the direction in which they had gone. Presently he came to the end of the lake among the tumbled rocks and boulders. At first he could see
no outlet to the waters but then heard, above the sighing of the pine trees, a sort of wash of water. Somewhere underneath his feet some water at any rate from the lake was falling into a passage
underground. The path by which the bathers had come led above the tumble of rock. He followed it through a dense shrubbery and presently came into a thicket of laurel bordering on a drive. Through
the laurel he could see the spacious mansion, built in Cotswold stone somewhere early in the reign of George the Third on a foundation much older.

He was looking directly across at great double front doors within a portico. They were lofty doors paned with glass to give light to the hall within and, as the morning sun was now shining on to
the glass, he could see something gleaming inside the hall: it looked like a suit of armour. The hall had the look of having been built on after the main structure had been finished. While he
watched, there came from within the house the sweet banging of a gong. Almost immediately half a dozen men wearing black cloaks came out of the outhouses to the right of the house and passed
through the front doors. ‘That’s the gang,’ Kay said to himself, ‘or some of them – this college of young clergy – and the gong was for their breakfast, and I
can creep in and see them while they’re at breakfast.’

Just as the last of the men in the black cloaks passed under the portico, there came a loud hissing noise, something between a whistle and an escape of steam, from somewhere up in the air. The
laurel was rather in the way of Kay’s getting a good view, but he saw the men in black look up towards the noise and looked up himself. To his amazement he saw a silvery aeroplane poising
just like a kestrel above the house: it had come noiselessly and there it was, hovering in a way that Kay hadn’t thought to be possible for any aeroplane; and the whistle or hiss of steam was
plainly a signal, for a moment later the aeroplane sank slowly down vertically, as though into the very body of the house.

‘I say,’ Kay thought, ‘whoever would have thought that an aeroplane could do that.’ He thought to himself at once, ‘Well, I suppose that’s the kind of
aeroplane that scrobbled little Maria, and, of course, if they’ve got a thing like that they could do all sorts of things that nobody would suspect. Now, I wonder,’ he said, ‘if
poor old Cole Hawlings and the Bishop, and perhaps Caroline Louisa, are shut up in dungeons only a few yards away.’ Almost at once, as he listened, he heard a lot of men’s voices
singing together a familiar hymn. ‘Well, I don’t know,’ he thought, ‘that sounds like a Missionary College; but what would they want with Abner Brown and what would they be
doing with an aeroplane like that, if they were only missionaries?’

However, it was now time to start back towards Peter. As he crossed above the tumbled rocks he looked again, hoping to see some opening among them. This time he saw what he ought to have noticed
before, a sluice with its winch, beside which was a rusty iron grating, so covered with drift of different sorts that it could not easily be distinguished. The water seeped and trickled through
this grating and fell, as he judged, some little distance. ‘I would like to go down there on a rope,’ Kay thought, ‘with torches, and explore.’

At this moment the bell above the Missionary College struck nine and chimed the hour. Kay hurried to the agreed place where Peter was to be, but Peter was not there. Kay looked in the thickest
cover nearest to the agreed place, but there was no sign of Peter. He certainly had not entered the cover there. Kay waited some minutes, thinking, ‘Well, Peter always was an ass. He never
had much sense of time and will always go wandering on and blundering into something.’ He waited a few more minutes, but Peter had not come. Then Kay thought, ‘Well, perhaps, if he has
gone on by himself, he will have left a patteran.’

He had often played gypsies with Peter and had read in one of George Borrow’s books that gypsies put what they called a patteran, some sign or mark of leaves or twisted grass on the
ground, to show the direction they have taken; the agreed sign between Peter and himself was a handful of leaves squeezed and dropped on the ground. He looked on the paths for such a mark, but
could find none. ‘Oh, where has he gone?’ he thought. Then he wondered, ‘Well, what should I have done if I had been in Peter’s place. He had gone on probably past the
little bathing-box and would have kept on the further side of the bathing-box while the men were bathing; but what on earth would he have done then?’ He followed along the path by which he
thought Peter might have gone on his exploration. Presently a little brook ran across the path; in the mud by the brook’s bank was the mark of Peter’s shoes.

‘He did come as far as this,’ Kay thought, ‘and he hasn’t come back this way. Well, of course, he wouldn’t come back this way.’ It was the maxim of these
young scouts never to come back the way by which they went in a strange or dangerous country.

Presently the ground began to be very soft: a good many springs broke out there and the channels by which they had fallen into the lake had been allowed to become choked. Peter’s tracks
were plain indeed. On the farther side of the soft patch the track turned a corner and there, to Kay’s horror, were other tracks. Two or three men had been there and there were little fresh,
unmistakable signs of rapid trampling and scuffling. ‘There’s no doubt about it,’ Kay thought, ‘they’ve scrobbled Peter. Somebody’s been here and they’ve
got Peter. Just like that silly ass to go right into the lion’s den. But if they scrobbled Peter what did they do with him? Where did they take him? They didn’t take him to the house at
any rate: they took him away from the house.’

He reckoned up the chances and decided that it would be safe to follow after these people, whoever they were. They had got Peter and were removing him. The chances were that they would not be
expecting anybody else and it would be safe to follow in that direction. He had not gone far before he heard the noise of oars on the lake. Going down towards the water and peering through the
branches he saw that a boat was pulling towards the mansion on the other side of the lake. In the stern-sheets of the boat was something that looked like a roll of blanket. ‘That’s
Peter, scrobbled,’ Kay thought. Two sinister-looking men in black cloaks were at the oars; two sinister-looking men were sitting in the stern-sheets beside the bundle; one of them was
steering and the other was trailing for pike. ‘They’ve got Peter all right,’ Kay thought. Then he wondered, ‘Should he go to the village of Hope-under-Chesters and rouse the
Police there.’ Then he thought, ‘No. The Policeman is probably one of the gang and I should be arrested for trespassing. I’ll get back home and speak to the Inspector and,
perhaps, by that time there will be a word from Caroline Louisa.’

He took up his Box of Delights and pressed the knob. A sort of whirlwind plucked him up above the treetops and snatched him south-eastwards to the box tree walk at Seekings, where he was set
gently upon his feet.

He found the other children at breakfast. ‘You’re very late, Kay,’ Maria said. ‘Have you seen the latest?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘what is it?’

‘Something like a mystery,’ Maria said. ‘Here.’ She unfolded the paper for him. In the middle page were large black headings:

Ecclesiastical and other circles have been convulsed at Tatchester by the strange disappearance of the well-known Dean from the Precincts. It appears that the Dean went out
shortly after dark last night, in response to what was said to have been an urgent summons, and has not yet been heard of. He was first missed at 6 p.m. when he should have attended a meeting
connected with Cathedral business, but it was not until he failed to return to the Deanery for dinner that the family became concerned. At the time of going to press no news has been received of
the reverend gentleman.

It is feared at the Deanery that he has been the victim of a motor car accident, but we are entitled to our own conviction that the disappearance of the reverend gentleman, coming so soon after
the recent burglary at the Palace and the disappearance of His Grace, the Bishop, are crimes perpetrated by some local gang. Until a late hour the Cathedral Clergy were indefatigable in their
search for their friend, who is perhaps the most popular figure in the Establishment. Something like a reign of terror exists at this moment throughout Tatchester. The Police preserve a becoming
reticence in the matter and, though they scout the notion that the reverend gentleman has been the victim of a practical joke, they abstain from committing themselves to any definite theory.

It is hardly necessary to remind our readers that the Dean of Tatchester is the well-known author of
Possible Oriental Influences in Ancient Philosophies
as well as the famous handbook
Cheerfulness: The Christian’s Duty.

We are sure that we voice the feelings of the rest of the world when we wish that Christmas at the Deanery may be gladdened by his speedy return to the bosom of his family.

‘Now, what d’you think of that?’ Maria said. ‘That’s the gang that scrobbled me.’

‘I believe they’ve scrobbled Peter,’ Kay said, ‘and as soon as I’ve had some breakfast I’ll go round to the Police Station.’

‘I love to see the sleuths at work,’ Maria said, ‘so I’ll come too.’

They went round and the Inspector welcomed them. ‘Come in, Miss Maria and Master Kay,’ he said. ‘What is it now? More clues for the Law to follow?’ Kay told his story and
all his suspicions.

‘Ha,’ the Inspector said. ‘And footprints in the mud, you say, and the roll of blanket in the boat. But you know, Master Kay, you ought not to have gone trespassing at Chester
Hills. I was there as a young man and it’s a dangerous place. They have a lot of those holes that they call “dings”, like old mines. Lots of folk break their necks going into them
and I hope your Master Peter hasn’t gone and done the like. But you are quite wrong, Master Kay, in saying that the Principal of the Training College is a Mr Brown: it’s Father
Boddledale, as I told you. I will telephone him now.’

He telephoned: ‘Is that you, your reverence?’ he asked. ‘I’m the Inspector of Police speaking. I want to ask if you have seen anything of a lad aged ten, by the name of
Peter, who was out at your place this morning . . . You haven’t seen him? . . . Hasn’t been seen at all? . . . Thank you. And have you with you a gentleman by the name of Abner Brown? .
. . No? . . . You don’t know the name. You train simply young men for parish and missionary work, isn’t that so, your reverence? . . . Well, you will forgive my disturbing you at your
good work, but Duty is the policeman’s watchword, as you will understand, sir. I’m much obliged, I’m sure, sir. . . . Thank you, sir, and I wish the same to you.

‘You see, Master Kay,’ he said, hanging up the telephone, ‘they know nothing of Master Peter there; but it’s my belief about boys, Master Kay, that “leave them
alone and they’ll come home.”’

Kay thanked him and they returned home. ‘Pompous old ass,’ Maria said.

‘He’s a jolly good chap, really,’ Kay said. ‘He mayn’t be quite a Sherlock Holmes, but he’s most awfully good about rabbits.’

As they went into the little street more newsboys came rushing from the station shouting, ‘Special edition of the
Tatchester Times
!’ They were shouting, ‘Another
disappearance – Special!’ . . . ‘Canons of Tatchester disappear – Special!’ . . . ‘Murder gang suspected – Special!’ . . . ‘Bloodhounds on the
trail – Special!’ . . . ‘What clergyman is safe? – Special!’. . . ‘Another dreadful religious mystery – Special!’

‘There you are,’ Maria said. Kay bought a paper, for which the boy charged him sixpence. He read the little sheet which was still wet from the press:

We feel that this morning’s events are so extraordinary that we are warranted in making them the subject of a special edition of our paper.

The night before last our deservedly popular Prelate was torn from us; last night the World’s Dean, as we may call him, similarly disappeared; early this morning, while they were walking
back from the early morning service, Canon Honeytongue and Canon Balmblossom, his friend, were met, we learn, by a messenger who told them that the Dean had met with a motor accident, was suffering
from a slight concussion and was asking eagerly to see them. The reverend gentlemen then hurried to the waiting car and, on asking the driver how long they would be, were told ‘Less than an
hour.’ They called to their friends, others of the Cathedral Clergy who were accompanying them through the Close, that they would be back to breakfast. After this the car – a
Rolls-Royce according to some, a large Daimler according to others – drove rapidly away. At that early hour few people were about and no one seems to have taken the number of the car. The
anxiety of the people of Tatchester may be judged when the breakfast-hour passed without any message whatsoever from the missing Canons. Becoming seriously alarmed, Mrs Honeytongue telephoned to
the Police, who at once instituted a widespread inquiry, so far, we regret to say, without result. Though some people are inclined to believe that our Cathedral Clergy have been the victims of a
practical joke, these events are so strange and follow so closely upon the burglary of the Palace that serious people may be excused for having the gravest misgivings.