William the Good (26 page)

This information as emanating from Authority and savouring of swank was rightly ignored.

‘P’raps they’ve all died suddenly of the plague or something,’ suggested Douglas cheerfully.

But the best suggestion came from Ginger.

‘I guess someone’s murdered them an’ hid all their dead bodies upstairs. I bet if we go upstairs we’ll find all their dead bodies hid there.’

Much inspirited at this prospect the Outlaws swarmed upstairs and concluded a thorough search of the premises. The search was disappointing.

‘Not many dead bodies,’ said William rather bitterly.

Ginger, feeling that his prestige had suffered from his failure to prove his theory, looked about him and with a yell of glee, said:

‘No, but look! There’s a trap-door up there and I bet we could get out on to the roof from it.’

The Outlaws completely forgot both feast and dead bodies in the thrill of the trap-door by which you could get out on to the roof.

‘Who’ll try it first?’ said William.

‘Bags me. I saw it first,’ said Ginger.

He climbed on to the balusters, leapt at the trap-door, caught it by a miracle, and swung himself up. It was a spectacle guaranteed to give any mother nervous breakdowns for months.

‘Does it go out on to the roof?’ called the Outlaws, breathless with suspense.

Faint but ecstatic came back Ginger’s voice:

‘Yes, it does. It’s scrummy. Right on the edge of the roof. I can see right down into the garden. I can—’

‘Shut up,’ hissed William, ‘someone’s coming.’

Downstairs Mr and Mrs Carroway, Miss Seed and the Great Man entered the hall and hastily shut and locked the front door.

They had gone to the Vicarage and stayed there for an hour. To the Vicar and his wife it had seemed much more than an hour because Mrs Carroway was acquiring a fatal facility in hysterics and
was apparently beginning to count every moment wasted that was not devoted to them.

Finally the Vicar rang up the police, learnt that the missing lion had been seen going down the road at the other end of the village, and politely but firmly insisted on his guests departing
homewards. He was beginning to fear the effect of Mrs Carroway’s hysterics upon his wife. No woman likes being put so completely in the shade as Mrs Carroway’s hysterics put the
Vicar’s wife, and he had noticed that she was beginning to watch the various stages of the attacks with an interest that suggested to him that she was storing them up for future use.

‘Nothing,’ wailed Mrs Carroway, ‘
nothing
will induce me to leave this house again tonight. What I have suffered during that terrible walk from the Vicarage, hearing and
seeing lions at every step, no one will ever understand.
No
one. If I talked all night I couldn’t make you understand.’

‘I’m sure you couldn’t, dear,’ said her husband hastily.

‘I – er – I suppose the house
is
safe,’ said the Great Man uneasily. ‘I – er – I cannot help remembering that we left the – er – the
dining-room window open and that the – er – the place from which the – er – the beast escaped was – er – just over the fence.’

‘Miss Seed,’ said Mrs Carroway faintly, ‘go and see whether there are any traces of it in the dining-room. The food, you remember, was left on the table. If that has been
tampered with—’

Miss Seed sidled cautiously to the dining-room and peeped in. Then she gave a wild scream.

‘It’s been here,’ she panted. ‘It’s been here. It’s been here. It’s eaten up everything. It must be in the house – NOW!’

Miss Seed, of course, was overwrought, or she would have stopped to take into consideration the fact that a lion does not eat out of a plate with knives and forks and spoons and that even if it
did one lion would not have used four of each.

‘It must be in the house NOW!’ she repeated desperately.

There was a sudden silence – a silence of paralysed horror. Through this silence came the sound of a heavy crash upstairs, followed by a snarl of rage.

In less time than it takes to tell the hall was empty.

Mrs Carroway had locked herself into the conservatory.

Miss Seed was under the drawing-room sofa.

Mr Carroway was on the drawing-room mantelpiece.

The Great Man was in the rug box in the hall.

The heavy crash had been Ginger overbalancing and falling back through the trap-door upon William in his overanxiety to find out what was going on. The snarl of rage was William’s
involuntary reaction to the sudden descent of Ginger’s solid form upon him.

The Outlaws, aghast at the noise they had made, froze into a petrified silence.

The four grown-ups, in their hiding-places downstairs, also froze in a petrified silence.

Complete silence reigned throughout the house.

The minutes passed slowly by – one minute, two minutes, three minutes, five minutes. Of the eight people in the house no one spoke, no one moved, no one breathed.

At last William whispered: ‘They must’ve gone out again.’

‘I din’t hear the door,’ hissed Ginger.

‘I’m goin’ to see,’ said William.

He peeped cautiously over the balusters. The hall was empty. The only sound was the solemn ticking of the grandfather clock.

‘I b’lieve they
have
gone out again,’ whispered William. ‘I’m goin’ down. Seems to me they’re all potty.’

He took off his shoes, crept silently down the stairs to the empty, silent hall and stood there irresolute.

Then he thought he heard a movement in a chest near the clock. He approached it and listened. Heavy, raucous breathing came from inside. He raised the lid. As he did so there came from it a
high-pitched scream of terror. The open lid revealed the Great Man. The high-pitched scream of terror had come from the Great Man. William stared at him in blank amazement.

The Great Man, instead of seeing the fanged, tawny face he had expected when the chest lid began slowly to open, met the astonished gaze of the boy who had shot at him with a catapult that
morning.

They stared at each other in silence. Then a thoughtful expression came over the face of the Great Man.

‘Er – was it you who made that noise upstairs?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said William. ‘Ginger fell on me. I bet you’d’ve made a noise if Ginger’d fell on you.’

The expression of the Great Man became yet more thoughtful.

‘And the – er – the dinner—?’ he said, still reclining in the rug box.

‘Yes,’ admitted William, ‘it – it seemed sort of
meant.
’

Slowly, stiffly, the Great Man climbed out of the rug box. It had been a very tight fit.

Just then the telephone bell rang, and the Great Man went to answer it. He was glad of the diversion. He was remembering more and more clearly the high-pitched cry of terror he had uttered as the chest opened. He was wondering what explanation
he could give this boy of that and of his presence in the rug box.

WILLIAM AND THE GREAT MAN STARED BLANKLY AT EACH OTHER. ‘ER – WAS IT YOU WHO MADE THAT NOISE UPSTAIRS?’ THE GREAT MAN ASKED.

The telephone call was from the police. The lion had been found. The rumour that it had been seen at the other end of the village had proved to be incorrect. On escaping from its cage it had
wandered into the further field and gone to sleep in the shelter of a hayrick. It had just been discovered, roused and taken back to its cage.

Within a few minutes Miss Seed was putting Mrs Carroway to bed, Mr Carroway was trying to mend the more valuable of the ornaments he had displaced from the mantelpiece in his
hurried ascent, and the Great Man had called William aside. The Great Man was aware that this was a situation requiring delicate handling. He had tried to think of some dignified explanation of his
presence in the rug box and of that unfortunate scream, and not one had occurred to him. He had decided, therefore, not to attempt any. Instead he assumed his most genial expression and said:

‘I believe, my boy, that you – er – are the boy who accidentally – er – hit me with some missile this morning.’

‘Yes,’ said William simply, ‘a pea.’

‘I have no doubt at all,’ said the Great Man, ‘that it was – er – an accident, and – ahem – I do not after all intend to mention the matter to your
headmaster.’

‘Thank you,’ said William, but without much enthusiasm. William knew when he held the reins of a situation in his hand.

The Great Man continued: ‘No need for you – ahem – for you to mention to anyone what has occurred here tonight.’

William said nothing. His face was drained of expression. His eye was blank.

‘I will, of course,’ went on the Great Man hastily, ‘I will-ahem – of course ask for the usual half-holiday from your headmaster.’

William turned upon the Great Man his expressionless face and his blank eye and said suavely:

‘Why not ask for two, sir?’

The Great Man swallowed and cleared his throat. Then, with a more or less convincing attempt at heartiness, he said: ‘Certainly, my boy. Certainly. A very good idea. I’ll ask for
two. And with regard to what happened here tonight—’

The Great Man was uncomfortably aware that the story of what had happened there that night as told by this boy might take some living down.

But William’s face was still expressionless, his eye still blank.

‘You hidin’ in that box to give me a fright?’ he said carelessly. ‘Oh, no! Why, I’ve nearly forgot that already.’ His blank, unblinking eye was fixed upon the
Great Man. ‘I bet that after two half-holidays I’ll have forgot it altogether.’

The Great Man brought out the request for two half-holidays with something of an effort. The headmaster wasn’t prepared for it and was taken aback. However, he
didn’t want to offend the Great Man, so after a brief inward struggle he promised the two half-holidays.

Frenzied cheers rent the air.

At the back of the hall, in the back row, sat William nonchalantly manufacturing a blotting-paper dart, wholly unmoved apparently by the glorious news.

‘Din’t you hear?’ yelled a frenzied neighbour, ‘din’t you
hear
?
Two
half-holidays.’

‘Yes, I heard all right,’ said William carelessly.

And, taking careful aim, threw his dart at Ginger.

CHAPTER 9

W
ILLIAM and Ginger walked slowly down the village street. They were discussing with much animation some burglaries that had lately taken place in
the village.

‘Robert says,’ said William, ‘that
he
b’lieves that it’s not ordin’ry robbers at all an’ that
he
b’lieves that it’s people
livin’ in the place, people what
seem
all right an’ go about doin’ shoppin’ an’ going’ to church an’ going out to tea same as orn’ery people.
He’s been readin’ a book where that happened – someone what was churchwarden in the daytime an’ went out stealin’ at night. Robert says that he’s goin’ to
try to find out who it is.’

‘I bet I know why he wants to find out who it is,’ said Ginger with a note of bitterness in his voice.

‘Why?’ challenged William.

‘’Cause of that Miss Bellairs,’ said Ginger.

Miss Bellairs was Robert’s latest inamorata. Robert’s love affairs were of such a kaleidoscopic nature that William had long ago ceased to trouble to keep up with them but not even
William had been able quite to ignore the affair with Miss Bellairs. Miss Bellairs was an (in William’s eye) elderly woman of about twenty who had come to stay in the village with her aunt.
Her aunt had a son who was the object of Robert’s deadly jealousy. So much William knew, and he knew it only because it was impossible to live in the same house as Robert and not know it. He
took no interest in it. He did not know or care where the girl’s aunt lived or what she was called or anything else about the matter whatsoever. He was annoyed at Ginger’s remark,
suspecting a hidden insult in it.

‘What d’you know about
that
?’ he said aggressively.

‘I know ’cause Hector’s potty on her, too,’ said Ginger dejectedly.

Hector was Ginger’s elder brother. He was (in the Outlaw’s eyes) as lacking in sanity and consideration for his youngers as are all elder brothers.

William’s aggressiveness vanished. He felt drawn to Ginger by a common bond of misfortune and shame.

‘Can’t make out what makes ’em act like that about her,’ he said with fierce exasperation in his voice. ‘I’ve seen her an’ she looks perfectly
orn’ery to me.’

‘Me, too,’ agreed Ginger with heartfelt emphasis, and added scornfully. ‘
Girls!
I’m jolly well not going’ to
speak
to a girl ’cept what you have
to all my life.’

‘Same here,’ agreed William.

This agreement seemed to form a yet closer bond between them and, each feeling cheered and invigorated by the knowledge that the world held at least one person of intelligence besides himself,
they returned to the subject of the burglaries. They discussed burglaries in general and the present village burglaries in particular. They discussed burglary as a career and finally decided that
it was less exciting than that of piracy though more exciting than that of engine driver – careers to which they had always inclined.