William The Conqueror Page 15

  ‘Or the fancy stall,’ went on Mrs Bott, brightly. ‘I could stock it complete in Town – jewellery an’ leather an’ suchlike. Regardless, you know. Or I wouldn’t mind takin’ on one or two stalls. Stockin’ ’em both. Regardless. It’s such a pleasure to work in the cause of charity, I always think. I say to Botty—’

  ‘Botty?’ said her ladyship rather faintly.

  ‘Yes, Botty. My hubby. I say to him, “Why is all this here boundless wealth given to us, I say, except to give others a leg up?” Believe me, Lady Markham, when I had a stall at the fête here – crowded it was – of course, our garding holds hundreds – I spent six hundred pounds on stuff for the stall. I did, indeed, and didn’t take a penny out of the profits for expenses either. Believe me.’

  Lady Markham sat upright in her pseudo-Jacobean chair and stared in front of her. Mrs Bott was rather disappointed. Nothing friendly or chatty about her visitor, she thought . . . Didn’t seem a bit interested in things.

  ‘Of course, the place is a responsibility. Forty acres. Believe me. Twenty indoor servants and ten outdoor ones. A responsibility. Not from the money point of view, of course – oh no. We don’t have to think of that. Botty can do things regardless – but it’s the feeling of responsibility. Why, last week I was quite queer and I put it down to that.’

  ‘Queer?’ said Lady Markham.

  ‘Yes, liver,’ said Mrs Bott.

  ‘Oh, queer . . . You mean ill.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mrs Bott. No, she wasn’t easy to talk to, thought Mrs Bott with an inward sigh. Funny how stiff some of these Society people were. Really difficult to entertain. Nothing to say for themselves.

  ‘Of course,’ went on Mrs Bott, ‘it was a relief and no mistake to get the furnishing of this place off our minds. You’d hardly believe me if I told you what Botty had to fork out for the furnishing of the place.’

  She paused, but Lady Markham asked no question. Again Mrs Bott sighed to herself. Like mummies these people were. Took no interest in anything.

  ‘Guess how much I’ve paid for that chair you’re sitting on now.’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Lady Markham, without even looking at the chair.

  ‘A hundred quid. Down.’

  ‘Did you?’ said Lady Markham, without the slightest interest.

  Perhaps, thought Mrs Bott, she took no interest because she didn’t believe that it was a real antique. Perhaps she didn’t believe that her diamonds were real. That was a horrid thought, when Botty had paid so much for them. Then for the first time she began to notice the visitor’s jewellery. She had thrown open her scarf and revealed a string of pearls.

  Very good pearls, thought Mrs Bott.

  Very like her own upstairs. Very, very like her own pearls upstairs.

  In her own string of pearls there was a pearl near the middle of a much darker colour than the others. There was a similar pearl here. In her own string of pearls upstairs (they were graduated in size) there was one which always seemed to Mrs Bott to be not quite the right size. There was just such a one here. A small diamond was missing from the clasp of her own string of pearls upstairs.

  ‘Allow me to draw that curting,’ said Mrs Bott. ‘The sun’s on your back.’

  She slipped behind her visitor’s back to the window and drew the curtain, her eyes fastened on her visitor’s neck. Yes, the same diamond was missing. It was all Mrs Bott could do not to scream for help. It must be – it couldn’t be – it couldn’t be – it must be – She must at all costs go up to her room and see if her pearls were there. She collected her faculties as best she could.

  ‘Er – I’m sure you’d like to meet my little girl, Lady Markham,’ she said. ‘Er – I’ll – I’ll go and try to find her.’

  She ran upstairs panting, her fat little face purple. Heaven’s alive! It couldn’t be – it couldn’t be – She opened her drawer and – there lay the open case where she kept her pearls – empty. It was – it couldn’t be. But it was – With a firm hand she repressed another incipient attack of hysterics and went down to her husband in the study.

  ‘B-B-B-B-Botty!’ she gasped. ‘She’s stolen my pearls.’

  Mr Bott stared at her in amazement. He, too, was short and stout and, as a rule, amiable looking.

  ‘’Oo – Who ’as – has, love?’ inquired Mr Bott.

  ‘That Lady Markham has,’ sobbed his wife. ‘She c-c-c-called and I was in the garden and she m-m-m-m-must have slipped upstairs and t-t-t-t-taken them. They’re g-g-g-g-gone.’

  ‘’Ow – how do you know she’s taken them, love?’ said Mr Bott.

  ‘She’s w-w-w-w-wearing them, Botty,’ sobbed Mrs Bott. ‘She’s g-g-g-g-got them on. I’ve s-s-s-seen them. The diamond’s gone out of the c-c-c-c-clasp an’ all!’

  ‘Now don’t ’ave – have – ’ysterics – hysterics, love,’ said Mr Bott soothingly.

  ‘B-but it can’t be true, Botty, can it?’ she pleaded, wiping her eyes. The sight of the real lace on her handkerchief and the thought of what it had cost soothed her somewhat. ‘She c-c-c-can’t have taken them.’

  Mr Bott shook his head wisely. ‘I’m afraid it’s true, love,’ he said sadly. ‘I was readin’ an article in last week’s Sunday paper, and it said there that practically all these haristocrats – aristocrats – are dec –’ (he hunted the elusive word a minute in silence, then gave it up –) ‘decayed. Most of ’em thieves. Some of ’em – brilliant figures in Society an’ secretly the ’eads – heads – of gangs of thieves. She must be one of them.’

  ‘Oh, but, Botty, why should she w-w-w-w-wear them?’

  ‘Nerve,’ said Mr Bott solemnly. ‘She thought you’d never notice them. Nerve. Now, look here, old lady, go in and talk to her agreeable-like, you know, seem quite ’appy – happy – and keep her there and I’ll send for a policeman.’

  ‘Oh, Botty!’ screamed Mrs Bott. ‘You mustn’t.’

  ‘Yes, I must,’ said Mr Bott firmly. ‘If you’d read that article you’d feel the same as what I do now. They ought to be exposed. That’s what I feel. Decent citizens same as what I am – ham – am – ought to show ’em up. Now you go back to her, old lady, and leave all the rest to me.’

  Mrs Bott went back.

  Lady Markham tried to stifle a yawn. Really, these people were amazing. The woman goes out of the room in a most peculiar and abrupt manner, stays away nearly twenty minutes and then returns in a state that her ladyship can only diagnose as partially inebriated – red in the face and talking in a strange and disconnected fashion. Lady Markham began to wish that she had not come. After all, they could have managed without Mrs Bott’s money. She’d had no idea these people were so peculiar.

  Then suddenly the door opened and the village policeman appeared.

  Now the village policeman was a youth who had lived on Lady Markham’s estate all his life and looked up to her as lower in rank (and only just a little lower, even so) to the Queen alone. It was Lady Markham who had kept his grandmother out of the workhouse, had provided his mother with nurses and nourishment in her recent illness, and had been instrumental in getting him into his present position.

  He looked round the room blankly. He’d been sent in to arrest a lady who was in the drawing-room and had stolen Mrs Bott’s pearls. He looked round and round the room, gaping. It happened that Lady Markham had sent for him that morning, but the messenger had not been able to find him.

  ‘Oh, Higgs,’ said her ladyship kindly, ‘you shouldn’t have come here after me. It was nothing important – only the orchard’s been robbed again. If you’ll call at the Manor at half-past six I’ll give you all details.’ She turned to Mrs Bott. ‘Excuse his coming here after me,’ she said graciously. ‘I sent for him about a small matter this morning and he probably thought it was urgent.’

  Outside in the passage the unhappy Higgs faced a furious Mr Bott.

  ‘’Aven’t – haven’t – you done it?’ stormed Mr Bott.

  ‘No, sir,’ gasped Higgs. ‘There was no one t
here, sir. No one but Mrs Bott an’ Lady Markham, sir.’

  ‘But it is Lady Markham,’ stormed Mr Bott, ‘it is Lady Markham, I tell you. Didn’t you ’ear – hear – me sayin’ it was the lady with Mrs Bott. I’ve got proof!’

  ‘Oh, no, sir,’ protested young Higgs earnestly, ‘I couldn’t do that sir. Honestly I couldn’t do that, sir.’

  For answer, Mr Bott opened the drawing-room door and pushed Higgs into the room.

  ‘Well, Higgs?’ said her ladyship.

  The miserable Higgs put his hand to his collar as if to loosen it.

  ‘D-d-did you say six or half-past six, your ladyship?’ he stammered.

  ‘Half-past six,’ said her ladyship coldly.

  Higgs returned to the impatient Mr Bott.

  ‘Well?’ said Mr Bott.

  Higgs took out a handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his brow.

  ‘I can’t, sir,’ he gasped. ‘Honest, I can’t.’

  ‘You can and you will,’ said little Mr Bott. ‘Come in with me.’

  He entered, holding Higgs by the arm. Higgs looked wildly round for escape. Lady Markham looked from one to the other in amazement.

  ‘Now, Higgs,’ prompted Mr Bott; but at this point a diversion took place.

  Violet Elizabeth entered, followed by the four Outlaws. The four Outlaws looked sheepish. This was Violet Elizabeth’s stunt, not theirs. They had been in the wood for the last hour lying in wait for unwary travellers, but no travellers, wary or unwary, had passed. Their sole ‘bag’ had been a tin box deposited by a naturalist in what he thought was a safe hiding place while he went into the village for a drink.

  Violet Elizabeth addressed herself to her father.

  ‘Do you want a thnake to make into thauth?’ she said. ‘Becauth we’ll thell you one for three shillingth.’

  ‘What!’ bellowed Mr Bott.

  ‘William thayth,’ lisped Violet Elizabeth placidly, ‘that you make thauth out of black-beetleth.’

  Mr Bott turned a red and ferocious eye upon William. ‘Tho we thought that perhapth you’d like a thnake, too.’

  ‘WHAT!’ boomed Mr Bott.

  He looked as if he were going to burst with fury. Mrs Bott wondered whether to have hysterics now or wait till later. She decided to wait till later. Lady Markham pinched herself to see whether she was awake, and found rather to her surprise, that she was.

  ‘We thought,’ continued Violet Elizabeth unabashed, ‘that a thnake might do ath well. Ith a nithe thnake. Ith athleep now.’

  She took off the lid of the box and peeped in. But the snake was apparently no longer asleep. With a strong untwisting of its coils it came out upon the carpet. It was of the grass-snake variety, but rather unusually large in size and unusually light in colour, and for that reason had been collected by its collector, the naturalist.

  Mr Bott leapt upon the grand piano.

  ‘Send for the gamekeepers!’ he shouted. ‘Tell them to bring their guns.’

  Higgs stepped forward, took up the snake and dropped it out of the window.

  VIOLET ELIZABETH TOOK OFF THE LID OF THE BOX, BUT THE SNAKE WAS NO LONGER ASLEEP. IT CAME OUT UPON THE CARPET.

  Mrs Bott could restrain her hysterics no longer. She burst into tears, leaning for comfort upon Lady Markham’s breast and flinging her arms round her neck.

  ‘Oh, you wicked woman!’ she sobbed. ‘Why did you steal my pearls?’

  Of course there were explanations. There were explanations between Mrs Bott and Lady Markham, between the Outlaws and Lady Markham, between Higgs and Mr Bott, between Violet Elizabeth and everyone, and (later and far less pleasant) between the Outlaws and their respective parents. But explanations are wearisome things and best left to the imagination. As William said: ‘’Straordinary how some people in this world like to make a fuss over every single little thing!’

  MR BOTT LEAPT UPON THE GRAND PIANO. ‘SEND FOR THE GAMEKEEPERS!’ HE SHOUTED. ‘TELL THEM TO BRING THEIR GUNS!’

  CHAPTER 10

  WILLIAM THE BOLD CRUSADER

  IT was the curate, a well-meaning but misguided young man, who in a quite justifiable attempt to enliven the atmosphere of Sunday school, gave on the spur of the moment a stirring lesson on the history of the Crusades. The curate was very young, and only discovered when he had actually launched into the subject that his knowledge of it was less wide than he had imagined. So his account of the great movement was perhaps slightly bewildering to the uninitiated.

  But what he lacked in knowledge he made up in enthusiasm. Even William, Douglas and Ginger (who with Henry, were known as the Outlaws, and who attended Sunday school under protest in order that their parents’ Sabbath afternoon calm might be as undisturbed and the Sabbath afternoon calm of the Vicar and curate as disturbed as possible) caught the enthusiasm. They caught it late, it is true. They were only weaned from their interest in the race between Ginger’s tortoise and Douglas’s tortoise when the curate was well into his subject, and partly because of that, and partly because the curate’s knowledge contained some startling gaps, the impression the Outlaws gleaned was more inspiring than accurate.

  They certainly found the main fact inspiring enough. It seemed to put religion in an entirely new light. That meekness and humility and turning the other cheek generally enjoined by their religious teachers had never been really acceptable to the Outlaws. But thus spreading religion by an array of banners and swords and spears and coats of mail, this marching upon unbelievers with all the glorious panoply of war, was quite another matter.

  Henry (who had not been to Sunday school) met them afterwards, and, to the best of their ability, they imparted to him what they had heard.

  ‘Jus’ all joined together and fought ’em an’ made ’em join religion,’ said William.

  ‘Went about jus’ fightin’ anyone what worshipped idols,’ added Douglas.

  ‘An’ people lettem ’cause they was doin’ it for religion,’ contributed Ginger with a certain wistful envy.

  ‘Jus’ fightin’ everyone what didn’t belong to religion,’ put in William, to make the idea yet clearer.

  ‘But what I can’t understand,’ said Ginger slowly, ‘was how they could fight folks prop’ly goin’ about with their legs crossed.’

  ‘They didn’t fight with their legs crossed,’ explained William earnestly, ‘they only went cross-legged after they died.’

  There was silence while this stupendous idea sank slowly into the listening Henry’s brain. Then:

  ‘Gosh!’ he ejaculated, impressed.

  ‘It’s true,’ said William, ‘’cause he told us it in Sunday school.’

  Any small excitement at this time would have diverted the Outlaws’ interest from the subject of the Crusaders, but no excitement of any sort took place. School life was unusually dull. Home life was unusually dull. Nothing happened. Life flowed on with a calm and almost unbearable monotony. Even the ordinary school feuds seemed to be temporarily in abeyance. There were no enemies to fight, no coups to plan, no insults to avenge. Lessons were duller than ever. Worst of all, their ordinary games of Red Indians, robbers, and pirates seemed to have palled. The Outlaws were bored. And all the time, like the lump of leaven in the parable, the idea of the Crusaders was silently at work in their minds.

  It was William who first broached the subject as they sat rather moodily in the disused barn where they held all their meetings. They had made abortive attempts to play Red Indians, robber chiefs and pirates, and had given them up because obviously their hearts were not in them.

  Suddenly William remarked tentatively: ‘I suppose there isn’t any folks worshippin’ idols left nowadays, is there?’

  Sudden interest gleamed in every face.

  ‘I daresay there is if only you knew,’ said Ginger darkly. ‘They do it in secret, of course, ’cause they know they’d get hung if the Vicar found ’em.’

  The Outlaws brightened visibly.

  ‘Well, let’s keep a look-out,’ said Henry; ‘let’s look roun
d in church on Sunday an’ see who isn’t there an’ then go an’ see what they’re doin’ instead.’

  Full of new ardour, the Outlaws went home and spent a good deal of time collecting weapons. Ginger tried to make a coat of mail out of an old fire-guard, but after tearing his coat in two places gave it up. William polished up his one-and-sixpenny pistol and lent his airgun to Henry, whose only weapon was a poker which, though probably more efficacious as a weapon of offence than either the pistol or the airgun, certainly had an unprofessional appearance.

  The congregation at church next Sunday was disconcerted by four separate small boys, each with his family near the front of the church, who spent the entire service (when they were not being forcibly tweaked into position by the nearest member of their families) turning round and fixing every member of the congregation severally with what appeared to be a baleful stare. As a matter of fact, it was only a stare of concentration while the Outlaws memorised those inhabitants of the village who attended church and were, therefore, outside the sphere of their prospective activities. The recipients of the stares (especially if they had any personal knowledge of the Outlaws) felt apprehensive. Had they known the truth they would have felt only relief.

  ‘William,’ said Mrs Brown on the way home, ‘I felt simply ashamed of you. Turning round and staring at people all the time. I don’t know what the Vicar thought.’

  ‘Well, if he knew why,’ said William enigmatically, ‘he’d feel glad.’

  ‘And I don’t know what your father would have said if he’d been there,’ went on Mrs Brown severely.

  His father! That was an idea – his father seldom went to church. It might be a good plan to begin on his father. But on second thoughts William decided that it mightn’t. It might annoy his father, and William had a wholesome awe of his father – not from any vague speculation as to what his father might do if annoyed, but from actual painful knowledge of what his father could do and had done when annoyed. He decided that after all it might be wiser to begin operations outside his family circle.