William Carries On Read online

  His resentment became a determination to retrieve his property at all costs.

  “A crim’nal, that’s what she is,” he muttered fiercely. “I wouldn’t go to another ole Sale at her house—not even if”—he sought for the most unlikely contingency possible and added—“she wanted me to.”

  He turned his steps back to the Hall, entered the gates and made his way up towards the house in the shadow of the shrubbery. The Bring and Buy Sale was evidently over now. The big drawing-room, where it had been held, was empty except for a few maids who were sweeping the floor in a half-hearted fashion . . . William made his way round to the side, where Mrs. Bott’s bedroom was. He could still see no signs of life. As a matter of fact, the servants, were washing up the Bring and Buy tea things or clearing the big drawing-room; Mrs. Bott was resting in her “boodwor” upstairs (Mrs. Bott in her youth had read novels in which the heroines had boudoirs and the first thing she had done on occupying the Hall was to set aside a small room near her bedroom for that purpose); and Madame Montpelimar was resting in the small drawing-room downstairs, renewing her forces and drawing out a plan of campaign. The events of the afternoon had shown her that such small local influence as she had was on the wane. In any case she was fed up with Mrs. Bott and the Hall and the village and everything connected with them. She would have liked to have packed her things and gone then and there, but professional pride prevented her. She’d never been got the better of by a mug yet and she wasn’t going to start now. She’d taken for granted that she would make enough out of Mrs. Bott to keep her in comfort for the rest of the year and all she’d got was her keep, a few drives in a car, and hours upon hours of boredom. She wasn’t going till she’d done a bit better than that. She’d tried dreams, visions, mystic voices, spirit visitants—but all in vain . . . She was wondering what to try next when she saw, from the shadow of the curtain where she was sitting, a small boy cautiously approach the house and begin to climb up a drainpipe screened by a climbing rose-tree. She recognised the boy. It was the boy whose penknife Mrs. Bott had taken at the Sale. Obviously he was going to retrieve his penknife. For the temptation of Mrs. Bott’s open bedroom window and the drainpipe so conveniently near it had proved too much for William. The wide open window showed that Mrs. Bott (whose dislike of fresh air was notorious) was not in the room, and the drainpipe seemed to call him urgently to reconnoitre. There was just a chance that Mrs. Bott might have put the penknife down in her bedroom in some accessible position. It was worth trying, anyway. He didn’t want tamely to go home without having even made an attempt to get his penknife back.

  The garden was empty. There seemed to be no one about anywhere. He swarmed quickly up the pipe. The bedroom was empty. He stepped over the sill, looked about him, then gave a gasp of relief and joy. Yes, there on the dressing-table, side by side with a large diamond brooch, was his penknife. He darted across the room to it, slipped it into his pocket, and slid down the drainpipe again.

  Meantime, Madame Montpelimar had not been idle. She was a woman whose wits worked quickly in an emergency and she was well practised in emergencies. The boy had gone to Mrs. Bott’s bedroom for his penknife, which Madame Montpelimar happened to know was on the dressing-table. Madame Montpelimar happened to know, too, that the diamond brooch was on the dressing-table. She had seen Mrs. Bott put both of them down when she came in from the Bring and Buy Sale. If she could get possession of the diamond brooch and manage to lay the blame for its disappearance on the boy, she’d feel that she could leave the place with her future secured for some considerable time and the satisfaction of having got her own back. She’d have paid Mrs. Bott out for the hours of boredom and for her deafness to all her requests for money. Mrs. Bott was very careless with her jewellery, and only the knowledge that she would inevitably fall under suspicion had prevented Madame Montpelimar from helping herself to some of it before now. Her fingers, in fact, had fairly itched when she saw her hostess leave diamond brooches and pearl necklaces carelessly about in bedroom and “boodwor”. But Madame Montpelimar and the police had met on more than one occasion previously, and she was reluctant to renew the acquaintance. This, however, was an opportunity not to be missed. And Madame Montpelimar did not miss it. She laid her plan of campaign quickly.

  She hastened out to the garden in the front of the house and called a gardener who was working at the back. He was a young man and obeyed her summons fairly quickly. Madame Montpelimar, keeping the corner of her eye on Mrs. Bott’s bedroom window, through which William had vanished, asked the gardener the name of a shrub in which she said she was interested. She asked about its habits, its culture, the best time to plant it, how to prune it.

  From the corner of her eye she saw William emerge from the window, but it wasn’t till he had almost reached the ground that, with a sudden exclamation of surprise and horror, she called the gardener’s attention to him.

  “Look!” she said. “What on earth . . .? It’s a boy. Catch him and I’ll go and tell Mrs. Bott.”

  William, as she had meant him to, heard the sharp exclamation, leapt to the ground and set off through the bushes, pursued by the gardener. Madame Montpelimar waited to see that William was making good his escape before she ran into the house, up the stairs, and along the passage to Mrs. Bott’s bedroom. Yes, there was the diamond brooch. She slipped it into her pocket, then went quickly on to Mrs. Bott’s “boodwor”. In her eagerness to give the impression of having come straight from the garden she went indeed a little too quickly, slipping down the two steps that led into the “boodwor” and landing at the feet of the astonished Mrs. Bott.

  Mrs. Bott sat up on her pink brocade sofa (all the heroines had pink brocade sofas in their “boodwors”) and clutched her lace-trimmed negligee about her (the heroines all had lace-trimmed negligees, too).

  “’Ere!” she said. “What’s all this?”

  “Never mind me,” gasped Madame Montpelimar, surreptitiously making sure that the brooch was still in her pocket.

  “Go quickly. A boy’s been into your bedroom. I was in the garden talking to the gardener when suddenly I saw him coming down the drainpipe from your bedroom. It was that boy you took the penknife from. I sent the gardener after him and I came upstairs as quickly as I could to tell you.”

  “That boy!” groaned Mrs. Bott, putting her plump little feet to the floor and slipping them into the shoes she had taken off a few minutes ago. “’E’s in every bit of mischief there is in this ’ere village. In prison’s where he ought to be an’ the sooner ’e goes there the better. Where d’you say ’e’d been?”

  “Your bedroom,” said Madame Montpelimar, getting up from the floor and limping to a chair. “At least, I think he must have been there because he was coming down the drainpipe by the rose-tree. It doesn’t lead anywhere else. And your window was open. Probably the gardener’s caught him by now.”

  Mrs. Bott rose slowly to her feet.

  “S’pose I’d better go an’ see what mischief ’e’s been up to. Layin’ some booby trap, I’ll be bound. Made me an apple pie bed, like as not. I wouldn’t put it past him.” She hobbled from the room—to return a few minutes later, looking white and shaken.

  “Would you believe it,” she gasped, sinking down again upon the pink brocade sofa, “the little devil’s gone an’ stole me diamond brooch!”

  “Oh, Mrs. Bott!” said Madame Montpelimar. “Never! I simply won’t believe it.”

  “Then come and see with your own eyes,” said Mrs. Bott. “Gone. Clean gone. That’s what it is.”

  “But are you sure you left it there?” said Madame Montpelimar.

  “’Course I am,” said Mrs. Bott, “I put it down there along with the penknife. ’E’s taken them both. I always said that boy was little more nor less than a criminal an’ now I’ve proved it.”

  “It’s probably dropped down behind the dressing- table,” said Madame Montpelimar. “I can’t believe that a child like that would steal a valuable piece of jewellery.”

&nb
sp; “You don’t know ’im like what I do,” said Mrs. Bott darkly. “At the bottom of every piece of mischief in this village ’e’s been ever since I can remember. I’ve always said ’e’d end up in jail.”

  Madame Montpelimar rose slowly to her feet and accompanied her hostess along the passage to her bedroom. She walked slowly and painfully. A horrible suspicion was forming itself in her mind that in that headlong entrance into the boudoir she had sprained her ankle. She had meant to make a quick get-away with the goods at night. Get-aways were child’s play to Madame Montpelimar. A vision of a friend in trouble or a spirit voice calling her to some urgent piece of psychic work on the other side of England, had often saved her in the nick of time. But a sprained ankle would complicate matters.

  “There!” said Mrs. Bott, pointing dramatically to the dressing-table. “There they were, the two of ’em. I put the penknife down there an’ I took off me dress an’ put me diamond brooch next the penknife. I’ll take me dyin’ oath to it. An’ I slipped on me negligee an’ told Marie to leave the brooch there as I’d want to wear it with me mauve chiffon for dinner.”

  Mrs. Bott’s maid Marie, summoned, corroborated the story. She had helped Mrs. Bott take off her dress and put on her negligee, had seen Mrs. Bott into the boudoir, returned to tidy up the bedroom, and put out the mauve chiffon that was to adorn Mrs. Bott’s ample person at dinner, and had departed, leaving penknife and diamond brooch, side by side, on the dressing-table. No one had entered the room since then—till Madame Montpelimar and the gardener had seen William Brown climbing furtively down the drainpipe from the open bedroom window.

  At this point the panting gardener arrived. He hadn’t been able to catch the boy but he’d recognised him. It was that there William Brown.

  Mrs. Bott pursed her small tight mouth till it almost vanished into her puffy cheeks.

  “Well, ’e gives me that there brooch back or ’e goes to jail. I’ll tell ’is father so this very evenin’.”

  Madame Montpelimar sank on her bed, her face twisted into lines of pain.

  “I—I think I’ve sprained my ankle,” she moaned.

  * * *

  “But Mrs. Bott,” protested Mrs. Brown aghast, “William couldn’t possibly have stolen your diamond brooch.”

  “Well, ’e could an’ ’e ’as done,” snapped Mrs. Bott. “ ’E was seen by two people climbin’ down from my bedroom window an’ when I went in the brooch ’ad gone. It was there before ’e went an’ it wasn’t there after ’e’d been. If ’e didn’t take it, ’oo did?”

  “He admits he took the penknife,” said Mrs. Brown.

  “If ’e took the penknife ’e took the brooch,” said Mrs. Bott. “They was both there together an’ they was both gone together. Tell me ’oo took them if ’e didn’t, that’s all.”

  “I don’t know,” said Mrs. Brown, “but I’m sure William didn’t. I’m quite sure he didn’t.”

  “An’ I’m quite sure ’e did.” said Mrs. Bott. “Well, that’s all I’ve gotter say, Mrs. Brown. Either I gets back me brooch by the end of the week or l goes to the police. Take your choice. I’m bein’ too lenient to the boy as it is. Shut up’s what ’e oughter be, not goin’ about robbin’ people left an’ right. E’s a reg’lar young crim’nal an’ he oughter be treated as such.”

  With that she turned on her heel and went away, leaving Mrs. Brown too stricken to reply.

  William was amazed and horrified by the accusation. “I never touched her rotten ole brooch,” he said. “It was there by the penknife an’ I took the penknife, but I left her rotten ole brooch. I remember seein’ it by itself on the dressin’ table. What should I want her rotten ole brooch for?”

  “I really don’t know, William,” moaned Mrs. Brown. “I don’t know what to do. Of course I know you didn’t take it. Oh, I do wish your father were at home!”

  For Mr. Brown had gone North on a business trip, and his wife did not know how to get in touch with him.

  “It will be so dreadful for him to come home and find you in the hands of the police,” she continued.

  “But I didn’t take it,” repeated William. “I tell you, I didn’t take it.”

  “I know you didn’t, William,” said Mrs. Brown, “but who’s going to believe it when she tells a tale like that?”

  “She’s hid it herself jus’ to pay me out for gettin’ my penknife back,” said William.

  “No, William, I don’t think she’d do that. Oh dear, I do wish I knew what to do.”

  It was then that Joan arrived. She had arranged to play Red Indians with the Outlaws in the woods and had called for William on her way. William told her the story.

  “Says I took her rotten old brooch,” he said. “Makin’ no end of a fuss about it. Says she’s goin’ to the police if I don’t give it her back by Saturday. Well, how can I when I’ve not got it?”

  “Well, someone must have taken it,” said Joan, “so what we’ve got to do is to find out who did take it.”

  “How can we do that?” said William. “They all say they found it gone after I’d been for my penknife.”

  “That horrible fortune-teller woman took it,” said Joan with calm certainty. “I know she did.”

  “Yes, I bet she did,” said William with interest. “Yes she looks’s if she’d do anythin’. But we can’t prove she did.”

  “We must,” said Joan. "You can’t do anything ’cause they won’t let you near the place now, but I can. I can try, anyway.” She was silent for a few moments gazing thoughtfully into space, then said: “D’you remember when you used to go an’ watch what that woman—-I’ve forgotten her name—did every night an’ then pretend you’d dreamed it ’cause you wanted her to think you could see things when you weren’t there?”

  “Yes, I remember,” said William with a reminiscent chuckle.

  “Well, I’m goin’ to start that way,” said Joan.

  When Mrs. Bott was returning from the village the next morning she was accosted by a little girl whom she vaguely remembered to have recently come to live at Lilac Cottage—a little girl with a grave oval face, dark eyes and curly dark hair.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Bott,” said the little girl. “Good afternoon dear,” said Mrs Bott pleasantly. She disliked little boys, but on the whole she liked little girls. Violet Elizabeth, her own little girl, was away at boarding school, and, though she was not an amiable child, there were moments when her mother missed her.

  The little girl began to walk with her down the country road.

  “What’s your name, dear?” said Mrs. Bott.

  “Joan Parfitt,” said Joan and, after a slight pause, “I had such a funny dream about you last night.”

  “Did you, dear?” said Mrs. Bott absently.

  “Yes. I dreamed that you’d lost something very valuable and you were worrying about it . . . and you went to a sort of desk and wrote a letter to someone about it and then you sat down and did some needlework, and all the time you were worrying about the thing you’d lost. You were wearing a sort of purple dress.”

  Mrs. Bott stood stock still in the middle of the road and stared in amazement at the child who had dreamed exactly what she had been doing last night after dinner.

  “Well, I never!” she gasped at last. “Well, I neverl If that isn’t the most extraordinary thing! Well, I never did!” Then, her voice sinking down to a solemn note: “I was doin’ exactly that las’ night, me dear. I wrote to a cousin telling ’er of this valuable thing I’d lost, then I did a bit of me tapestry work. ’Ow strange you should dream of it!”

  Joan heaved a sigh of relief. The uncomfortable hour she had spent crouching outside Mrs. Bott’s drawingroom window last night had not, then, been wasted.

  “I often have dreams like that,” said she modestly. “I often dream things that I find out afterwards are true.”

  “Well, if that doesn’t—if that isn’t—” gasped Mrs. Bott, still so deeply impressed she could not find words adequately to express her emotion. “Look �
�ere my dear, you didn’t dream where this valu’ble thing was, did you?”

  “No,” admitted Joan, “I didn’t. I didn’t even know what it was. I got a feeling that it was something—small and shining, but that was all.”

  “Well, I’ll be blowed” gasped Mrs. Bott. “I’ve never known anythin’ like it. Not in all me born days. It’s—well, it’s wonderful. Look ’ere, me dear. You come ’ome with me for a minute. I’ve someone at ’ome you mus’ meet. She’s got this Gift same as what you’ve got, an’ she’ll ’elp you develop it. Anyway, the three of us together oughter get physic enough to find out what that young villain’s done with it. I know she’ll be almost as int’rested as what I am to find you’ve got this gift. What a bit of luck—me meetin’ you like this this mornin’!”

  “Oh, you mean Madame Montpelimar,” said Joan, and added with well-simulated enthusiasm: “She’s wonderful, isn’t she?”

  Mrs. Bott beamed down expansively at her companion. She had been piqued and disappointed by the failure of the village in general to appreciate her protege. She had imagined that the Hall would become the centre of an extensive psychic movement with herself and Madame Montpelimar as its guiding spirits—and they had been shunned and ostracised. And yet here was this child—this gifted clairvoyante child—realising the greatness of her wonderful protege, giving honour where honour was due . . .

  “Yes, she’s a proper dab at it,” said Mrs. Bott proudly. “She’s learnin’ me, too,” she added. “She says I’m gettin’ on a treat, but I’ve not been able to find out where this ’ere brooch ’as gone to. You’re sure you didn’t dream that, love?”

  “Quite—but p’raps I’ll dream that to-night,” said Joan shamelessly.

  “Well, the first thing for you to do is to meet this ’ere Madame Montpelimar,” said Mrs. Bott. “She’d ’elp you no end. An’ she can explain dreams so you’ll ’ardly recognise ’em.”

  Madame Montpelimar received the new recruit with reserve. She didn’t quite know what to make of her, but decided in the end that, though one must, of course, keep an eye on her. She couldn’t do much harm. Just a kid pulling old Mrs Bott’s leg. She used to do the same kind of thing when she was a kid, she remembered. Still did, come to that.