Four Days' Wonder

by A. A. Milne

  Suppose——

  The front-door bell rang. There was a movement from the chair. Jenny, looking out, saw the disappearing back of Mr. Parracot, heard his ‘All right, old girl, it’s only the police’. She pushed open the casement window behind her, squeezed through, wriggled round and let herself down by her hands. There was only about eighteen inches to drop . . . just enough to give Inspector Marigold, who had the case well in hand from the start, a couple of interesting footprints.

  Chapter Four

  Entry of Gloria Harris

  I

  In a tea-shop in Piccadilly, over a cup of coffee, half a toasted scone and two portions of honey, Jenny considered her position. It was half-past twelve. Twenty minutes ago she had escaped from Auburn Lodge, and for twenty minutes Inspector Marigold had been relentlessly finding clues. She wondered if he would stop for lunch, and hoped, if so, that he would have a nice long one.

  She considered in her mind the Good and the Bad, as her old friend Robinson Crusoe would have done.

  1.Bad. I’ve only got £2 5s. 9½d., and if I hadn’t bought that hat, it would have been £6 9s. 9½d.

  Good.But I might have bought the other one.

  2.Bad.I’ve really got the wrong clothes for escaping.

  Good.But I suppose I could buy some others.

  Bad.But I’ve only got £2 5s. 9½d.

  3.Bad. My handkerchief.

  Good. But it’s got ‘Jenny’ on it, and when the Inspector identifies Aunt Jane, he might think ‘Jenny’ is short for Jane.

  Bad.Until somebody tells him it isn’t.

  4.Bad.Finger-prints. I must have left them all over the place.

  Good.Still, that doesn’t matter, if they don’t know it’s me.

  5.Bad.I wish I could get some other clothes, and some more money and some cold cream and a tooth-brush. I wonder if I dare go home for them.

  Good. I think I might, because Mr. and Mrs. Watterson have gone down to Bath for a wedding.

  Bad.All the same I daren’t, because of the servants.

  Good. I’m glad I said I would be out to lunch.

  6.Good.It’s lucky I never saw the Parracots when they were taking the house. They’ve simply never heard of me.

  Bad.But the Inspector is sure to ask who lived there before the Parracots, and then he’ll go to see Mr. Watterson.

  Good.But Mr. Watterson is at Bath for the day.

  7.Good.So I’ve probably got the whole of to-day to get away in, only I mustn’t go home.

  Bad.But I’ve only got £2 5s. 9½d.

  8.Good.Still £2 5s. 9½d. is quite a lot really, if you sleep under haystacks

  Bad.But not nearly so much as £6 9s. 9½d. when you’ve got to buy all sorts of things.

  And then, just as she was beginning her second portion of honey, Jenny had a most wonderful idea.

  9.Really AWFULLY Good. Nancy Fairbrother!

  Of course!

  This was that Nancy, who had supposed, mistakenly, that Aunt Jane played the harp with nothing on before all the Crowned Heads of Europe. She had been helpful and instructive in other ways, and in numerous imaginary adventures had been Jenny’s sole female confederate. She had Jenny’s romantic nature, very much Jenny’s figure, and all of Jenny’s passion for Crime. Probably she knew already what ‘A K 17 L P K 29 Friday’ meant.

  Jenny paid for her lunch (leaving £2 5s. 1½d.) and walked to a telephone-box in the Piccadilly Tube station.

  In her very deepest tones Jenny said: ‘Hallo, is that Mr. Archibald Fenton’s house?’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Fenton’s secretary speaking,’ said a bright secretarial voice.

  ‘Is that Miss Fairbrother?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Nancy,’ said Jenny’s voice urgently, ‘this is Gloria Harris speaking. Do you remember? Say “Oh, yes, Miss Harris” if you do.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Miss Harris,’ said Miss Fairbrother primly.

  ‘You sound as if you weren’t alone, darling.’

  ‘Quaite.’

  ‘Is Mr. Fenton there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Listen, Nancy, it’s terribly important. You mustn’t see me, and you mustn’t know that I’ve rung up, that’s why I said Gloria Harris. But you must do something for me, if you’ll be an angel. Will you be an angel, Nancy darling?’

  ‘Of course, Miss Harris,’ said Miss Fairbrother reassuringly.

  ‘I want to go to your flat, and I want to change there, and I want to wear something of yours, something old and countryish, and I’ll leave you what I’m wearing instead. It’s the green georgette. And nobody must know I’ve been. So if I call for your key now, will you leave it addressed to Miss Harris, but not so as people will guess it’s a key, and I’ll tie it on a piece of string and leave it hanging inside the letterbox. And you might say what you’d like me to wear of yours. Something you were going to sell, and you’ll have my green georgette, so that will be all right, won’t it?’

  ‘That will be quite all right, Miss Harris. I’ll do it at once.’

  ‘You utter angel. You do understand, don’t you?’

  ‘Why, of course, Miss Harris. I assure you we’re quite used to this sort of thing. Good-bye.’

  ‘Good-bye, darling!’

  Mr. Fenton looked up inquiringly.

  ‘Autograph,’ said Miss Fairbrother with a little shrug.

  Until he had written A Flock of Sheep two years ago, Mr. Fenton had despised both those who asked for autographs and those who granted them. In those days he had been a reviewer and publisher’s reader, a combination of professions not without its advantages, one of them being, in Mr. Fenton’s case, immunity from the autograph-hunter. With the success of A Flock of Sheep, however, he had acquired a new set of values.

  ‘Remind me,’ said Archibald Fenton graciously.

  ‘I wonder if you would mind just doing it now,’ said Miss Fairbrother. ‘She’s calling for it directly. It came this morning.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’

  Nancy produced an autograph-book which had come that morning, and Mr. Fenton produced a gold fountain-pen with which he wrote ‘Archibald Fenton, Kind regards’ on a mauve page between ‘Stanley Baldwin’ and ‘Kaye Don’. He always chose a mauve page, and preferred to be between Rudyard Kipling and John Masefield, but this was not always possible.

  ‘Would it be a bother’, said Miss Fairbrother, ‘if I just got this off, and then we shouldn’t be interrupted again? I shall just have to write a letter; she wants a list of the titles of all your other books. She’s ordered the new one, of course.’

  ‘You’ve got some lists made out, haven’t you?’

  ‘I’m afraid I shall have to make it out again. We’ve run out of the last lot.’

  Mr. Fenton looked at his watch.

  ‘All right, we’ll take five minutes off. I want to get this done before lunch. Who is she, by the way?’

  ‘A Miss Gloria Harris,’ said Nancy.

  ‘Gloria? That wasn’t the name in the book?’

  Miss Fairbrother put a fresh sheet of paper into her typewriter, and said calmly: ‘She’s filling up the book for her little niece, as a surprise.’

  ‘Oh, an Aunt,’ said Mr. Fenton, losing interest, and went out of the room. It was time for a cocktail, anyhow.

  At headlong speed Nancy typed the following list of titles for Miss Harris:

  ‘Darling, I don’t know what you’ve done, but it sounds as if you were leading a Hue-and-cry. Take the beige stockinette about three from the left, and the brown beret, bottom drawer. Shoes? Stockings of course. How are you underneath, or doesn’t that matter? You can have the beige knickers if you like, because unless you’re going to wear two lots(!) I shall have yours. Shoes. There’s a pound in the bead box in the dressing-ta
ble drawer, or you could have the old crêpe ones with a patch which leap to the eye, the only thing is, if you’re going to be pursued for long, they mightn’t go on fitting. So take the pound if you think you’ll want it. Disguise. Most important. Show your ears, that will do it. Have you got time before you start, or must you wait till you’re well away? There’s a very good hairdresser in Tunbridge Wells, if you’re making for the coast. Leave this stupid album in the flat, and I’ll send it off to-night. All good luck, Jenny darling. You are a family, aren’t you? My ridiculous Fenton will come back in a moment, and I must get this sealed up before he asks to read it. I wish I could have spoken to you properly just now, but perhaps it’s as well, because now if the police come, I can say I don’t know anything. Nancy.

  ‘P.S. Burn this.’

  Nancy took out her latch-key, tied a piece of string to it, wrapped the key and the string in this letter, put the letter in the middle of the album, put the album in a suitable envelope, address the envelope ‘Miss Gloria Harris, To be called for’ and hurried it down to the hall table. Then she went upstairs again, and almost immediately was joined by Mr. Archibald Fenton.

  ‘Just let me make sure you’ve got that list right,’ he said, holding out a hand.

  ‘Oh, Mr. Fenton, I’m so sorry! I’m afraid it’s sealed up now. I could open it if you like, but——’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You didn’t include Lovely Lady, of course,’ said Mr. Fenton, referring to an earlier work of which he was now ashamed.

  ‘No,’ said Miss Fairbrother truthfully.

  II

  Jenny realized that the thing to avoid was taxis, because taxi-drivers always remembered when they had driven a fair girl in a biscuit-coloured hat and green georgette to Waterloo Station, and they nearly always heard her say to the porter: ‘Bittlesham Regis, it’s the three-ten, isn’t it?’ and then they always went to Scotland Yard and, after waiting a little while, were shown into the Inspector’s room, and told him all about it. So she went to Bloomsbury by omnibus, and was very glad that omnibus drivers didn’t remember so well, or want so much money.

  It was wonderful of Nancy to have recognized Gloria Harris so quickly. Gloria (because it was the most glorious name Jenny could think of) Harris (as a slight tribute to Cook) and Acetylene (because it was a name Nancy had just heard about) Pitt (out of compliment to the Younger Pitt whom she was doing that term) had had their last adventure together six years ago, when they had served with Wellington in the Peninsular War, and, as far as was possible to two drummer boys, had rolled up the map of Europe at Waterloo. Now she was going to be Gloria Harris again, but not, thought Jenny, disguised as a boy. That always seemed to her so silly, because, however slim you were, you were different, and nobody could mistake that tight look that men’s clothes gave you. Like that girl in Nancy’s school in The Young Cavalier, all the wrong shapes and so silly. Why, the police would know at once she was escaping.

  She came to Mr. Archibald Fenton’s house and rang the bell. Nancy heard it, and longed to rush to the window and give one encouraging wave. But she could not. Mr. Fenton, who had been forced to the conclusion lately that success and artistic merit were not really incompatible, was dictating a kindly article on the novels of Mr. Galsworthy.

  ‘It’s Miss Harris,’ said Jenny to the maid. ‘I’ve called for a—a letter.’

  ‘Oh yes, miss.’ The envelope was shown to her. ‘Would that be it?’

  ‘That’s it. Thank you very much,’ said Jenny, a little surprised at the shape which Nancy’s latch-key had taken. She hurried down the steps and across the square; and Mr. Fenton, carried on a slightly involved metaphor to the window, saw the back of her, and thought that, for an aunt, Miss Harris had kept her figure remarkably well.

  Jenny sped round to the British Museum, and in a room where she was the youngest inhabitant by three thousand years she opened her precious envelope.

  ‘Oh, Nancy darling,’ she thought, ‘oh, Acetylene Pitt, you are wonderful!’

  How marvellous it would have been if they could have escaped together! If Mr. Fenton had hurt himself badly on a dictionary or something, and Suspicion had rested upon his secretary! Perhaps Nancy could join her later, taking a ticket ostensibly to Earl’s Court, but slipping out at Tottenham Court Road, and doubling back to St. Pancras.

  She put the letter and the latch-key into her bag, and, with the autograph album under her arm, made her way back to the omnibus country, and waited for something to take her to Victoria. But she was careful when paying for her ticket not to let the conductor see that she now had two latch-keys.

  At Victoria she got into an omnibus for the King’s Road, and all down the King’s Road she was thinking to herself ‘Hair’. Should she wait until she got to Tunbridge Wells, or should she get it done now? And if now, should she go into a hairdresser’s and have a proper Eton crop, or should she try to cut it herself? She put two fingers at the back of her hat and snipped . . . Yes, she could get the curls off easily—and the ones over her ears—but it would look rather funny, wouldn’t it?

  Bad.It would look rather funny.

  Good.But I shall still have £2 4s. 5½d.

  That settled it.

  III

  Gloria Harris came out of the little flat and looked cautiously round. The Inspector was obviously having his lunch. She walked into the King’s Road and waited for an omnibus to take her back to Victoria.

  Her plans were made. She would be a hiker. You couldn’t very well start hiking in the King’s Road, so she would take a train to Tunbridge Wells and start hiking from there. As far as she remembered, you either hiked in large companies or else in couples. She wouldn’t be likely to find a large company, so she would have to do it by herself, but it would not really be by herself because she would always have her dear Hussar. So that was all right.

  In the flat this letter was waiting for Miss Fairbrother:

  ‘Darling Nancy,—

  ‘You are an angel, darling, for understanding and everything. I have taken the stockinette, and two pairs of country stockings, and the beige knickers and chemise, but I haven’t left you my green set because I must have two of everything, because I may have to wander about the country and I must have a change, and I haven’t taken your pound, so I haven’t very much money, so I can’t afford to buy very much, and the shoes fit perfectly, darling. I am wearing the beige now, and shall dye the green later on if I can, because they might look rather funny getting over a stile, because the skirt is just the least bit short, but it doesn’t matter because I shall be hiking, but a detective might notice and it’s just the sort of little thing which makes them suspicious. Darling Nancy, do you mind, I’ve taken your pyjamas, I didn’t know you wore them, I never have, are they nice, there was only one pair, the blue, which I’ve taken, because I suddenly remembered about that, and I must have something. I’m buying a knapsack to put them all in, and darling I’ve left you my watch, it’s one Aunt Caroline gave me, but Mr. and Mrs. Watterson have never said anything, I mean they’ve never said What a pretty watch that is, so that means they’ve never really noticed it so as to describe it to the police, so I should think you could sell it quite easily, but not the bag, which I shan’t want hiking, and people might remember it. So please do, Nancy, I mean the watch, because of the extra stockings and the knickers and the pyjamas and all the extra things I’ve taken, oh, and two handkerchiefs, and I hope you’ll like the hat, it cost four guineas, so perhaps you could sell that too, I mean to a friend. Oh no, darling, I’ve just remembered, Mrs. Watterson particularly noticed the hat, so you’d better hide it altogether. Oh dear! and perhaps you oughtn’t to wear the georgette either, oh darling! but you will sell the watch, won’t you, and those are real little diamonds.

  ‘I must fly, Nancy darling, because I daren’t stay in London a moment longer, I’ve cut my hair myself, quite short, it looks awful, and I’ve found a lip-stick of
yours, I didn’t know you used them, I never have, are they nice, I’ve put a lot on for disguise, and I’ve taken it with me, so mind you sell the watch. And do just write to Miss Gloria Harris, Poste Restante, Tunbridge Wells, to say you don’t mind what I’ve done. Your loving, grateful Jenny.

  ‘P.S. Burn this.’

  So, with a brown-paper parcel under her arm, and mixed emotions in her bosom, Miss Gloria Harris left London for Tunbridge Wells.

  Chapter Five

  Activity in London

  I

  Although Inspector James Marigold had had a long and varied career in the Police Force, he had never actually taken part in a Murder Case. It was almost the only thing in which he hadn’t taken part. He had watched most of the Test Matches at Lord’s from a sedentary position in front of the bowling screen, rousing himself in the intermissions to say ‘Pass off the ground there, please’ to those spectators who were delaying the resumption of play. He had joined hands with other members of the Force to keep back the crowd at fashionable weddings. In the Row on one occasion a horse which had suddenly caught sight of the Albert Memorial and was hurrying back to its stable was stopped by P.C. Marigold and returned to its lessee, and the fact that this gentleman was a Member of Parliament had brought the police officer a short but gratifying notice in the evening papers. On another occasion he had held the traffic up at Hyde Park Corner while a flock of sheep had transferred its grazing quarters to the Green Park; and though the photograph of him doing this (headed ‘RURAL LONDON’) had given the impression that it was the flock of sheep which was holding the traffic up while Sergeant Marigold went for a drink, it had all helped to fire his ambition, and to prepare him for what was to be his Greatest Case, the Auburn Lodge Mystery.

  He had begun by arresting George Parracot. There were three reasons for arresting Mr. Parracot.

  1.He had been the first to find the body.

  2. He had called attention to Jenny’s handkerchief in a Marked Manner.

  3.He was obviously Concealing Something.