“Couldn’t have been,” said Ginger. “Not bars of string. It might’ve been balls of string or bars of choc’late . . .”
“Couldn’t have been,” said William. “No one’d pay two hundred pounds for a ball of string or a bar of choc’late. ”
“It might be a code word,’ said Ginger.
“Yes, I bet that’s it. Smugglers or international crooks,” said William. “Bars of string might mean gold or diamond or some sort of dangerous drugs.”
“Funny we didn’t find it, whatever it was,” said Ginger. “We looked everywhere—tryin’ to escape.”
“I bet it was in that clergyman’s secret room. I wish I’d gone through to it.”
They ate cherries in silence for some time then turned their heads sharply towards the house, frozen to attention.
Through the open door they could hear footsteps descending the staircase . . . then voices in the hall.
“Oh, well,” the young man was saying, “no corpses, no Haydn. A complete blank all round. Obviously someone’s been searching the whole place—cupboards, drawers, everything. They’ve probably found it and are well away by now. Of course, there’s always the possibility that the old chap sold it before he died or even invented the whole thing . . Well, I think I’ll take myself off now . . . Good Lord! That’s queer.”
“What’s queer, sir?” said P.C. Higgs.
“That hydrangea by the door. All the blooms are blue except one that seems to be a sort of orange. I’m a bit short-sighted, but—do you see what I mean? A kind of botanical freak, I suppose.”
“More like a human boy, sir. from what I can see,” said P.C. Higgs.
He plunged a hand into the bush, caught hold of a tuft of Ginger’s hair and drew him to the surface. William followed more slowly.
The young man turned on them in fury.
“What do you mean, trespassing on my property?” he shouted.
William assumed the imbecile expression that he used to denote innocence.
“We were jus’ doin’ a bit of nature study,” he said blandly. “We didn’t think we were doin’ any harm, jus’ doin’ a bit of nature study ”
“Jus’ a bit of birds-nestin’,” said Ginger in further explanation.
“Shut up, you clot!” said William.
“Birds-nestng!” almost screamed the young man. He was feeling disappointed and irritated by his failure to find the missing legacy and was glad of a legitimate outlet for his anger. “Birds-nesting in a hydrangea bush! I never heard such nonsense! What sort of birds, do you think, nest in hydrangea bushes?”
“That’s what we were trying to find out,” said William, fixing him with a blank unwinking stare. “That’s what we were nature-studyin’ about. We were tryin’ to find what sort of birds nested in hydrangea bushes. We—”
“Be quiet,” roared the young man. “How dare you come here making hay of a valuable shrub like this!” His eyes lighted suddenly on the front door steps. William and Ginger had flipped their cherry stones carelessly about them and the doorsteps were freely bespattered with them. “How dare you leave your filthy litter all over my grounds! I might have slipped over them. I might have broken my neck.”
“But you haven’t,” William pointed out reassuringly.
“The disgusting sight of those beastly cherry stones and mangled cherries—
“Some of ’em were a bit hard so’s we could only eat bits of ’em,” explained William.
“—make me sick,” continued the young man.
“Well, look,” said William pacifically. “I’m sorry we put ’em there, but I’ll clear ’em all away so they’ll stop makin’ you sick. I’ve got a bit of paper in my pocket an’ I’ll pick ’em up an’ wrap them in this bit of paper an’ take ’em right away an’ bury ’em somewhere.”
He took the piece of paper from his pocket, laid it on the doorstep, and began to collect the cherry stones.
The young man’s face turned from purple to green. His mouth dropped open. His eyes bulged.
“S-s-s-stop!” he said. “Where did you find that paper?"
“Diggin’ a tunnel in the cellar,’ said William.
“Stead of a wooden horse,” added Ginger in further explanation.
The young man had swooped down and seized the paper, sending cherry stones flying in all directions.
William felt that the moment had come to make good his escape.
“Come on!” he said to Ginger and they started at a run down the drive.
“Come back!” shouted the young man. “Come back I tell you! Catch them, Officer! Catch them!”
The young man and P.C. Higgs set off in pursuit, each making for a different gate. William, finding his way barred by the constable, dodged round him, tripped him up and ran down the road, closely followed by Ginger. Rounding a bend that hid them from their pursuers, they plunged into the ditch that bordered the roadside and crouched there motionless. The young man and P.C. Higgs stood for a few moments at the bend of the road, nonplussed.
“Where are they?” said the young man.
P.C. Higgs shook his head sadly
“One never knows with them young limbs,’” he said.
“Why? Do you know them?”
“Oo doesn’t?” asked P.C. Higgs bitterly.
“Oh, well, I can go and see their fathers later and get the thing sorted out. At present it’s completely wrapped in mystery, but I must put this paper into the hands of my lawyer at once before any further mishap occurs.”
“Then you won’t need me any more, sir?” said P.C. Higgs, brightening.
“I don’t think so. Those shots you heard must have been back-fires or any normal country sound—cocks or owls or something.”
“Yes, sir,” said P.C. Higgs.
Henry and Douglas were walking slowly down the road towards Meadowview. At the bend of the road they stopped and looked at the house that showed through a gap in the trees.
“I can’t see either of them, can you?” said Henry.
“No,” said Douglas.
Then a movement behind them startled them and they turned to see two bedraggled figures crawling out of the ditch.
“William!” said Henry.
“Ginger!” said Douglas.
“Have they gone?” asked William, looking cautiously around.
“They seem to’ve done,” said Ginger.
Henry and Douglas were still gazing in fascinated horror at William. William was the more bedraggled of the two. The day’s activities had all left their marks on his person, and his sojourn in the ditch had added a few finishing touches. His hair stood up in stiff spikes, his jacket was tom, his tie adrift, his face and legs coated in soot and thud.
“Gosh!” said Henry. “Whatever’s happened?”
William’s mind went back over the scenes of his morning’s escapade . . . the assault on the chimney, the chaos of the kitchen, the flooding of the bathroom; the cellar, the tunnel, the ginger beer, the hydrangea bush. But they all paled into insignificance beside the one outstanding fact.
“What’s happened?” he repeated. “Can’t you see what happened?” A triumphant grin irradiated his grubby features.
“We’ve GOT OUT!”
Chapter 4 – William and the Holiday Task
William had paid little attention to the holiday task till a week before term began.
It was the first time the form had been given a holiday task. Mr French, their form master, did not approve of holiday tasks; he considered that they imposed an undue strain on both master and pupil at a time—the beginning of term—when they were least able to bear it. He had occasionally been tempted to set his pupils the task of committing to memory The Ancient Mariner or John Gilpin—poems that, he considered, every educated person should know by heart—but had always been restrained by the sobering thought that he would have to hear them say it. But last term Mr French had had to retire from public life in order to undergo an operation and his place had been taken by Mr Mostyn, a flam
boyant youth with a startling taste in socks and ties, whose “modem” methods of teaching left the minds of his pupils completely but not unpleasantly befogged.
In point of fact, Mr Mostyn made few demands on his pupils. He was so deeply engrossed in acting the part of unconventional schoolmaster to his own satisfaction that he required little or no support from the rest of the cast. When, on the last day of term he announced a holiday task the Outlaws, seated together in the back row and engaged in trying to teach Henry’s tortoise to stand on its hind legs, did not even realise that a holiday task was being set.
As the holidays progressed, however, details of the task reached them. They were told that the pupils were expected to find objects of local interest, archaeological or historical, with a view to forming a “museum”, but, occupied in their own concerns (which included fixing up a secret radio in the old quarry to catch smugglers and constructing a submarine to navigate the village pond), they received the information with indifference. Details of the various “finds”, too, filtered through to them. These consisted chiefly of flints, old coins, old prints and old photographs. Many of the “flints” bore a striking likeness to ordinary pebbles, and many of the old photographs were of comparative recent date, showing for example, Ella Poppleham winning the sack race at the Liberal Association Summer Fete and the Over Sixty Club setting out for a jaunt to Coventry Cathedral, complete with cameras, Thermos flasks, knitting, transistors and guide-books.
Some, however, were definitely worthy of respect. Victor Jameson’s flint had been pronounced authentic by a cousin who had once been on a “dig”, Peter Clayton’s coin (salvaged from the Roman Villa at Meltings) bore the word ROMA plainly incised and Hubert Lane’s map had mail coach roads marked instead of railways.
It was not till their usual occupations began to pall that the Outlaws turned their attention to the holiday task.
“They’ve got a lot of rubbish for it,” said William as the four wandered somewhat aimlessly over the fields. “Bits of stone an’ ole pennies an’ photographs of people no one wants to see photographs of. Gosh! I bet we could have found somethin' better than those ole things if we’d tried.”
“Well, why didn’t we?” said Ginger.
“Cause we’d got other things to do,” said William.
“Well, we’ve done them,” said Douglas. “We couldn’t find any smugglers and the submarine wouldn’t surface.”
“It’s too late to do that ole holiday thing now, anyway,” said William.
“No, it isn’t,” said Henry. “Term doesn’t start till next Thursday. That gives us a whole week.”
“An’ I bet we can find somethin’ a jolly sight more interestin' than stones an’ pennies an’ snapshots an’ that ole map of Hubert’s in a whole week,” said William.
Suddenly and rather to their surprise, they found themselves committed to the holiday task. Their spirits rose and the shadow of boredom that had begun to hang over them vanished.
“We’ll have to work jolly hard an’ jolly fast,” said Henry.
“Huh! We can do that all right,” said William.
“Yes, there’s four of us,” said Ginger, “an’ he said we could do it in groups.”
They had reached the old barn and, sitting down on the ground in the doorway in a patch of sunlight, they stared thoughtfully in front of them.
“Well have somethin’ diff’rent from any of their things,” said William, “on’ a jolly sight more int’restin’.”
“Yes, but what?”
“We ought to have somethin’—archaeological,” said Henry, bringing the word out with a modest air of knowledge. “Somethin’ dug up out of the past that’s been in the earth for hundreds of years.”
“Yes. but what?”
“There was somethin’ in the newspaper once,’’said Henry thoughtfully. “It was dug up in London. It was a head.”
“What sort of a head?” said Ginger.
“It was a head called . . .” Henry pondered for a moment or two, then continued: “Yes, I remember now! It was called Mithras.”
“Never heard of him,” said William. “He couldn’t have been anyone much.”
“It was a heathen god that people used to worship,” said Henry, “an’ it was jolly important. There were pictures of it in the newspapers. It was hundreds of years old.”
William’s interest was quickening.
“Where did they find it?” he said.
“They found it when they were diggin’ a hole in the road in London near the Post Office. There was a picture of that, too.”
“But—gosh!” said William excitedly. “They’re diggin’ a hole in the road near the Post Office here. Come on! Let’s go an’ have a look.”
“They’ll have stopped diggin’ now,” said Douglas. “It’s after five an’ they stop at five.”
“Well, we can go an’ have a look,” said William.
They crossed the field and walked down the road to the Post Office. The road outside was “up”, and the workmen had gone. The hole was enclosed by a circle of posts joined by rope, with lanterns set at intervals. They stood looking down into the hole.
“I don’t see anythin’ there,” said Douglas.
“I ’spect they had to dig down a bit to get at that head in London,” said Henry.
“Well, I’ll have a bash at it,” said William. He looked up and down the road. “No one’s comin’.” He ducked under the rope and disappeared into the hole. “No, there’s nothin’ here but I’ll jus’ dig about a bit.” After a few moments his voice came again, upraised excitedly. “Yes, there is somethin’ an’—gosh! It’s a head ! . . . I’m goin’ to throw it up to you. Get hold of it quick!”
A rounded object was hurled out of the hole. Henry seized it and took it to the side of the road. They stood around examining it. Though discoloured by clay, it was certainly a head. The hair was set in curls, the lips into a half-smile.
“Yes, it’s the head of an ancient statue of a heathen god all right,” said Henry with the air of an expert. “I hope it’s not the sort that brings a curse.”
“A what?” said William, emerging from his hole to join them.
“A curse,” said Henry, “Same as mummies. I read about a mummy once that someone dug up an’ ghastly trag’dies kept happenin’ to everyone who’d had anythin’ to do with diggin’ it up. An’ they went on happenin’ till they put it back where they found it.”
“Gosh!” said William, startled by this idea.
“Yes, an’ I once saw a picture about someone who took a jewel out of a heathen grave an’ awful things kept happenin’ to him till he put it back."
“Well, it’s not a mummy or a jewel,” said William, “so we needn’t worry.”
“An’ it looks kind,” said Douglas, examining the face that smirked up at them through its coating of clay.
“It hasn’t any eyes,” said Ginger.
“Statues don’t have,” said Henry.
Douglas glanced nervously up and down the road.
“Let’s take it away quick,” he said. “We don’t want anyone to catch us with it.”
“All right. Let’s go back to the old barn,” said William.
In the old barn they set their “find” on the ground and inspected it closely.
“It’s the best I’ve ever seen,” said William. “I ’spect they’ll want it for the British Museum. ’
“We won’t let them have it yet,” said Henry.
“No,” agreed William. “We don’t want anyone to see it till we take it to school nex’ Thursday. Gosh! Think of Hubert’s face when he sees it. It’ll make his ole map look pretty silly.”
“Yes, but what are we goin’ to do with it till Thursday?” said Ginger. “We’ve got to keep it hidden somewhere where no one’ll see it.”
“I’ll take it home with me,” said William. “I know some good hiding-places.”
“But how are you goin’ to get it there?” said Ginger. “You can’t walk through the
village carryin’ a heathen god’s statue’s head. Everyone’d see it an’ start gettin’ nosey.”
William considered.
“Tell you what!” he said. “I’ll go home an fetch a bag to put it in. There’s a lot of old sacks in the tool-shed that my father’s had garden stuff in. I’ll bring one of those.”
“All right, said Henry. “We’ll stay here an’ guard it.”
William set off briskly down the road. There was a faraway look in his eyes, a jaunty swagger in his walk. He was being feted and acclaimed as the discoverer of the most sensational archaeological find of the century. Scholars and professors of the highest standing showered congratulations on him. Fantastic offers flowed in to him from America, but he refused them and presented the head to the British Museum. The British Museum was ecstatically grateful and held a banquet in his honour, giving three cheers for him at the end. He was knighted and his photograph—Sir William Brown—appeared in all the papers. Reporters flocked to interview him. A modest smile curved his lips as he kicked a stone across the road. “Well, it was sort of luck in a way,” he was saying. “I mean, I’ve got a sort of instinct. I jus’ looked at that hole an’ I knew it had got a heathen god’s statue’s head in it."
Absorbed in his dreams, he collided with Archie Mannister coming from the opposite direction. Archie Mannister was a local artist whose fame was limited to his immediate circle and who cherished a burning—and so far unrequited—passion for William’s sister, Ethel. Though Archie lacked William’s force of character and, in any case belonged to the adult world, the two had a certain amount in common. Both were driven by vaulting ambitions that life had as yet failed to satisfy, and fate had a way of landing both of them in strange and unexpected situations.
“Hello, Archie,” said William.
Archie hurried on without looking at him or speaking. His eyes were glassy, his brow furrowed. Even his short red beard seemed to be quivering with some uncontrollable emotion.
William stood in the road gazing after him.
William and the Pop Singers (Just William, Book 35) Page 7
