Henry knelt down by the form and inspected its face with a professional air.
“I think he’s still breathin’,” he said, “jus’ a little, anyway.”
“P’raps they go on breathin’ for a bit,” said Douglas. “Same as hens. Hens go on runnin’ round in circles after they’re dead.”
“Well, he’s not runnin’ round in circles,” Henry pointed out.
“No, but that doesn’t prove he isn’t dead,” said Douglas.
“We’d better fetch a p’liceman,” said William. He had gone rather pale. “I’ll take the hammer with me an’ show him.”
“No, leave it alone,” said Henry. “You mustn’t touch anythin’ on the scene of the crime.”
“It’s my hammer,” said William, a touch of resentment showing through his dejection.
“It’s the blunt instrument,” said Henry.
“Come on, then,” said William, adding gloomily, “Gosh! Who’d have s’posed a thoughtful act could have turned into this!”
Police-constable Higgs, strolling down the village street, paused for a moment or two to gaze at the Post Office window. There was seldom any alteration in the arrangement of the Post Office window, but it varied the monotony of Police-constable Higgs’s “beat” to note what alteration there was . . . Yes, they must have sold the pink and white apron because a tea-cosy, highly frilled and of a particularly lurid shade of purple, stood in its place. And the toy crane had gone. A pair of white sandshoes stood there instead. A nice little crane, it had been, with a neat little pulley and chain.
Police-constable Higgs had studied it daily during the last few weeks. He felt a certain regret at its disappearance. And that tray with a picture of the Tower of London on it was in a different place. Police-constable Higgs wished they’d sold it instead of the crane. It had been there since Christmas and it was getting on his nerves. He turned from the window to find a row of four small boys confronting him. He knew them, of course. Knew them only too well, the young monkeys!
“Now then!” he said briskly. “What are you up to, you young rascals?”
“We’ve come to report a crime,” said Henry.
“We’ve killed Mr Selwyn,” said Ginger.
“I hit him on the head with a hammer,” said William.
“Doin’ a thoughtful act,” explained Douglas.
“Now look here!” said Police-constable Higgs. “I’ve had enough cheek from you kids an’ I’m not takin’ any more. Off with you!”
“He’s lyin’ in the garden,” said Henry. “We’ve not moved anythin’ on the scene of the crime.”
“He was still breathin’ jus’ a bit when we left him,” said Ginger.
“When you what?” said Police-constable Higgs.
“When we left him,” said Ginger.
“After we’d killed him,” said Douglas.
“Left who?” said Police-constable Higgs.
“Mr Selwyn,” said Henry. “He lives at Brent House, you know.”
“Lived,” said Douglas.
“I didn’t mean to hit him on the head with a hammer,” said William.
Something pale and stricken in William’s face impressed Police-constable Higgs. He hesitated for a moment, then, “Well, come on,” he said at last, “and if you’re up to any of your monkey tricks—”
“It’s not a case of monkey tricks,” said Henry impressively. “It’s a case of trag’dy stalkin’ abroad an’ claimin’ its victim!”
“Now then!” said Police-constable Higgs faintly.
They walked in silence down the road. A feeling of nervousness was creeping over Police-constable Higgs. He could cope with the usual routine of his police duties, but anything beyond them unnerved him. He was relieved to see the stalwart form of his cousin Bill advancing down the road towards them.
“Come along and give me a hand, will you, Bill?” he said.
Bill looked at him suspiciously.
“If you’re going to change your hens back to that other shed you can do it yourself,” he said. “I can still feel the place where that Buff Orpington bit me on the ear.”
“No, this may be a spot of real trouble,” said Police-constable Higgs.
Bill brightened. “Suits me,” he said shortly as he joined the company.
They crossed the piece of waste land where bicycle, fencing sticks and croquet mallet lay hastily abandoned and went through the small green gate to the back lawn of Brent House. The recumbent form of the man in the raincoat still lay on the grass. They gathered round looking down at it.
“There he is,” pointed out William unnecessarily.
“Mr Selwyn,” said Ginger.
“The corpse,” said Henry.
Police-constable Higgs scratched his head.
“That isn’t Mr Selwyn,” he said.
“Who is it, then?” said Ginger.
“Search me!” said Police-constable Higgs.
“The tangled web of mystery,” said Henry.
Suddenly the recumbent form sat up, blinking distractedly.
“Crikey!” it said. “Where am I?”
“In the garden of Mr Selwyn’s house,” Police-constable Higgs reassured him.
“I hit you on the head with a hammer,” said William in further reassurance. The man scrambled to his feet, looking round in a panic-stricken fashion.
“I’ll be off,” he said. “I ain’t done nuffin. I tell you I ain’t done nuffin. I’ll be off.”
“Hold him Bill,” said Police-constable Higgs sharply.
Through the french windows that opened on to the lawn he had suddenly caught sight of a startling object. A couple of wildly waving arms. A writhing form tied to a chair by a piece of rope. A face consisting of two glaring eyes and a large enveloping gag. Bill’s iron grasp held the man in the raincoat while Police-constable Higgs strode across the lawn to the french windows. He entered the room, approached the struggling form, severed the rope with his penknife, and then cut through the gag, releasing a scream that made him blench and step hastily backward.
Mr Selwyn rose to his feet and shook himself. He was a small man. He wore a fawn suit, a heavily embroidered yellow satin waistcoat, hair longer than convention demanded, a low collar and flowing Byronic tie. His face—not unnaturally—wore an expression of extreme agitation.
“Where is he?” he said on a high-pitched hysterical note. “Where is the blackguard?” Then, seeing the group on the lawn, ran out of the french windows to join them. He plunged his hand into the pocket of the man’s raincoat and brought out a gold cup, beautifully decorated with figures of sea-horses in bas-relief. He clasped it to his breast ecstatically. “My Luck! The Luck of the Selwyns!” He turned to Police-constable Higgs, who stood watching, stupefied by amazement. “This was brought from Italy by an ancestor of mine in the sixteenth century. It’s supposed to be the work of Cellini himself. And ever since then it’s been the Luck of the family. Nothing has gone wrong with us while we’ve had it in our possession, and, during the time it was out of our possession, nothing went right. It’s of inestimable value. I keep it generally in the bank. I took it out the day I posted my plans for the experimental theatre and I took it out again this morning because I expect to hear the results of the competition this evening. I knew that, unless I had my Luck with me, the result would be failure. I could only hope for success if I had my Luck with me. The brute must have known of this. He surprised me, gagged me, bound me, took my precious Luck and then—What happened? What happened? Tell me what happened.”
“I hit him on the head with a hammer,” said William.
“Oh, you brave boy! You heroic boy!” said Mr Selwyn with tears of gratitude in his voice. “How can I thank you? How can I ever thank you?”
“Now then! Come on! Come on!” said Police-constable Higgs, rallying his scattered forces. “Come on to the Police Station, all of you.”
Mr Selwyn addressed him with an air of hauteur.
“I’m expecting an important telephone call in a few m
inutes’ time. Also I wish to have a word with this heroic boy. We will join you at the Police Station shortly.”
“I ain’t done nuffin,” wailed the man in the raincoat. “Someone must have planted it on me. ’It me on the ’ead with an ’ammer an’ planted it on me. I’ve got a cruel ’eadache an’ I feel tired.”
“Don’t worry,” said Bill. “You’ll get a nice long rest.”
Mr Selwyn ushered his guests into a room that made them open their eyes wide in amazement. The walls were hung with brightly coloured masks, antique weapons, examples of “modern” art, signed photographs or caricatures of theatrical celebrities, and designs of stage settings. The floor was covered with a white carpet woven into intricate coloured patterns of squares, circles and triangles. A shelf that ran along one wall was filled with models of theatrical decors, and a glass case contained “souvenirs” of famous actresses and ballerinas in the form of gloves, caps, belts, fans, shoes. An enormous gilt couch of obviously theatrical origin stood cheek by, jowl with a small Georgian writing-desk and a Victoria what-not, while a table of aggressively contemporary design supported a sheaf of faded wax flowers under glass. A bird cage containing a canary hung from the centre of the ceiling and an old ship’s figurehead was fixed on the wall between the windows. Mr Selwyn’s embroidery frame stood in front of a baronial fireplace and samples of his work lay about the room in the shape of screens and cushions.
“And now, my brave, brave boy,” he said, turning to William. “Tell me how you discovered the plot and how you foiled it. You heroic child! You must have risked your life to save my Luck.”
The telephone on the desk rang and he flung himself upon it, still clutching his “Luck” to his breast.
“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you—” they heard him say.
He put back the receiver and turned to them, his thin face quivering with joy.
“I’ve won the competition,” he said. “It could only have happened if I’d had my Luck with me. If that villain had taken it I should not have had the slightest chance of success. They liked my drawing. It had, they said, a touch of the bizarre that the others lacked. I have, as you may have noticed”—his hand swept round the room—“a strong sense of the bizarre, but without my Luck it would have been of no help to me. And now tell me, tell me, tell me. Tell me everything, my gallant boy.”
Deeply embarrassed, his gallant boy told him everything. It was an incoherent story—made still more incoherent by the additions and corrections of the other three—but, miraculously as it seemed, Mr Selwyn understood it. And Mr Selwyn liked it. It appealed to his sense of the bizarre. His cackling laughter rang out as he listened.
“You see,” said William, “you wouldn’t let her keep that Village Hall stuff in your stables—”
“But I will, I will, I will,” broke in Mr Selwyn. “Of course I will.”
“An’ she was worried about this dry rot in the platform an’—”
“I’ll be responsible for that,” said Mr Selwyn, brandishing his Luck in an expansive gesture. “Let her not concern herself with that for another minute. That shall be my responsibility . . . And now let us proceed to the Police Station and then to your home.”
Mrs Brown, on going to the front door in answer to a prolonged and thunderous knock, was surprised to find William standing on the doorstep and behind him a small thin man in a rather startling waistcoat, holding a gold cup to his bosom.
“Many happy returns of the day, Mother,” said William ceremoniously.
“Yes, dear,” said Mrs Brown, her voice faint with astonishment. “You wished me that this morning.”
“An’ I said I’d give you your present this evenin’.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Well, here it is,” said William waving a hand at his companion and moving to one side.
“I’m the thoughtful act,” said Mr Selwyn as he stepped over the threshold.
Chapter 5 - William’s Television Show
William lay outstretched on the hearthrug in his bedroom, surrounded by a sea of nondescript pieces of paper, his hair ruffled, his brow furrowed, his face streaked with lead pencil.
Henry, Ginger and Douglas sat on the floor near him, each holding a piece of paper and studying it with a puzzled expression.
They had arranged to call for William and go into the woods for a game of Cowboys and Indians, but had found him engaged in literary composition.
“I’m writin’ a play,” he said, “an’ I can’t come out till I’ve finished it. I’ve nearly finished it.” He gazed at the sea of papers and added complacently. “I write ’em jolly quick. You can read what I’ve done if you like. It’s a jolly excitin’ one.”
They took up the papers and read them with growing bewilderment William’s writing was illegible at the best of times, and the idea of numbering the pages had never occurred to him.
“Doesn’t make sense to me,” muttered Ginger.
“Oh, shut up,” said William. “It’s you that don’t make sense.”
“I can’t read a single word on this page,” said Douglas.
“Well, that’s the bit of paper the marge was wrapped in. It’s jolly diff’cult writin’ on marge.”
“An’ I bet the meat was wrapped in this one,” said Ginger.
“Well, what’s a bit of blood?” said William. “It makes it more excitin’. It shows there’s a murder in it.”
“What’s a g-n-a-v-e?” said Henry.
“Gosh!” said William. “Have you never heard of a knave? You don’t know English, that’s what’s wrong with you. Gosh, you might be foreigners, the way you talk.”
“What’s this oculist doin’ in it?” said Ginger.
“What oculist?” snapped William.
“The one that lives in a cave by the sea an’ bites people’s legs off.”
William threw a glance at the page.
“It’s an octopus,” he said testily. “Can’t you read! Gosh! I don’t s’pose anyone’s ever wrote plays for people as ign’rant as what you are. Now stop talking an’ let me finish it.” His face resumed the ferocious scowl that denoted concentration and his tongue protruded as his stubby pencil scored its way heavily across the paper. “Allas my dume is ceiled I am knored by the pangs of hunger and serve me rite for being a villun of the deepest die steaped in krime I’ve a jolly good mind to reppent and see if the grashius king will spair my life.”
“There!” he ended. “That’s as far as I’m goin’ to write it.”
“Tell us about it,” said Henry, adding tactfully. “The papers have got in a bit of a muddle.”
“All right,” said William, sitting back and drawing his fingers through his hair, leaving it standing up in a jagged formation of spikes. “It’s a jolly excitin’ play. It starts with a man out of hist’ry that’s an outlaw an’ he kidnaps this other man—”
“What other man?” said Ginger.
“This old man with a beard,” said William impatiently. “Anyway he kidnaps this man an’ takes him to the wood an’ chains him to a tree an’ leaves him to starve to death an’ he’d got nothin’ to eat but the bark of the tree an’ he ate it till it nearly drove him mad an’ then he escaped—”
“How?” said Douglas.
“He unscrewed the screw that the chain was fastened to the tree with. He hadn’t thought of doin’ that before. It came to him quite sudden. Then he met this outlaw an’ this outlaw was goin’ for him, but he remembered that he’d got a wooden leg where this oculist—I mean octopus—had bit it off, so he unstrapped it an’ gave the outlaw a bash on the head with it an’ left him for dead but he wasn’t dead—he was only pretendin’ to be—an’ he got up an’ c’lected the other outlaws an’ they took a dreadful oath of vengeance—”
“It’s not goin’ to be easy to act,” said Henry doubtfully.
“I’ve got in a muddle already,” said Douglas.
“I wish you’d shut up an’ let me get on with it,” said William. They subsided again into silenc
e. “Well, this old man with a beard went home an’ c’lected all his friends an’ one of them was a chimney sweep, but he wasn’t a chimney sweep really, he was the king in disguise, an’ they had a jolly good fight with the outlaws an’ they were jus’ gettin’ conquered when this king threw off his disguise—”
“How could he?” said Henry. “You can’t throw off soot.”
“Well, he did, an’ shut up,” said William, “an’ then this man that’d got the secret plans—”
“What man?” said Ginger.
“The one that’s a spy from a foreign country that’d come over disguised as a bus conductor—”
“You never said anythin’ about him.”
“Well, you’ve read it, haven’t you?” said William testily. “Gosh! You’ve read it. Can’t you read or what’s the matter with you? I gave it you to read an’ now you say you don’t know anythin’ about it. You’ve not got any sense, that’s what’s wrong with you. Well, this man disguised as a bus conductor—”
“Couldn’t you have him disguised as a Dutch boy?” said Douglas. “I’ve got a Dutch Boy’s costume. I had it for Victor Jameson’s fancy dress party.”
“Well, axshully I’ve got a bus conductor’s set an’ a bus conductor’s more nat’ral than a Dutch boy an’ if you’re goin’ to keep on int’rruptin—”
“Well, never mind,” said Henry soothingly. “Go on telling us about it.”
“Well, axshully there’s two spies,” said William, “an’ the one disguised as a bus conductor murdered the other an’ hid him in a cellar but the p’lice found the blood on the cellar steps an’ caught him, but he escaped an’ hid up with this outlaw in the octopus’s cave an’ then the king came along and they had a fight an’ captured the outlaw an’ put him in a dungeon to starve to death till he repented so he starts repentin’.” He consulted the sheet of paper. “He says, “it serves me right for bein’ a villain of the deepest dye, steeped in crime.” He means he’s been a bad man.”
“Why can’t he say so, then?” said Ginger.
“’Cause he’s out of hist’ry,” said William with the air of one whose patience is almost exhausted. “I told you he was out of hist’ry, didn’t I? So he’s got to talk hist’ry language, hasn’t he? Stands to reason.”
William's Television Show Page 10
