It was the work of a few minutes to fold up the monk’s habit, bring it into the house and put it into the cardboard box after abstracting the pirate’s costume. Then William retired to the shed and tried on the pirate’s costume. It was perfect. With breeches and cuffs rolled up, it fitted him perfectly. He tied the handkerchief tightly about his head and hung the knives around him. There were even golden earrings. It was the costume of his dreams. He could hardly bear to take it off when the lunch bell rang.
He felt slightly anxious at lunch, till his mother said:
‘Did you find the costume on your bed, Robert?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ said Robert.
‘Have you tried it on?’
‘Yes . . . it fits quite well. Going to be rather hot to dance in but quite decent.’
William heaved a sigh of relief.
Mr. Sebastian Buttermere did not stay the night in town after all. He had a sudden inspiration for a short story just as he was finishing tea, and returned by the very next train. He’d never had quite such an unmistakable inspiration for a short story before, and he put it all down to the monk’s habit. He had a pleasant vision of it hanging behind his study door waiting for him. He really was beginning to feel that he couldn’t write a word without it. His heart swelled with pride. So Balzac must have felt. So Balzac must have hurried home to put on his monk’s habit and write a story . . .
He reached the cottage, explained shortly to Mrs. Tibblets that he had decided not to stay in town for the night after all, and went into his study. And there the first shock awaited him. His monk’s habit was not hanging behind the door. And the minute he saw that his monk’s habit was not hanging behind the door he knew beyond a shadow of doubt that he couldn’t write a word without it. He rang the bell furiously for Mrs. Tibblets and pointed at the empty door, speechless with emotion.
‘Where is it?’ he demanded at last.
She gazed helplessly from him to the bare panels of the door.
‘It was there this morning,’ she said at last.
‘Someone’s stolen it,’ he said, stamping up and down the room and running his fingers through his hair. ‘An enemy. Someone who knows how much I depend on it. Someone who’s jealous of my reputation. Who’s been here to-day?’
‘No one,’ said Mrs. Tibblets, then her mouth dropped open. ‘That boy . . . he had something rolled up under his arm now I come to think, drat him!’
‘What? Who?’ shouted Mr. Sebastian Buttermere furiously, feeling the inspiration for the short story already ebbing from his brain.
‘The boy,’ said Mrs. Tibblets, ‘the boy who took the nuts and broke the tulips. He was in the garden, and he went away with something rolled up under his arm. I threw a boot-tree at him. I wish I’d wrung his neck.’
‘Where did he go?’ shouted Mr. Sebastian Buttermere, roused as only a mild man can be roused. ‘I’ll—I’ll—I’ll teach him a lesson he won’t forget. I—I—I—’
‘He went down there,’ said Mrs. Tibblets. ‘They’re having a fancy dress dance to-night. That’ll be what he took it for. Wait till the next time I lay my hands on him, that’s all.’
But Mr. Sebastian Buttermere was already hastening down the lane, the idyllic little love story that had brought him back in such a hurry from London transformed to one of lurid vengeance.
Robert, wearing the monk’s habit, was sitting out in the garden with a girl who had hazel eyes and dark hair, and whom he had just discovered to be the most beautiful girl in the world. He simply couldn’t think how he had ever considered anyone else the most beautiful girl in the world. He now saw all the other girls whom he had previously considered the most beautiful girls in the world as creatures devoid of every possible grace and charm. He felt that his whole life had been wasted till he met her. He wished, however, that the costume Gordon had lent him had been a little more romantic. She was looking at it with dispassionate interest.
‘What’s it meant to be?’ she said. ‘It looks more like a dressing-gown than anything, doesn’t it?’
‘It’s a monk’ thing,’ he said.
‘What sights they must have looked,’ she said. ‘Where did you get it?’
Robert began to feel rather cold towards his costume.
‘Gordon Franklin lent it to me,’ he said. ‘He’s got several, you know. I’d hoped he’d send me the pirate’s one, but I suppose he’s lent that to someone else or is wearing it himself.’
‘Is he here?’ said the girl.
‘Not yet,’ said Robert. ‘He’s coming on later. He ought to be here any time now,’ then, feeling that it was time the conversation were given a more personal turn, added: ‘It seems extraordinary to me to think that I’ve only known you for a few days. I feel as if I’d known you since the beginning of the world.’
‘Goodness,’ said the beloved, ‘I hope I don’t look quite as old as that.’
‘No, I mean that’s the sort of feeling you give me,’ said Robert earnestly. ‘I’ve felt since I met you as if I wanted to live quite a different sort of life, a higher sort of life. I—’ It was at this point that Mr. Sebastian Buttermere appeared, thirsting for vengeance and his monk’s costume. He had run the fancy dress dance to earth, and was making a preliminary search among the sitting-out couples in the garden before he entered the house and demanded the return of his property.
He stood before Robert, quivering with fury. This was his costume, and this must be the ‘boy’ who had taken it, the boy who had moreover stolen his nuts and broken down his tulips. He’d somehow expected a younger boy than this, but this was certainly the costume, so this must be the boy. Mr. Sebastian Buttermere, however, had been carefully brought up. He had been taught never to make a scene before a lady. He controlled himself therefore sufficiently to say to Robert, in a choking tone:
‘I want a word with you in private, sir.’
Robert stared, open-mouthed with amazement, at this disturber of his Eden. His first impulse was to refuse haughtily, but he realised from the purple face and furious expression of Mr. Sebastian Buttermere that a scene might be the result, and, though in all imaginary scenes Robert could conduct himself with haughty ease, he was less sure of himself in real life, and did not want to risk being humiliated by this angry little man before the beloved. He therefore rose with extreme hauteur and dignity, and with an ‘excuse me’ to the beloved, disappeared with Mr. Sebastian Buttermere into the shadow of the trees at the end of the garden. There Mr. Sebastian Buttermere faced him and, quivering with anger, stuttered, ‘And now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?’
The note of righteous indignation in his voice was very convincing. Robert’s conscience went uneasily over the events of the last two days. He’d been out on his motor cycle the day before.
‘If it was your chicken,’ he said, with dignity, ‘it was right in the middle of the road, and I couldn’t possibly have avoided it.’
Mr. Sebastian Buttermere choked with rage.
‘None of your impudence, sir!’ he fumed. He looked at Robert, and the agonising thought of his beloved nuts came to him.
‘And the nuts,’ he shouted, ‘what have you to say about those nuts?’
Robert’s conscience was still centred upon his motor cycle.
‘It’s not a question of nuts,’ he said, ‘the nuts are all in perfect order. I know that the silencer’s slightly defective, but—’
‘I WANT A WORD WITH YOU IN PRIVATE, SIR,’ SAID MR. SEBASTIAN BUTTERMERE IN A CHOKING TONE.
‘And tulips,’ screamed the little man furiously, hardly listening to what Robert was saying. ‘What have you to say about tulips?’
‘That,’ said Robert, still more loftily, ‘is entirely between the young lady and myself. If I did kiss her it was only with the utmost respect.’
ROBERT STARED, OPEN-MOUTHED WITH AMAZEMENT. HIS FIRST IMPULSE WAS TO REFUSE HAUGHTILY, BUT HE REALISED THAT A SCENE MIGHT BE THE RESULT.
The purple on Mr. Sebastian Buttermere’s countenance deepened
almost to black. Expecting the thief to be a younger boy, he had meant to execute justice on the spot. He wasn’t sure whether he’d get the better of this youth in a fight, and thought it perhaps advisable not to risk it. He looked about him. At the bottom of the garden where they stood was an old shed.
‘Come into the shed,’ ordered Mr. Sebastian Buttermere.
His eyes were still gleaming with fury. At once the explanation of the whole incident occurred to Robert. The man who had accosted him so strangely, and who talked so wildly, was a madman. It was the only possible explanation of the incident. He looked about him. They were alone. No one was within call. He must go very carefully. You never argued with or defied a madman, you humoured him. You humoured him and used cunning.
‘Er—yes, certainly,’ said Robert with a mirthless smile, stepping back into the shed. ‘Er—certainly, with pleasure.’
‘And now take off that costume,’ ordered the little man, still choking with rage.
Robert, still wearing the mirthless smile that was meant to humour the madman, slipped off the costume.
The little man snatched it from him, and his rage seemed suddenly to burst its bounds.
‘And I’ll teach you a lesson, young sir,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget. You can stay here till someone lets you out, and I hope you stay all night.’
Robert sprang forward, but too late. The little man had slammed the door of the shed and turned the key in the rusty lock.
‘Let me out,’ shouted Robert.
There was no answer. The little man had evidently departed with his costume. Listening, Robert heard his indignant mutterings die away in the distance. In fury Robert flung himself upon the door.
‘Let me out!’ he yelled. ‘Let me out.’
Then he stopped for a minute and listened again. Footsteps were approaching the shed. He redoubled his efforts, hurling himself at the door and shouting, ‘Let me out.’
A voice answered suddenly from outside.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’
It was the voice of the beloved.
Breathlessly Robert explained the situation.
‘That madman’s locked me in here and—’
‘What madman?’ she interrupted.
‘That man who came to us.’
‘Well, he was quite small. You couldn’t have put up much of a fight. I’d be ashamed to say that a little man like that had locked me in a shed if I was your size.’
‘I tell you he’s a madman. They have the strength of ten men. I hadn’t a chance. He overpowered me. The key’s not in the lock, is it?’
‘No.’
‘Well, how am I going to get out? I can’t stay here all night.’
‘I must say it’s all very odd,’ said the beloved coldly. ‘I’m not used to people I’m supposed to be dancing with suddenly going off and getting locked in sheds like this.’
‘I wish you’d do something,’ said the goaded Robert, ‘instead of standing there talking.’
‘What do you expect me to do?’ said the beloved still more coldly. ‘I can’t break the door down, can I?’
‘No, but you can fetch someone.’
‘All right. I’ll fetch Jameson Jameson. He’s sitting out in the tool shed with Peggy Barlow. She’s jolly lucky to have a partner who doesn’t play the fool like this.’
It was at this moment that a horrible truth struck Robert with the force, as novelists say, of a blow between the eyes. Though he was completely clothed from head to foot, it was not a costume in which a gentleman usually appears before his lady acquaintances. He was, in short, attired in his pants and vest, and though the suspenders that secured his evening socks were of chaste and elegant design, still they did not compensate for the general unconventionality of his appearance. He had horrible visions of the beloved returning with Jameson Jameson, of their breaking open the door, and exposing him to view. She’d never speak to him again. Never. No decent girl would.
‘I say,’ he yelled wildly through the door.
The beloved had evidently just set out upon her quest for Jameson Jameson, but she returned and said impatiently:
‘What is it?’
‘Don’t fetch Jameson Jameson,’ he panted through the closed door.
‘Why ever not?’
‘Well, I-I-I don’t want him. I don’t want to come out at all. I want to stay here.’
‘You—what?’
‘I want to stay in here. I don’t want to come out.’
‘You just asked me to fetch someone to get you out.’
‘I know. I—I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to come out.’
‘Why not?’
‘I—I like being in here,’ said Robert desperately.
‘Have you gone mad?’
Robert wondered whether to have gone mad, decided that it might complicate matters still further, and said:
‘No. It’s only that I—I want to stay here, that’s all. Surely,’ with a burst of inspiration, ‘you’ve heard of people who like to be alone sometimes.’
‘If you’re tired of me you might say so straight out instead of going off and pretending to be locked in a shed like this.’
‘I’m not tired of you. I think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met in all my life.’
‘Well, I think you’ve gone mad. First you pretend that someone’s locked you in and you want to get out, and next you pretend that you’ve locked yourself in because you want to be alone. I’ve read about people that want to be alone in books, and they always seemed mad to me. I’ve never met any in real life. Look here, if he really did lock you in, I think I could get up to that little window on the roof and—’
‘No!’ screamed Robert, cowering behind a sack of artificial manure, which was the only barricade he could see.
It was clear that the beloved was deeply offended.
‘All right,’ she said icily, ‘and catch me ever speaking to you again.’
‘You don’t understand,’ said Robert from behind his sack of artificial manure. ‘You don’t understand. There are circumstances you know nothing about. I—’ He had a wild idea of making her believe that he was involved in some international plot. But before he could think of any convincing details, she proceeded:
‘Well, if this is the way you think a gentleman behaves, I’m sorry for you.’
It was evidently her Parthian shot. He could hear her departing through the bushes. He came from behind the sack of artificial manure, and looked about him. There was nothing that he could have made a garment from except the sack that contained the artificial manure, and even that would have been pitifully inadequate. It was horrible, horrible. Like the worst sort of nightmare. And the beloved would never speak to him again. The most beautiful girl he’d ever met in all his life. He went to the door and listened carefully. Footsteps were coming through the bushes—firmer footsteps than the beloved’s.
‘I say,’ hissed Robert cautiously through the door.
The footsteps stopped, and a surprised voice said, ‘Hello!’ Robert recognised the voice. It was Gordon Franklin, who was coming on late to the dance and was taking the short cut from the side gate.
‘It’s me,’ said Robert, in a voice that quavered with relief. ‘I say, I’m in a most awful hole. You know that costume you sent me?’
‘Yes,’ said the voice anxiously.
‘Well, a madman with the strength of ten men came and attacked me, and went off with it and locked me in here. I can’t get out and I’m naked. Practically naked that is. I’ve only got on my underclothes.’
But it was evident that Gordon Franklin had little sympathy to spare for Robert.
‘Who took it?’ he said. ‘What beastly cheek!’
‘I don’t know. At least, all I know is that it was a madman with the strength of ten men. He attacked me and overpowered me, and left me in here and went off with the costume. It’s lucky I’m not dead. I—’
‘Which way did he go?’
/>
‘I don’t know. I tell you, he overpowered me and locked me in here with only my pants and vest. It’s lucky I’m not dead. If I hadn’t made a fight for it, I probably should be. I—’
But Gordon still had thought for nothing but his costume.
‘I’ll go and find the blighter and push his face in for him. I never heard of such beastly cheek! It was almost new, too. I must say that, considering it was lent to you, you might have taken better care of it than that!’
He had turned on his heel and was walking off.
‘But I say!’ called Robert desperately, ‘you might go to my bedroom first and get me some clothes and let me out. You might—’
But a distant and indignant ‘almost new . . . beastly cheek’ was the only answer, and it was plain that Gordon had departed into the night in search of his costume.
Again Robert looked about him helplessly. The situation was almost worse than before. It would be a long time, thought Robert bitterly, before he borrowed a costume from Gordon Franklin again. All that fuss for a thing that was little more than a dressing-gown—and a rotten dressing-gown at that. He glanced down at his legs, and a cold sweat of horror broke out all over him. He’d given a lot for those suspenders and been rather proud of them, but he’d never be able to take any pride in them again. They’d always be associated in his mind with his horrible night. He’d burn them if ever he got out of this. A sudden nightmare thought occurred to him. Suppose that the beloved relented and returned bringing help. It would be just like her. She was always going off in a huff about something and then relenting. And of course her curiosity would probably give her no peace till she’d solved the mystery of his sudden retirement from the world. She might come back any minute. She’d bring someone with her to break open the door. She might even bring that fop and idiot Jameson Jameson. Robert had a vision of the two of them standing there in the doorway staring at him. He looked about him again desperately. She’d said something about the little window in the roof. Yes, perhaps one might. He swung himself up with a superhuman effort and wrestled with it. It gave. It pushed open. He fell to the ground with the effort of pushing it open but swung himself up again. Freedom! He was out in the night sitting astride the shed. For a moment all his troubles seemed to be at an end. Then he realised that they weren’t. He still had to get to the house and up to his bedroom. He slid down from the shed and cautiously approached the house. Both side door and front door were open, and couples were sitting in the porches of each in a blaze of light that came from the hall. He decided to hide among the bushes at a point where he could see the side door where Dolly Clavis sat with Ronald Bell and, the minute the coast was clear, dash into the hall where his mackintosh hung, and then dash up the stairs in it to his bedroom.
William the Bad Page 19
