William The Conqueror (18 page)

William turned and crept cautiously through the hole and back into the treat ground. He felt that he must warn Ethel at once of this dastardly plot against her life. He hurried up to her, still
agog with horrified excitement, where she stood talking to the curate. She was looking rather peevish. The curate always bored her after half an hour, and she was beginning to wish she hadn’t
come.

‘I say,’ gasped William, as he joined them.

‘Do go and wash your face or do
something
to yourself,’ said Ethel with disgust.

William ignored her and spoke to the curate.

‘I’ve just heard two men plottin’ to push Ethel into the river.’

‘
What
?’ said the curate. Two hours in Ethel’s company had gone to the curate’s head. In his own mind he had been rescuing her from far more dramatic dangers than
this. This seemed quite credible, almost contemptible.

‘Push her into the river, did you say?’ he repeated.

‘Yes,’ said William, his imagination getting the better of him; ‘they were planning to wait till she came out of the field an’ then spring out an’ push her into the
river an’ drown her.’

‘What
cheek
!’ said Ethel indignantly.

The curate put a hand on her arm.

‘Leave this all to me,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Keep quite calm.’

Ethel shook off his hand.

‘I
am
keeping calm,’ she said irritably; ‘keep calm yourself.’

‘I’m quite calm,’ he said reproachfully. ‘I’m only thinking what is the best measure to adopt. My instinct is, of course, to attack them in person, but the law
being what it is I think that it would perhaps be better policy to approach the policeman. Where did you say these men are, William?’

‘On the seat by the river,’ said William, ‘an they were plottin’ to get Ethel by herself an’ tie her arms up so’s she couldn’t swim an’ then throw
her into the river.’

‘But – why?’ said the curate.

‘’Cause they don’t like ’er, I s’pose,’ said William. ‘Well, I can understand
that
, but I don’t see it’s any reason for
throwin’ her into the river.’

‘You oughtn’t to say that,’ said the curate reproach fully. ‘You—’

But Ethel interrupted, stamping her foot.

‘Isn’t anyone going to
do
anything?’ she said.

‘Yes, I am,’ said the curate with dignity. ‘I’m going to consult the police.’

The policeman was standing just inside the entrance gate leaning against the fence and engaged in the occupation of looking bored. He was new to the job and inclined to be rather punctilious. He
took out a new clean notebook and a new clean pencil and interviewed William in an official manner and with an official frown. William, who was beginning to feel that his story sounded a bit thin
and needed embellishing, duly embellished it.

‘They were talking about Ethel, my sister, an’ they said they were goin’ to kill her, an’ one of them wanted to shoot her, but the other said no, it would make too much
noise, an’ the best thing would be to get her an’ gag her an’ tie her up an’ throw her in the river, an’ I came back to tell someone ’cause I know she’s
maddenin’ sometimes, but I think killin’ her’s a bit thick, an’—’

‘Be
quiet
,’ said Ethel, stamping her foot again.

The policeman put his hand on William’s neck and ordered him to lead him to the spot where he had overheard the men. The policeman was secretly worried because he couldn’t think of
the exact name of the offence. ‘Murder’ seemed rather a premature name for it. ‘Attempted murder’ wasn’t much better, and he couldn’t think of anything else.

Behind him walked Ethel and the curate, and behind them the participants in the Sunday-school treat. Seeing the policeman leading William off the field by the neck they imagined that a long
overdue Nemesis had overtaken that young scoundrel at last, and followed gleefully.

‘There they are!’ said William, pointing to the two men, who were still on the seat.

The policeman marched forward with massive dignity and laid a hand on their shoulders.

‘I arrest you,’ he said dramatically, ‘on a charge of—’ the word suddenly occurred to him, and he brought it out impressively: ‘Conspiracy.’ In order
that the word might not elude him again he took out his nice new notebook and wrote the word ‘Conspiracy’ on the first page.

‘B – but—’ gasped the young man.

‘Anything you say,’ said the policeman majestically, ‘may be used as evidence against you.’

‘I protest,’ said the young man.

But the curate, brought face to face with the would-be murderer, could not restrain himself.

‘You scoundrel!’ he said. ‘I learn that you have just been planning to throw this – this young lady,’ pointing to Ethel, ‘into the river.’

‘YOU SCOUNDREL!’ SAID THE CURATE. ‘I LEARN THAT YOU HAVE BEEN PLANNING TO THROW THIS YOUNG LADY INTO THE RIVER.’

‘Certainly not,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen this young lady before.’

‘CERTAINLY NOT,’ SAID THE YOUNG MAN. ‘I’VE NEVER SEEN THIS YOUNG LADY BEFORE.’

‘Are you quite sure of that?’ he said.

A smile – boyish and disarming – came into the nice young man’s face.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I should hardly be likely to forget, should I?’

Ethel blushed and lowered thick curling lashes over her blue, blue eyes.

‘Yes,’ broke in William indignantly, ‘but I was sittin’ here an’ I heard you talkin’ about Ethel and you was sayin’—’

The middle-aged man broke in.

‘I think I see a light,’ he said. ‘My friend here is a writer of serial stories and we have taken a cottage near for a short holiday. We were discussing one of his plots in
which there seemed to be an over-abundance of characters, and in which another mysterious disappearance more or less would make no difference. We were deciding that Ethel might go. Perhaps this
young lady’s name is Ethel?’

‘Yes,’ said Ethel, with another glorious blush.

The policeman made a sound expressive of annoyance, took out an indiarubber and erased the word ‘Conspiracy’ from his nice new book, turned on his heel scornfully, and went moodily
back to his post. Silly mess-up! He’d never had any real luck since he joined the force just over a month ago – not even a burglary!

The participants in the Sunday-school treat, seeing that nothing was happening, trailed back to the ground, and someone sent an urgent message to the curate to come and give away the competition
prizes, as the Vicar had a headache and had gone home. The curate gave a sardonic laugh as a tribute to the Vicar’s headache, and a dark, threatening scowl at the man whom he still looked
upon as Ethel’s murderer. He half contemplated throwing him into the river, even now; then decided that it would be an anti-climax, and followed the policeman gloomily back to the ground.

‘What’s happening up there?’ said the curly haired young man, his eyes still fixed ardently upon Ethel.

‘A Sunday-school treat,’ said Ethel.

‘What are you doing at it?’

‘I’m just helping,’ said Ethel.

‘Could I come and help, too?’ said the young man.

Ethel gave him her shattering smile.

‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t,’ she said.

The middle-aged man sighed, and set off by himself down the road.

The young man went back with Ethel to the scene of the treat.

William stood and watched them. ‘Huh!’ he said scornfully, when they had finally disappeared from his view.

Then he went down the road towards his own house. On the road he met Ginger, Douglas and Henry, looking clean and depressed.

‘Hello!’ they greeted him. ‘
You
been sent home to wash, too?’

William ignored the question.

‘I’ve jus’ been saving Ethel’s life,’ he said, ‘and how much d’you think she’s give me for it?’

‘Dunno!’ said the Outlaws.

‘
Nothin
’,’ said William bitterly. ‘Let’s go and play Red Indians.’

CHAPTER 9

W
ILLIAM tramped loudly down the stairs singing lustily: ‘I want – to
bee –
happy, but I – can’t
bee
–
happy—’

‘Neither can anyone else while you’re making that foul row,’ said Robert, his elder brother, coming out of the morning-room and slamming the door behind him.

‘D’you think,’ said William sternly, ‘that no one c’sing in the house but you? D’you think—’

‘Shut up,’ interrupted Robert, furiously, going into the dining-room and slamming the door behind him.

William went into the garden, continuing his interrupted song:

‘’Till I’ve made you – happy too-hoo.’

His ‘too-hoo’ ranged from E flat to F sharp.

The dining-room window was thrown open and a book whizzed past William’s ear, narrowly missing him.

Robert’s infuriated voice followed the book.

‘Will you shut up?’ he said. ‘You’re driving me mad.’

‘I’m not driving you mad, Robert,’ said William, meekly. ‘That’s nothin’ to do with me, Robert.’

Robert leaped over the window-sill and started in pursuit.

William was prepared for this, and fled down the drive, Robert returned to the dining-room. At the gate William hesitated, then raised his untuneful voice in a challenging: ‘I want –
to
bee –
happy—’ He looked expectantly towards the house, but Robert had slammed both window and door and had taken up his novel. William, slightly disappointed, continued
his raucous progress down the street.

Here he met the other Outlaws. They joined him and his song. Their ideas of key and actual notes varied. No one, even though he were familiar with the immortal ditty, would have recognised it as
rendered by the Outlaws. It had become merely an inferno of untuneful sound.

They made their way to the old barn where they always held their meetings. Their exuberance died away somewhat when they entered the barn and found Violet Elizabeth awaiting them. Violet
Elizabeth was the daughter of Mr Bott (of Bott’s Digestive Sauce), who lived at the Hall.

Violet Elizabeth was six years old. She possessed bobbing curls, blue eyes, a lisp, and an imperious temper, and she had, without invitation, or even encouragement, attached herself to the
Outlaws. The Outlaws had tried to shake her off by every means in their power, but she possessed weapons (chiefly weapons of tears, and pertinacity) against which they were defenceless. Violet
Elizabeth, following them wherever they went, weeping tears of rage and screaming screams of rage whenever they attempted to send her away, had broken their nerve. They now accepted her presence as
an inevitable evil. They let her into all their plans and counsels simply because they had tried every means (except physical violence) to keep her out and all had failed. She accepted their lack
of cordiality as part of their charm, and was inordinately proud of her position. She greeted them cheerfully now from her seat on the floor.

‘Hello!’

They ignored her and gathered round in a circle which Violet Elizabeth promptly joined. She was no whit abashed.

‘Your fathe ith dirty,’ she said scornfully to Ginger; and to William: ‘D’you call that noith you wath making down the road
thinging
?’

William felt that the dignity of his position as leader of the Outlaws must be upheld. He looked at her sternly.

‘If you don’t shut up speakin’ without bein’ spoke to,’ he said, ‘we’ll – we’ll chuck you out.’

‘If you do,’ said Violet Elizabeth serenely, ‘I’ll thcream an’ thcream an’ thcream till I’m thick,’ and added with pride, ‘I can!’

‘Well,’ said William, hastily turning to the others, ‘what we goin’ to do?’

A thin drizzle was falling, and the countryside was unusually uninviting.

‘Let’s go on readin’ the book,’ said Douglas.

It was found that in anticipation of this demand Ginger had brought the book and William had brought a bottle of liquorice water. The act of reading was in the Outlaws’ eyes inseparable
from the act of imbibing liquid refreshment. They read aloud in turns, and those who were listening passed from hand to hand the bottle of liquorice water. It was an indispensable rite.