The Wonderful Garden or The Three Cs. Nesbit Edith
is all very well, and so is the idea of running away from school, but that any master should really be so piglike as to make running away necessary – this came too near to the really terrible for them to feel quite easy about it.
‘He must be like the Spanish Inquisition,’ said Charlotte indignantly. ‘Why isn’t he put in prison now there are proper laws?’
But Charles and Caroline still felt that it was less likely that the Murdstone man should be so hateful than that Rupert should be drawing long-bows to excuse his running away. If he had been timid and miserable they would have believed him more. As it was, he was easy when he wasn’t defiant.
You know that feeling – when you are not quite sure of some one you want to be kind to – when you can’t be quite certain that if you believe what they say you won’t be being unjust to somebody else. It is a hateful feeling. There is nothing more miserable than not being able to trust some one you want to trust. You know, perhaps, what that sensation is? Rupert, at any rate, must have known it, and must have known that the others were feeling it, for he suddenly pulled his hand out from his pocket.
‘Look here, then,’ he said. ‘But – no, I don’t blame you. I know it’s not the sort of thing you’d expect to be true. Yes. He did it. The first night. About the bread and milk. Came and did it after I was in bed. With a ruler.’
‘It’ was a blue bruise and a slight red graze across the back of the hand that, till now, had been hidden.
‘I believed you – without that,’ said Charlotte, with hot cheeks. ‘I know there are people like that. Like Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’
‘We do believe you,’ said Caroline earnestly. ‘Who said we didn’t?’
And Charles said, ‘Of course we do – what nonsense! We’ll bring you a paper and pencil and an envelope, and you can write to your father. And we will conceal you.’
‘Right O!’ said Rupert. ‘Hush!’
They hushed, and, Rupert pointing through the blue gap between the oak and the honeysuckle, their eyes followed the pointing of his finger. A figure was coming up the drive – a figure in blue.
‘Go and see what it is,’ whispered Rupert, ‘but don’t let on.’
‘I’ll go,’ said Charlotte, jumping up.
‘But what’ll you say if they ask you what you’ve come in for?’ Charles asked.
‘I shall say I’ve come in to fetch you a pocket-handkerchief,’ said Charlotte witheringly, ‘because you wanted one so badly. You always do.’
She went.
‘Look here,’ said Caroline, once more thrilling to the part of the protecting Saracen maiden. ‘Suppose they’re after you? Let’s cover you up with leaves and bracken, so that your tweediness won’t show through the trees if they look – and bracken over your head. Creep through the bracken; don’t crush it more than you can help.’
Rupert was entirely hidden when Charlotte returned, very much out of breath, from an unexpected part of the wood.
‘I came round,’ she whispered, ‘to put them off the scent.’
‘Who?’ asked Rupert, under the leaves.
‘The Police,’ said Charlotte, with calm frankness and a full sense of the tremendous news she was bringing. ‘They’re inquiring after you. They’ve traced you to Hadlow.’
‘What did they say at the house?’
‘They said they hadn’t seen you, but the Police might search the grounds.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I wasn’t asked,’ said Charlotte demurely. ‘But I’ll tell you what I did say. You lie mouse-still, Rupert; it’s all right. I’m glad you’re buried, though.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said,’ Charlotte answered, glowing with the pride of a successful strategist – ‘I said we’d help them to search! Come on, the three C.’s. Round the back way! We’ll help them to search for their runaway boy – so we will! And when they’ve gone we’ll bring you something to eat – something really nice – not just biscuits. Don’t you worry. The three C.’s are yours to the death.’
CHAPTER VII
BEING DETECTIVES
If you are Jack Delamere, the Boy Detective who can find out all secrets by himself, pretending to be a French count, a young lady from the provinces, or a Lincolnshire labourer with a cold in his head, and in those disguises pass unrecognised by his nearest relations and by those coiners and smugglers to whom in his ordinary clothes he is only too familiar, – if you can so alter your voice that your old school-fellows believe you to be, when dressed for the part, an Italian organ-grinder or a performing bear —
I am sorry, this sentence is too much for me. I give it up. What I was going to say was that persons accustomed to the detective trade, or, on the other hand, persons who are used to keeping out of the way of detectives, no doubt find it easy to play a part and to look innocent when they are guilty, and ignorant when of course all is known to them. But when you are not accustomed to playing a part in a really serious adventure – not just a pretending one – you will find your work cut out for you. This was what Charles and Caroline felt.
It was all very well for Charlotte to have arranged that they should help the Police to look for Rupert, and the other two said cordially that it was very clever of her to have thought of it, and they all started together for the side door where the policeman was still talking to Mrs. Wilmington. But their feet seemed somehow not to want to go that way; they went more and more slowly, and when they were half-way to the house, Caroline said:
‘I don’t think I will. I don’t know how. I should do something silly and give the show away. I shall say I’m too tired.’
‘You are too bad,’ said Charlotte, exasperated. ‘I go and lay all the plans and then you funk.’
‘I don’t,’ said Caroline. And so anxious was she not to have to play the part of pretending to look for Rupert when all the time she knew where he was, that she added humbly, ‘Don’t be snarky. I’m only saying I’m not clever enough. I’m not so clever as you, that’s all.’
I am sorry to say that Charlotte only answered ‘Rats!’ and added, ‘I suppose Charles is going to cry off next?’ She did not think he was: she just said it. And Charles most unexpectedly answered:
‘I think I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.’
Charlotte stamped her foot. ‘Oh, all right!’ she said; ‘but for goodness’ sake come on. They’ll think there’s something up.’ And they walked on.
‘Look here,’ said Caroline suddenly, ‘I will pretend to help. It was only that I was so awfully afraid they’d find him. Only if I disappear, you’ll understand it’s just because I felt sillier than I could bear. You help too, Charles. I’m sure you can – only don’t pretend too much. I shouldn’t talk much except asking questions, if I were you.’
‘Right O!’ said Charlotte.
And Charles said, ‘Oh, well, only if I give it away without meaning to, don’t blame me.’
And by this time they were quite near the house, by whose side door of many-coloured glass the group of talking grown-ups awaited them. Mrs. Wilmington was there with her handkerchief over her head. And William and the gardener’s boy and the gardener, and a tall stout young man with fat red hands who was the Police.
‘I can’t and won’t,’ Mrs. Wilmington was saying. ‘The Master’s orders is – are – that he’s not to be disturbed in the mornings on any pretence – not if the house was on fire. I couldn’t face him with this vulgar tale of runaway boys. I give you leave to search for him,’ she said in proud refined accents. ‘I’m quate competent to take that upon me; quate.’
The