Meet Mr Mulliner (10 page)

“Gobs of it.”

“Peace be on thy walls, Catsmeat, and
prosperity within thy palaces,” said the bishop. “Proverbs cxxi. 6.”

It seemed to the bishop, as he closed the front
door noiselessly behind him two hours later, that providence, always on the
side of the just, was extending itself in its efforts to make this little
enterprise of his a success. All the conditions were admirable for
statue-painting. The rain which had been falling during the evening had
stopped: and a moon, which might have proved an embarrassment, was conveniently
hidden behind a bank of clouds.

As regarded human interference, they had
nothing to alarm them. No place in the world is so deserted as the ground of a
school after midnight. Fatty’s statue might have been in the middle of the
Sahara. They climbed the pedestal, and, taking turns fairly with the brush,
soon accomplished the task which their sense of duty had indicated to them. It
was only when, treading warily lest their steps should be heard on the gravel
drive, they again reached the front door that anything occurred to mar the
harmony of the proceedings.

“What are you waiting for?” whispered the
bishop, as his companion lingered on the top step.

“Half a second,” said the headmaster in a
muffled voice. “It may be in another pocket.”

“What?”

“My key.”

“Have you lost your key?”

“I believe I have.”

“Catsmeat,” said the bishop, with grave
censure, “this is the last time I come out painting statues with you.”

“I must have dropped it somewhere.”

“What shall we do?”

“There’s just a chance the scullery window
may be open.”

But the scullery window was not open.
Careful, vigilant, and faithful to his trust, the butler, on retiring to rest,
had fastened it and closed the shutters. They were locked out.

But it has been well said that it is the
lessons which we learn in our boyhood days at school that prepare us for the
problems of life in the larger world outside. Stealing back from the mists of
the past, there came to the bishop a sudden memory.

“Catsmeat!”

“Hullo?” If you haven’t been mucking the
place up with alterations and improvements, there should be a water-pipe round
at the back, leading to one of the upstairs windows.”

Memory had not played him false. There,
nestling in the ivy, was the pipe up and down which he had been wont to climb
when, a pie-faced lad in the summer of ‘86, he had broken out of this house in
order to take nocturnal swims in the river.

“Up you go,” he said briefly.

The headmaster required no further urging.
And presently the two were making good time up the side of the house.

It was just as they reached the window and
just after the bishop had informed his old friend that, if he kicked him on the
head again, he’d hear of it, that the window was suddenly flung open.

“Who’s that?” said a clear young voice.

The headmaster was frankly taken aback.
Dim though the light was, he could see that the man leaning out of the window
was poising in readiness a very nasty-looking golf-club: and his first impulse
was to reveal his identity and so clear himself of the suspicion of being the
marauder for whom he gathered the other had mistaken him. Then there presented
themselves to him certain objections to revealing his identity, and he hung
there in silence, unable to think of a suitable next move.

The bishop was a man of readier resource.

“Tell him we’re a couple of cats belonging
to the cook,” he whispered.

It was painful for one of the headmaster’s
scrupulous rectitude and honesty to stoop to such a falsehood, but it seemed
the only course to pursue.

“It’s all right,” he said, forcing a note
of easy geniality into his voice. “We’re a couple of cats.”

“Cat-burglars?”

“No. Just ordinary cats.”

“Belonging to the cook,” prompted the
bishop from below.

“Belonging to the cook,” added the
headmaster.

“I see,” said the man at the window. “Well,
in that case, right ho!”

He stood aside to allow them to enter. The
bishop, an artist at heart, mewed gratefully as he passed, to add
verisimilitude to the deception: and then made for his bedroom, accompanied by
the headmaster. The episode was apparently closed.

Nevertheless, the headmaster was disturbed
by a certain uneasiness.

“Do you suppose he thought we really were
cats?” he asked anxiously.

“I am not sure,” said the bishop. “But I
think we deceived him by the nonchalance of our demeanour.”

“Yes, I think we did. Who was he?”

“My secretary. The young fellow I was
speaking of, who lent us that capital tonic.”

“Oh, then that’s all right. He wouldn’t
give you away.”

“No. And there is nothing else that can
possibly lead to our being suspected. We left no clue whatsoever.”

“All the same,” said the headmaster
thoughtfully, “I’m beginning to wonder whether it was in the best sense of the
word judicious to have painted that statue.”

“Somebody had to,” said the bishop
stoutly.

“Yes, that’s true,” said the headmaster,
brightening.

The bishop slept late on the following morning,
and partook of his frugal breakfast in bed. The day, which so often brings
remorse, brought none to him. Something attempted, something done had earned a
night’s repose: and he had no regrets— except that, now that it was all over,
he was not sure that blue paint would not have been more effective. However,
his old friend had pleaded so strongly for the pink that it would have been
difficult for himself, as a guest, to override the wishes of his host. Still,
blue would undoubtedly have been very striking.

There was a knock on the door, and
Augustine entered.

“Morning, Bish.”

“Good-morning, Mulliner,” said the bishop
affably. “I have lain somewhat late to-day.”

“I say, Bish,” asked Augustine, a little
anxiously. “Did you take a very big dose of the Buck-U-Uppo last night?”

“Big? No. As I recollect, quite small.
Barely two ordinary wine-glasses full.”

“Great Scott!”

“Why do you ask, my dear fellow?”

“Oh, nothing. No particular reason. I just
thought your manner seemed a little strange on the water-pipe, that’s all.”

The bishop was conscious of a touch of
chagrin.

“Then you saw through our—er—innocent
deception?”

“Yes.”

“I had been taking a little stroll with
the headmaster,” explained the bishop, “and he had mislaid his key. How
beautiful is Nature at night, Mulliner! The dark, fathomless skies, the little
winds that seem to whisper secrets in one’s ear, the scent of growing things.”

“Yes,” said Augustine. He paused. “Rather
a row on this morning. Somebody appears to have painted Lord Hemel of Hempstead’s
statue last night.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, well,” said the bishop tolerantly, “boys
will be boys.”

“It’s a most mysterious business.”

“No doubt, no doubt. But, after all, Mulliner,
is not all Life a mystery?”

“And what makes it still more mysterious
is that they found your shovel-hat on the statue’s head.”

The bishop started up.

“What!”

“Absolutely.”

“Mulliner,” said the bishop, “leave me. I
have one or two matters on which I wish to meditate.”

He dressed hastily, his numbed fingers
fumbling with his gaiters. It all came back to him now. Yes, he could remember
putting the hat on the statue’s head. It had seemed a good thing to do at the
time, and he had done it. How little we guess at the moment how far-reaching
our most trivial actions may be!

The headmaster was over at the school,
instructing the Sixth Form in Greek Composition: and he was obliged to wait,
chafing, until twelve-thirty, when the bell rang for the half-way halt in the
day’s work. He stood at the study window, watching with ill-controlled
impatience, and presently the headmaster appeared, walking heavily like one on
whose mind there is a weight.

“Well?” cried the bishop, as he entered
the study.

The headmaster doffed his cap and gown,
and sank limply into a chair.

“I cannot conceive,” he groaned, “what
madness had me in its grip last night.”

The bishop was shaken, but he could not
countenance such an attitude as this.

“I do not understand you, Headmaster,” he
said stiffly. “It was our simple duty, as a protest against the undue
exaltation of one whom we both know to have been a most unpleasant schoolmate,
to paint that statue.”

“And I suppose it was your duty to leave
your hat on its head?”

“Now there,” said the bishop, “I may
possibly have gone a little too far.” He coughed. “Has that perhaps somewhat
ill-considered action led to the harbouring of suspicions by those in authority?”

“They don’t know what to think.”

“What is the view of the Board of Governors?

“They insist on my finding the culprit.
Should I fail to do so, they hint at the gravest consequences.”

“You mean they will deprive you of your
headmastership?”

“That is what they imply. I shall be asked
to hand in my resignation. And, if that happens, bim goes my chance of ever
being a bishop.”

“Well, it’s not all jam being a bishop.
You wouldn’t enjoy it, Catsmeat.”

“All very well for you to talk, Boko. You
got me into this, you silly ass.”

“I like that! You were just as keen on it
as I was.”

“You suggested it.”

“Well, you jumped at the suggestion.”

The two men had faced each other heatedly,
and for a moment it seemed as if there was to be a serious falling-out. Then
the bishop recovered himself.

“Catsmeat,” he said, with that wonderful
smile of his, taking the other’s hand, “this is unworthy of us. We must not
quarrel. We must put our heads together and see if there is not some avenue of
escape from the unfortunate position in which, however creditable our motives,
we appear to have placed ourselves. How would it be?”

“I thought of that,” said the headmaster.
“It wouldn’t do a bit of good. Of course, we might—”

“No, that’s no use, either,” said the
bishop.

They sat for awhile in meditative silence.
And, as they sat, the door opened.

“General Bloodenough,” announced the
butler.

“Oh, that I had wings like a dove. Psalm
xlv. 6,” muttered the bishop.

His desire to be wafted from that spot
with all available speed could hardly be considered unreasonable. General Sir
Hector Bloodenough,
V.C.,
K.C.LE., M.V.O
., on retiring from the army, had been
for many years, until his final return to England, in charge of the Secret
Service in Western Africa, where his unerring acumen had won for him from the
natives the soubriquet of Wah-nah-B’gosh-B’jingo,—which, freely translated,
means Big Chief Who Can See Through The Hole In A Doughnut.

A man impossible to deceive. The last man
the bishop would have wished to be conducting the present investigations.

The general stalked into the room. He had
keen blue eyes, topped by bushy white eyebrows: and the bishop found his gaze
far too piercing to be agreeable.

“Bad business, this,” he said. “Bad
business. Bad business.”

“It is, indeed,” faltered the bishop. “Shocking
bad business. Shocking. Shocking. Do you know what we found on the head of that
statue, eh? that statue, that statue? Your hat, bishop. Your hat. Your hat.”

The bishop made an attempt to rally. His
mind was in a whirl, for the general’s habit of repeating everything three
times had the effect on him of making his last night’s escapade seem three
times as bad. He now saw himself on the verge of standing convicted of having
painted three statues with three pots of pink paint, and of having placed on
the head of each one of a trio of shovel-hats. But he was a strong man, and he
did his best.

“You say my hat?” he retorted with spirit.
“How do you know it was my hat? There may have been hundreds of bishops dodging
about the school grounds last night.”

“Got your name in it. Your name. Your
name.”

The bishop clutched at the arm of the
chair in which he sat. The general’s eyes were piercing him through and
through, and every moment he felt more like a sheep that has had the misfortune
to encounter a potted meat manufacturer. He was on the point of protesting that
the writing in the hat was probably a forgery, when there was a tap at the
door.

“Come in,” cried the headmaster, who had
been cowering in his seat.