They did not rush forward to assist Mrs. Platter. They walked rather gingerly, as if they feared the tangled serpent might revive and come alive again. It was Whitlace who ran a steady hand down the main rope, making sure that it was still; and then, quietly and matter-of-factly, he tidied up the "tail." "You got to know about bells," he told them, in a voice that sounded rather irritated. "These were all set up for the ringers on Easter Day."
But none of them listened. They were busy hoisting Mrs. Platter up onto a kitchen chair. She was still sniffing and gasping. Miss Menzies produced a handkerchief and then, very gently, raised what seemed to be the injured foot onto a similar chair.
"It's broken," sobbed Mrs. Platter, "I may be lame for life..."
"No, my dear," Miss Menzies assured her (she had felt the ankle carefully: it was not for nothing Miss Menzies had been a girl scout). "I think it's only a sprain. Just sit there quietly, and Mrs. Whitlace will get you a drink of water."
"Of course I will," said Kitty Whitlace in her cheerful way, and she made off down the aisle towards the vestry.
"I'm bumps and bruises all over," complained Mrs. Platter. "And my head! Cracked it on the ceiling ... feel as though it's coming in half..."
"Good thing you were wearing that thick felt hat," said Whitlace. "Might have broken your neck." There was little sympathy in his voice, and he still looked offended: his bells, his precious bells ... set up so carefully! And what on earth did these people think they were doing, trying to ring them in the late hours of the night? And how had the Platters got into the church in the first place? And why?
Perhaps, by now, they were all thinking the same thoughts (Mr. Pomfret certainly was), but they were too polite to voice them. Well, no doubt, all would be explained later...
A sudden sound from the other end of the church caused Mr. Pomfret to turn his head. It had been more an exclamation than a scream, and it seemed to come from the vestry. Mrs. Whitlace? Yes, it must be she! As the whole group turned and stared up the aisle, Kitty Whitlace appeared between the curtains, holding them apart. "Mr. Pomfret," she called, in a voice that it seemed she was trying to control, "could you please step up here a minute?"
Light-footed Mr. Pomfret was up the aisle in an instant: he had sensed the urgency in her tone. The others, though equally curious, followed more slowly. What were they going tx) witness now?
Mr. Platter, bringing up the rear, was talking excitedly. But they did not quite hear all he said: it was too much of a gabble. Something about hearing intruders in the church ... sense of duty ... valuable stuff here ... bit of a risk ... but he and his missus had never lacked for courage ... door locked ... they had had to break in ... intruders gone. But—
At this point he seemed to run out of steam: they were in the vestry now. And all Mr. Platter had been saying somehow did not quite do: not with the cupboard doors standing wide; the rare and lovely pieces laid out haphazardly on the table; and, on the floor, open for all to see, Mr. Platter's familiar tool bag. They all knew it well: there was hardly a house in the village where, sometime or another, Mr. Platter had not done "a little job."
"Do you recognize these tools?" asked Mr. Pomfret.
"I do," replied Mr. Platter with icy dignity. "They happen to be mine."
"Happen?" murmured Mr. Pomfret, and took out his notebook. Then another thought seemed to strike him. He looked sharply at Mr. Platter. "Your good lady—she must have thrown all her weight on that rope. Now, why would she do that, do you think?"
Mr. Platter thought quickly. "To raise the alarm. In the middle ages, you see..." But somehow this did not quite do, either. Mr. Pomfret was writing in his notebook. "We're not living in the middle ages now," he remarked dryly. "I'm afraid, sir, I'll have to ask you to come down to the station."
Mr. Platter drew himself up. "Not a thing has gone out of this church. Not a thing. So what are you going to charge me with?"
"Breaking and entering?" murmured Mr. Pomfret, almost under his breath, as though he were speaking to himself. He was writing in the notebook. He looked up. "And your good lady, will she be fit to come?"
"We're neither of us fit to come. Can't you leave it till the morning?"
Mr. Pomfret was a kind man. "I suppose I could," he said, "say, eleven-thirty?"
"Eleven-thirty," agreed Mr. Platter. He did look very tired. He glanced down at his tools and around at the table. "I think I'll leave this stuff here for tonight. No point in taking tools and bringing 'em down again: I've got to put these locks right, anyway."
"A rum go," said Mr. Pomfret, shutting his notebook. He turned to Mr. Platter, suddenly changing his tone. "What were you doing, really?"
"Looking for something," said Mr. Platter.
"Something of yours?"
"Could be," said Mr. Platter.
"Oh, well." Mr. Pomfret put his notebook in his pocket. "It's as I said, there'll be quite a bit of explaining to do. Good night all."
After Mr. Pomfret and Whitlace had departed and Miss Menzies and Kitty were tidying up the vestry, Arrietty heard Miss Menzies say in a thoughtful voice, "I think, Kitty, the less we say about this evening in the village, the better. Don't you?"
"Yes, I do. The talk would be dreadful, and most of it lies. Well, there's all the stuff back, but I can't lock the cupboard."
"It doesn't matter, just for one night."
Dear Miss Menzies, thought Arrietty, protector of everyone, but, all the same, she wished they would go. She was longing to see Timmus, who, she knew, would not appear until the church was empty and the west door safely locked, although she guessed what must have happened almost down to the last detail. Mrs. Platter had seen Timmus making his way up the rope, had nearly grabbed him with one hand while twisting the other round the rope. Her weight had turned the bell right over, and they both had sailed up to the ceiling. Timmus had been carried smoothly through the hole, while Mrs. Platter, after a painful crack on the head, had slithered to the floor.
At last Arrietty heard Miss Menzies say, "Kitty dear, I think we'll leave the rest for the morning. I shall be here to help you. Oh, dear, I don't know quite what we can do about Mrs. Crabtree's plant."
"Whitlace will repot it," said Kitty.
"Oh, splendid! Let's go, then. I must admit I'm rather longing for bed—it's been quite an evening..."
Arrietty, back on the sofa, smiled and hugged her knees. She knew, once the door had closed behind them, Timmus would arrive back, safe and, she hoped, sound.
Chapter Twenty-six
Much later that night, when Arrietty had climbed in through the partly opened grating and tumbled into their arms, Pod and Homily forgot the anxious hours of waiting and the dark unspoken dreads. There were tears, but they were tears of joy. The church clock had struck two without being heeded before she had answered all their questions.
"Well, that's finished Platter," said Pod at last.
"Do you think so, Pod?" quavered Homily.
"Stands to reason. The church broken into—at that hour of the night! Locks of the cupboard picked, cupboard bare, and all those vallyables out on the table..."
"But he tried to say there were intruders—or whatever they call them."
Pod laughed grimly. "Intruders wouldn't be using Sidney Platter's tools!"
Then, the next morning there was Peagreen to tell—and Spiller, too, if she could find him. By a happy chance, Arrietty found them together. Peagreen, among the ground ivy near the path, had risen early to sort out his pieces of glass, and Spiller, though bound on some other errand, had paused to watch him. Spiller, as Arrietty remembered, was always curious but would never ask a direct question. Both were suitably impressed by her story. As it went on, Arrietty and Peagreen sat down more comfortably on the dry ground below the ivy leaves. Even Spiller condescended to squat on his haunches, bow in hand, to hear it to the end. His eyes looked very bright, but he did not speak a word.
"There's just one thing..." said Arrietty at last.
"What's that?" said
Peagreen.
Arrietty did not reply at once, and to their surprise, they saw her eyes had filled with tears. "It may seem silly to you, but—"
"But what?" asked Peagreen gently.
"It's Miss Menzies. I'd like to tell her we're all right." The tears rolled out of her eyes.
"You mean," said Peagreen in a tone of amazement, "that she saw all this!"
"No, she didn't see anything. But I saw her. Sometimes I was close enough to speak to her—"
"But you didn't, I hope!" said Peagreen sharply. He looked very shocked.
"No, I didn't. Because ... because..." Arrietty seemed to swallow a sob. "I promised my father, very gravely and sacredly, never to speak to any human bean again. Not in my whole life." She turned to Spiller. "You were there that night. You heard me promise..." Spiller nodded.
"And your father was absolutely right," said Peagreen. He had suddenly become very stern. "It's madness. Utter mad ness. Every borrower worth his salt knows that!"
Arrietty put her head down on her knees and burst into tears. Perhaps her early rising after the strain of the past night had begun to take its toll. Or perhaps it was the angry tone of Peagreen's voice. Would anyone, ever, begin to understand?
They watched her helplessly: the little shoulders shaking with the sobs she tried to quench against her already damp pinafore. If he had been alone, Peagreen would have put out a hand to comfort her, but under Spiller's bright and curious eye, something made him hesitate.
Arrietty raised an angry, tear-stained face towards Spiller. "You once said you'd tell her," she accused him, "that we were safe and all that. But I knew you wouldn't. You're much too scared of human beans—even lovely ones like Miss Menzies. Let alone speak to one!"
Spiller sprang to his feet. His thin face had become curiously set. It seemed to Arrietty that the fierce glance he threw at her was almost one of loathing. Then he turned on his heel and was gone—gone so swiftly and so silently that it was as though he had never been there. Not even a leaf quivered amongst the ivy.
Between Arrietty and Peagreen there was a shocked silence. Then Arrietty said in a surprised voice, "He's angry."
"No wonder," said Peagreen.
"I only said what was true."
"How do you know it's true?"
"Oh, I don't know ... It stands to reason. I mean ... well, surely you don't think he'd do it?"
"If he promised," said Peagreen, "and given the right place
and time." He gave a grim little laugh. "And be gone again before she could say a word. Oh, he'll do it all right. But he's a law unto himself, that one—he'll choose his own moment..."
Arrietty looked troubled. "You mean I should have trusted him?"
"Something like that. Or not been in too much of a hurry." He frowned. "Not that I hold with any of this—this mad idea of talking to human beings. Foolhardy and stupid, that's what it is! And very unfair to your father..."
"You didn't know Miss Menzies," said Arrietty, and, once again, her eyes filled with tears. She stood up. "All the same, I wish I hadn't said all that..."
"Oh, he'll get over it," said Peagreen cheerfully, and stood up beside her.
"You see, really I do rather like him..."
"We all do," said Peagreen.
"Oh, well"—Arrietty sighed in a mournful little voice—"I think I'd better be getting home now. I came out so early, and my parents may be wondering. And"—she dashed a quick hand across her eyes and tried an uncertain smile—"to tell the truth, I'm getting rather hungry."
"Oh," said Peagreen, "that reminds me." He was feeling in his pocket. "I hope I haven't broken it. No, here it is."
He was holding out a very tiny egg—creamy pale with russet freckles. Arrietty took it gingerly and turned it over between her hands. "It's lovely," she said.
"It's a blue-tit's egg. I found it this morning in one of my nesting boxes. Odd, because there wasn't a sign of a nest. I thought you might like it for breakfast."
"It's so lovely. Just as it is. It seems a pity to eat it."
"Oh, I don't know," said Peagreen. "Today is a sort of egg day."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, today's the day the humans call Easter Sunday..." He watched her thoughtfully as, very carefully, she folded the egg into her pinafore. "You know, Arrietty," he went on after a moment, "as a matter of fact, the less Spiller says the better: this human being ... this Miss ... Miss...?"
"Menzies."
"There's one thing that she must never find out—and I really mean NEVER—and that is: where you are all living now."
"I only wanted her to know we are safe..."
"Are we?" said Peagreen gently. "Are we? Ever?"
Epilogue
Dependent as they were on snippets of conversation overheard by Aunt Lupy, the borrowers never really discovered exactly what happened to Mr. Platter. Rumors abounded. Some said he had gone to prison; others that he had only been fined and cautioned; and then (many months later) that he and Mrs. Platter had sold their house and departed for Australia, where Mr. Platter had a brother in the same line of business. Anyhow, the borrowers never saw the Platters again. Nor were they much spoken of by the ladies who came on Wednesdays and Fridays to do the flowers in the church.
Mary Norton, The Borrowers Avenged
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