William isn’t exactly an uncommon Christian name.’
‘You relieve my mind.’
Laura stared hard at her employer. ‘What
Dame Beatrice cackled. ‘Just a foolish notion I entertained; an idea which you have now, I am glad to say, relegated to its proper sphere, which is
Laura looked dissatisfied.
‘You don’t often get ideas which have to be treated like unbaptised infants,’ she remarked. ‘
‘I am ashamed of them. The clear light of your commonsense has shown me how foolish they are.’
Laura went into the library, the adjoining room, to write to the handsome husband whom she had recently left in London, but, instead of beginning her letter, she scribbled on the blotting-pad – an anachronism in an age of ball-point pens –
When she had stamped the envelope and put it in the tray ready for posting, she went back to Dame Beatrice, who was industriously but purposelessly knitting.
‘William of Wykeham. William Wayneflete. Wayneflete College. Alfriston C. Swinburne, Thaddeus E. Lawrence, William Caxton,’ said Laura. ‘Am I right? But it’s a bit far-fetched, don’t you think?’
‘I am sure of it, and I have already confessed as much.’ Dame Beatrice cast aside the repulsive network of pale mauve wool which she had been knitting and added, ‘Let us think no more about it. When shall we go and see this young man?’
‘The tooter the sweeter.’
They set off next day, Laura driving, took the Brockenhurst road and branched off past Buckett’s farm, but did not call there. The open common gave place to woods and a little stream. The car crossed a narrow bridge. Beyond this there was open forest and then a boundary lane bordered by a couple of shallow ponds. Some ponies were grazing and beyond them was the cottage which Laura, whose knowledge of the Forest was encyclopaedic, had found easily enough from the address which Mrs Blaine had left with Dame Beatrice.
From the narrow road which the car had been following after it had crossed the bridge, not much more than the roof and chimneys of the cottage could be seen, for it was down in a dip. From the road an ill-defined path made by the feet of pedestrians across the turf could be seen leading to a wicket-gate. Laura pulled up off the narrow road and she and her employer took the path to the cottage.
It was in a small enclosure which could hardly be called a garden and in this space there was an open shed containing a motor-cycle and an old mangle. The cottage itself was in need of a coat of paint. The door to it was open and through the doorway came the sound of song.
Laura called out unnecessarily, ‘Anybody home?’ and a young man came to the open doorway.
‘Somebody asking for me?’ he enquired. Dame Beatrice came forward.
‘Mr William Caxton, I believe,’ she said. The young man smiled at her.
‘If you’ve come on behalf of the ladies of the town,’ he said, ‘you’ve wasted your time, I’m afraid. I have no intention whatever of appearing in their Caxton pageant.’
‘Not even if I am willing to give you the printing of all posters, tickets and programmes for the Festival play?’
His face changed. He looked alert and interested.
‘That’s different,’ he said. ‘Would you do that?’
‘On condition of your appearing in the pageant, of course. Payment will be made when the pageant is over and you have taken part.’
‘Trusting, aren’t you?’ He grinned disarmingly. ‘O.K. I accept. I can do with the money. Incidentally, my work is good and not cheap. Come inside and I’ll give you an estimate.’
‘Forgive me for mentioning it,’ said Laura, when they were back in the car, ‘but surely Clarice Blaine didn’t authorise you to
‘No, and I have not committed her or the Ladies’ Guild or the dramatic society to any financial transactions. I intend to pay for the printing myself if this obliging William Caxton undertakes to appear in the pageant. I feel that I owe Mrs Blaine something for having shocked her so deeply by my refusal to lend my support to her ban on
‘I’ll take a guess. You know now that Caxton is really Caxton, although I bet it’s simply a trade name to advertise the fact that he has this printing press. And you also know that he isn’t Thaddeus E. Lawrence, not to mention Alfriston C. Swinburne.’
‘You are right, but you had already convinced me that my suspicions were foolish and irrational. Still, it is always as well to be sure.’
‘But our professional blonde, who opted for a pantomime as our Festival offering,
‘Sure, these are but imaginary wiles,
And Lapland sorcerers inhabit here,’
quoted Dame Beatrice, with an eldritch cackle. ‘There still remains R. Crashaw, of course.’