Blotto, Twinks and the Dead Dowager Duchess

by Simon Brett

  ‘Chinless,’ she said when she got through, ‘it’s Twinks.’

  ‘Twinks! How dashed wonderful to hear your voice. My feelings haven’t changed for you, you know. You have only to say the word and I’ll be at your side in as long as it takes. I’ll abandon Godalming Towers, leave the Marchioness and the eight children. I’ll –’

  ‘Chinless,’ said Twinks purposefully, ‘I’m not ringing you about anything like that.’

  ‘Oh.’ Disappointment suffused the monosyllable.

  ‘I am ringing because I happen to know that you attend the House of Lords with admirable frequency . . .’

  ‘So would anyone who was married to the Marchioness and had eight children.’

  ‘. . . and there’s a Scottish peer, a laird, about whom I require some information.’

  ‘Anything you want, Twinks,’ said the Marquis of Godalming miserably. ‘You know I’ll do absolutely anything for you. I wish it could be –’

  ‘Chinless,’ she pressed on, ‘the name of the peer in question is The McCluggan of McCluggan. His seat is Glenglower Castle in Argyllshire and I am anxious to get any information about him. Do you know the boddo, Chinless?’

  ‘Used to.’

  ‘Why do you say “used to”?’

  ‘Because it’s years since the old thimble has actually put in an appearance in the House of Lords.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Used to be one of the more regular attendees. Turned up on the benches as often as I did. Then suddenly – no sign of him.’

  ‘Did you discover any reason for his non-attendance?’

  ‘Who knows? I mean, I wasn’t close to the blighter. Might meet up for the odd scotch and soda in the bar, bemoan the way the Socialists were trying to do away with our God-given privileges, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Twinks, fully aware of the significance of his words. ‘But you don’t know anything else about him?’

  ‘Heard from another Scottish peer that The McCluggan’d gone to ground in . . . wherever it is he lives.’

  ‘Glenglower Castle.’

  ‘That’s the one. Anyway, apparently the blighter’s turned reclusive. Not been seen out anywhere – even at the Highland Games, which, as the local laird, he used never to miss. Said to be quite a connoisseur of tossing the caper.’

  ‘Caber, I think.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Twinks.’

  ‘But had he ever struck you as reclusive before, Chinless?’

  ‘No, life and soul of the party, I’d have said. Certainly used to wake up the old snorers in the H. of L.’

  ‘Hm . . . Well, thank you for telling me all that, Chinless. I must –’

  ‘Are you sure there’s no chance for me? As I say, I’d abandon everything if you only . . .’

  Twinks allowed him a small ration of abject adoration before the gracious, but inevitable, brush-off. She replaced the receiver and looked at Blotto, who had been hanging around, trying to piece together the whole conversation from what he’d heard Twinks say.

  ‘So what’s the bizz-buzz?’ he asked.

  His sister looked serious as she replied, ‘I think the number of reasons for our solving this case has suddenly increased.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We first got into it to free Corky Froggett by working out who really killed the Dowager Duchess of Melmont. Then the abduction of Laetitia Melmont gave us a second reason. Now I reckon we could also be investigating the incarceration – or possibly even murder – of The McCluggan of McCluggan.’

  ‘Broken biscuits,’ said Blotto. Things were that serious.

  He wandered disconsolately down to the Tawcester Towers garages. Normally the place gave him quite a buzz. Almost as much as driving it, he loved just being with his Lagonda. And there was nothing he liked better than discussing its superiority to all other marques with Corky Froggett.

  But now the chauffeur was languishing in jail, and Blotto had no idea where the Lagonda was. Though normally the cheeriest of souls, he did have difficulty in not being devastated by these two hammer-blows.

  But there was the matter of suitable transport for him and Twinks to Glenglower Castle. It wasn’t that the Tawcester Towers garages lacked for cars. There were some Rolls-Royces, the odd Hispano-Suiza, and a few perfectly adequate Bentleys.

  But none of them had the appeal for Blotto of the Lagonda. Driving one of the others was always going to be second best – or, in Blotto’s jaded view, about a millionth best. When he was driving the Lagonda, it was hard to tell where car stopped and man started. With any other vehicle the distinction between car and man was painfully marked.

  Miserably Blotto went to ask his sister’s advice. He was very relieved by Twinks’s recommendation that they should not go by car. Instead they should take the train to Oban and a small branch line to McCluggan Halt, the nearest station to Glenglower Castle.

  Before they departed for the north, Twinks was very keen to contact Jerome Handsomely. She left a message for him at Croydon Aerodrome, but it was a few hours before he telephoned back. At that time Twinks was out riding, so the Tawcester Towers butler Grimshaw summoned Blotto to take the call.

  ‘Hello, Jerome,’ he said. ‘What’s up? Uncage the ferrets, me old greengage.’

  ‘Had a message from the lovely Twinks, me old propeller-winder. Apparently she needs help, and I’m absolutely snuffled-up to hear that. You know I’d readily lay down my life for –’

  Blotto, who’d already heard quite enough such assertions, interrupted. There’ve been developments in our ongoing battle with those stenchers, the League of the Crimson Hand.’

  Quickly he filled in what had happened at Llanystwyth House after he and Twinks had parachuted out of Jerome Handsomely’s plane. He also described how they had found the address of the League’s headquarters. ‘So we’ll be shifting up north as fast as a pair of cheetahs on spikes. I think Twinks wanted to ask you if you could help us out with a bit of aerial support.’

  ‘Great dithering dragonflies, of course I will! I’ll be with you as fast as a whizzbang’s wake. Only wasp in the jam is that I’m not actually in Blighty at the moment.’

  ‘Oh? Where are you?’

  ‘Transcarpathia. Taken my crate here on a top-secret government mission. But don’t worry, that can wait. I’ll twang off the tarmac quicker than a doctor’s bill and be with you zappity-ping.’

  ‘How will you find us?’

  ‘Well, I set my crate’s homing sights on Glenglower Castle, don’t I?’

  ‘Yes, but how will we meet up when we’re there? Twinks and I are taking the train. What happens if you fly over us while we’re still in it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s a knuckle-cracker, isn’t it?’

  ‘Toad-in-the-hole!’ A beatific smile made its way across Blotto’s countenance. It was the smile that only appeared on those rare occasions when he had an idea. ‘Tell you what, Jerome, we could have a kite.’

  ‘What, fly your own crate, you mean?’

  ‘No. A kite. Child’s toy. You know, lots of string and all that rombooley . . .’

  ‘Ah. Yes.’ A silence. ‘What good would that do?’

  ‘Well, the kite’d be flying high above the train and you’d spot it from your plane and then you’d know where we are.’

  ‘Ye-es.’ Jerome Handsomely tried to keep as much scepticism as possible out of his voice. He’d noticed that Twinks had mastered the art of letting her brother down gently when he suggested something silly. So he tried to do the same. He would do anything to keep in Twinks’s good books. Even to the extent – in fact preferably to the extent – of laying down his life for her.

  24

  To the North!

  Blotto quite liked travelling by train. Of course he didn’t have that liberated feeling that suffused him when he drove the Lagonda, but there was something restful about steaming through the countryside at high speed.

  They travelled light. Only three suitcases each. And in one of Blotto’s he had put his
second-best cricket bat. It would never have the same emotional resonance as the one which had been spirited away with his Lagonda, but it was better than nothing. The knowledge that it was readily accessible from one of his valises provided a source of comfort.

  Both he and his sister had taken books with them for the long journey. Twinks was reading the complete works of Tolstoy in the original Russian, and Blotto was hoping to get through another page of The Hand of Fu Manchu. But both of them were too excited by the confrontation that lay ahead to concentrate fully on their books.

  And then of course there was the business of keeping the kite flying out of the train window. Blotto was convinced if they didn’t have it on show for the entire journey, there was a severe danger of Jerome Handsomely not being able to find them. And, though Twinks had at first tried to persuade him the kite wasn’t necessary because the pilot knew their destination, after a time, as she so often did, she acceded to her brother’s wishes. So they took it in turns to act as Kite Monitor – even to the point of attending different sittings for lunch in the buffet car.

  Twinks had been in charge of the journey planning. Blotto readily admitted that he wasn’t as good at practical arrangements as his sister and had let her get on with it. She had organized a First Class compartment to themselves from Euston station to Glasgow Central. To get to Glasgow Queen Street they crossed the city in a cab, giving Blotto an opportunity to get a close-up view of oikish people – and oikish Scottish people at that. It was not an experience which he found particularly rewarding, and he was relieved when they were once again in the safety of a First Class compartment on the train to Oban. They both abandoned their books and just drank in the beauties through which the West Highland Line passed.

  Continuing to alternate as Kite Monitor, after a while they both stayed in the corridor because it offered a better view. They were passing through a lush medieval landscape of deep Scottish greens. They passed crags and forests and the occasional castle perched on a hill. They saw lochs and glimpses of the sea, on whose horizon squatted the misty outlines of distant islands. For a short while the splendour of the countryside took their minds off the seriousness of the mission on which they were bound.

  It was at Oban that Twinks first detected something odd. The porter who took their luggage on his trolley and to whom she directed her inquiry as to where they should board the branch line to McCluggan Halt gave her a distinctly suspicious look. And the train to which he pointed them was very new-looking. As were the rails on which it ran. The branch line seemed to be a recent addition to the service.

  There was only one coach behind the trim little steam engine.

  And Blotto and Twinks were the only passengers who boarded it. So he didn’t bother putting their luggage in the rack. He lined up the five suitcases and sat with his smaller valise between his legs.

  As the train puffed slowly out of Oban station, Blotto put the kite out of the window and started feeding line out to it. When he reckoned it was flying high enough, he tied the end of the string to the arm of a seat. ‘Easier in a train that doesn’t have corridors, isn’t it?’

  Twinks agreed absently. She seemed preoccupied by the train in which they found themselves. ‘Why’s it all so new?’ she murmured to her brother

  ‘Don’t know, but I think the whole set-up’s quite beezer. Comfy, anyway.’ He looked curiously round the carriage. ‘I say, Twinks, it doesn’t say anywhere that this is First Class, does it?’

  ‘That’s because it isn’t.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When I made the booking, I was told there were no different classes on this service. Everyone travels in the same compartments.’

  ‘Everyone? What, you mean people like us and . . . oikish people too . . .?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be snickered . . . That kind of Socialist thinking’ll never catch on, will it?’

  ‘One hopes not.’

  Blotto shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Not travelling First Class . . . I’m certainly seeing the world today, aren’t I, Twinks?’

  His sister agreed, but she still looked troubled.

  ‘What’s up, old banana skin? Come on, uncage the ferrets.’

  ‘It’s just that I’m worried that we may be stepping into a trap.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, I thought travelling by train we’d be incognito. But I’m afraid by making the booking all I may have done is to alert our enemies to our arrival.’

  ‘Sorry, not on the same page, old fruitbat.’

  ‘Suppose this whole branch line – like Glenglower Castle itself – is owned by the League of the Crimson Hand?’

  ‘But what the strawberries makes you think it might be?’

  Twinks opened her mouth to reply, but she didn’t need to. Her suspicion was confirmed visually, as the front door of the carriage opened.

  And they were faced by Wellborough Choat, pointing at them a very purposeful-looking Accrington-Murphy shotgun.

  25

  Peril on the Branch Line

  The tall man’s expression was even more rodent-like than it had looked at Llanystwyth House. In his eye glowed the satisfaction of a bird that had just cornered a worm on a stone floor.

  ‘Rather over-curious, you two, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘And getting a little too close for comfort, so far as the Crimson Thumb’s concerned.’

  ‘Shoot us, by all means, if you want to,’ suggested Twinks, ‘but that will only delay the assault on Glenglower Castle. I’ve informed Scotland Yard of what you’re up to.’

  Wellborough Choat’s smile grew wider. ‘Nice try, but I don’t believe you. You haven’t got any evidence that would get Scotland Yard interested in our affairs.’

  ‘We know that Will Tyler murdered the Dowager Duchess of Melmont,’ asserted Twinks.

  But their adversary only shrugged. ‘So . . . a disaffected servant turns on his employer. Wouldn’t be the first time, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. You have nothing to link Will Tyler to the League of the Crimson Hand.’

  ‘He had tattoos on his fingers.’

  ‘Really? Well, maybe he’d once been a sailor.’

  ‘I can assure you that Scotland Yard does know everything that has been happening. What’s more –’

  ‘And I can assure you that Scotland Yard knows nothing about what’s been happening. There is an Assistant Commissioner there who is a member of the League of the Crimson Hand. He tells us everything. I was on the telephone to him only an hour ago, and he assured me that neither of you had made any contact with Scotland Yard.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘No, I think you’re lying.’

  Twinks tried to come up with a suitable riposte, but couldn’t, because of course Wellborough Choat was right. She was lying.

  ‘Anyway, the pair of you have become rather a nuisance, and the Crimson Thumb doesn’t like people who are a nuisance. They have a tendency to interfere with his plans.’

  ‘Like his plan for the latest outrage? The crime that’s going to be bigger than any that the League has perpetrated before?’

  Wellborough Choat looked annoyed that Twinks knew so much and asked instinctively, ‘How did you find out about that?’

  ‘I overheard you discussing it with Gerhardt Sachs at Llanystwyth House.’

  ‘Oh, did you? Well, even more reason that your investigations into our affairs should stop. And I regret to say that the end of your investigations will have to coincide with the end of your lives.’ He gestured with his shotgun. ‘Move down to the end of the carriage.’

  Blotto rose to his feet with his hands behind his back and he and Twinks edged in the direction the shotgun had indicated. There was a door at the end, presumably to link through to the carriages behind. Except in this case there were no carriages behind.

  The same thoughts were going through both their minds. Wellborough Choat would make them open the door. Then he would shoot them and they would fall back on to the unf
requented track, where their bodies would either be left as carrion for the scavengers of the Highlands or removed by members of the League of the Crimson Hand. Either way no trace of them would be left.

  Blotto and Twinks exchanged looks. They had been through some tough times together, and always somehow managed to escape. But their current predicament was on a different scale of jeopardy.

  ‘Open the door!’ commanded Wellborough Choat, as anticipated. His smile grew thinner and more evil. ‘Do you feel strongly about which one of you I should kill first?’

  To the considerable surprise of Twinks, Blotto instantly replied, ‘My sister.’ She knew he had always been very chivalrous but, though she admired the chivalric principle of ‘Ladies first’, she felt this was one of those occasions when it shouldn’t be applied too rigorously.

  ‘Very well,’ said their would-be killer. ‘Milady –’ he sneered the word – ‘if you would oblige me by standing in the doorway?’

  Twinks did as she was told, hoping against hope that Blotto had something up his sleeve.

  It wasn’t actually up his sleeve. It was behind his back. As Wellborough Choat raised the shotgun to take a bead on Twinks, Blotto produced his second-best cricket bat, which he had earlier sneaked out of his valise, and leapt forward. Confused by the movement, Wellborough Choat’s aim wavered for a second. Long enough for Blotto to take a mighty swing upwards which knocked the shotgun and sent its deadly spray of bullets into the carriage roof.

  Suddenly the cricket bat was all over Choat, battering him from different angles, sending the weapon flying out of his hands, manoeuvring him towards the open door and the fast-moving track beneath. One final blow from the bat sent him flying backwards out of the train. He landed head first and, as his body on the forest-lined track dwindled into the distance, it show no signs of life.