Blanding Castle Omnibus

by P. G. Wodehouse

  ‘I’ll bet it’s so. He must know all about your outstanding gifts. You can’t go on as you have gone on so long, dishing out aid and comfort to all and sundry, without acquiring a certain reputation, if only in the family circle. Grab your hat and race along. I shall be all agog to learn the inside story. What sort of a day is it?’

  ‘Extremely clement, sir.’

  ‘Sunshine and all that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I thought as much. That must be why I’m feeling so dashed fit. Then I think I’ll take myself for an airing. Tell me,’ I said, for I was a trifle remorseful at having had to adopt that firm attitude about going to Steeple Bumpleigh and wished to bring back into his life the joy which my refusal to allow him to get in among the local fish had excluded from it, ‘is there any little thing I can do for you while I’m out?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Any little gift you would like, I mean?’

  ‘It is extremely kind of you, sir.’

  ‘Not at all, Jeeves. The sky is the limit. State your desire.’

  ‘Well, sir, there has recently been published a new and authoritatively annotated edition of the works of the philosopher Spinoza. Since you are so generous, I would appreciate that very much.’

  You shall have it. It shall be delivered at your door in a plain van without delay. You’re sure you’ve got the name right? Spinoza?’

  Yes, sir.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound probable, but no doubt you know best. Spinoza, eh? Is he the Book Society’s Choice of the Month?’

  ‘I believe not, sir.’

  ‘Well, he’s the only fellow I ever heard of who wasn’t. Right ho. I’ll see to it instanter.’

  And presently, having assembled the hat, the gloves and the neatly rolled u., I sauntered forth.

  As I made my way to the bookery, I found my thoughts turning once more, as you may readily imagine, to this highly suggestive business of old Worplesdon. The thing intrigued me. I found it difficult to envisage what possible sort of a jam a man like that could have got himself into.

  When, about eighteen months before, news had reached me through well-informed channels that my Aunt Agatha, for many years a widow, or derelict, as I believe it is called, was about to take another pop at matrimony, my first emotion, as was natural in the circumstances, had been a gentle pity for the unfortunate goop slated to step up the aisle with her – she, as you are aware, being my tough aunt, the one who eats broken bottles and conducts human sacrifices by the light of the full moon.

  But when details began to come in, and I discovered that the bimbo who had drawn the short straw was Lord Worplesdon, the shipping magnate, this tender commiseration became sensibly diminished. The thing, I felt, would be no walkover. Even if in the fulness of time she wore him down and at length succeeded in making him jump through hoops, she would know she had been in a fight.

  For he was hot stuff, this Worplesdon. I had known him all my life. It was he who at the age of fifteen – when I was fifteen, I mean, of course – found me smoking one of his special cigars in the stable yard and chased me a mile across difficult country with a hunting crop. And though with advancing years our relations had naturally grown more formal, I had never been able to think of him without getting goose pimples. Given the choice between him and a hippogriff as a companion for a walking tour, I would have picked the hippogriff every time.

  It was not easy to see how such a man of blood and iron could have been reduced to sending out S O S’s for Jeeves, and I was reflecting on the possibility of compromising letters in the possession of gold-digging blondes, when I reached my destination and started to lodge my order.

  ‘Good morning, good morning,’ I said. ‘I want a book.’

  Of course, I ought to have known that it’s silly to try to buy a book when you go to a book shop. It merely startles and bewilders the inmates. The motheaten old bird who had stepped forward to attend to me ran true to form.

  ‘A book, sir?’ he said, with ill-concealed astonishment.

  ‘Spinoza,’ I replied, specifying.

  This had him rocking back on his heels.

  ‘Did you say Spinoza, sir?’

  ‘Spinoza was what I said.’

  He seemed to be feeling that if we talked this thing out long enough as man to man, we might eventually hit upon a formula.

  ‘You do not mean “The Spinning Wheel”?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It would not be “The Poisoned Pin”?’

  ‘It would not.’

  ‘Or “With Gun and Camera in Little Known Borneo”?’ he queried, trying a long shot.

  ‘Spinoza,’ I repeated firmly. That was my story, and I intended to stick to it.

  He sighed a bit, like one who feels that the situation has got beyond him.

  ‘I will go and see if we have it in stock, sir. But possibly this may be what you are requiring. Said to be very clever.’

  He pushed off, Spinoza-ing under his breath in a hopeless sort of way, leaving me clutching a thing called ‘Spindrift’.

  It looked pretty foul. Its jacket showed a female with a green, oblong face sniffing at a purple lily, and I was just about to fling it from me and start a hunt for that ‘Poisoned Pin’ of which he had spoken, when I became aware of someone Good-gracious-Bertie-ing and, turning, found that the animal cries proceeded from a tall girl of commanding aspect who had oiled up behind me.

  ‘Good gracious, Bertie! Is it really you?’

  I emitted a sharp gurgle, and shied like a startled mustang. It was old Worplesdon’s daughter, Florence Craye.

  And I’ll tell you why, on beholding her, I shied and gurgled as described. I mean, if there’s one thing I bar, it’s the sort of story where people stagger to and fro, clutching their foreheads and registering strong emotion, and not a word of explanation as to what it’s all about till the detective sums up in the last chapter.

  Briefly, then, the reason why this girl’s popping up had got in amongst me in this fashion was that we had once been engaged to be married, and not so dashed long ago, either. And though it all came out all right in the end, the thing being broken off and self saved from the scaffold at the eleventh hour, it had been an extraordinarily narrow squeak and the memory remained green. The mere mention of her name was still enough to make me call for a couple of quick ones, so you can readily appreciate my agitation at bumping into her like this absolutely in the flesh.

  I swayed in the breeze, and found myself a bit stumped for the necessary dialogue.

  ‘Oh, hullo,’ I said.

  Not good, of course, but the best I could do.

  Also available in Arrow

  The Mating Season

  P.G. Wodehouse

  A Jeeves and Wooster novel

  At Deverill Hall, an idyllic Tudor manor in the picture-perfect village of King’s Deverill, impostors are in the air. The prime example is man-about-town Bertie Wooster, doing a good turn to Gussie Fink-Nottle by impersonating him while he enjoys fourteen days away from society after being caught taking an unscheduled dip in the fountains of Trafalgar Square. Bertie is of course one of nature’s gentlemen, but the stakes are high: if all is revealed, there’s a danger that Gussie’s simpering fiancée Madeline may turn her wide eyes on Bertie instead.

  It’s a brilliant plan – until Gussie himself turns up, imitating Bertram Wooster. After that, only the massive brain of Jeeves (himself in disguise) can set things right.

  Also available in Arrow

  The Clicking of Cuthbert

  P.G. Wodehouse

  A Golf collection

  The Oldest Member knows everything that has ever happened on the golf course – and a great deal more besides.

  Take the story of Cuthbert, for instance. He’s helplessly in love with Adeline, but what use are his holes in one when she’s in thrall to Culture and prefers rising young writers to winners of the French Open? But enter a Great Russian Novelist with a strange passion, and Cuthbert’s prospects are transf
ormed. Then look at what happens to young Mitchell Holmes, who misses short putts because of the uproar of the butterflies in the adjoining meadows. His career seems on the skids – but can golf redeem it?

  The kindly but shrewd gaze of the Oldest Member picks out some of the funniest stories Wodehouse ever wrote.

  Also available in Arrow

  Piccadilly Jim

  P.G. Wodehouse

  A P. G. Wodehouse novel

  It takes a lot of effort for Jimmy Crocker to become Piccadilly Jim – nights on the town roistering, headlines in the gossip columns, a string of broken hearts and breaches of promise. Eventually he becomes rather good at it and manages to go to pieces with his eyes open.

  But no sooner has Jimmy cut a wild swathe through fashionable London than his terrifying Aunt Nesta decides he must mend his ways. He then falls in love with the girl he has hurt most of all, and after that things get complicated.

  In a dizzying plot, impersonations pile on impersonations so that (for reasons that will become clear, we promise) Jimmy ends up having to pretend he’s himself. Does he deserve a happy ending? Read and find out.

  Also available in Arrow

  Something Fresh

  P.G. Wodehouse

  A Blandings novel

  This is the first Blandings novel, in which P.G. Wodehouse introduces us to the delightfully dotty Lord Emsworth, his bone-headed younger son, the Hon. Freddie Threepwood, his long-suffering secretary, the Efficient Baxter, and Beach the Blandings butler.

  As Wodehouse wrote, ‘without at least one impostor on the premises, Blandings Castle is never itself. In Something Fresh there are two, each with an eye on a valuable scarab which Lord Emsworth has acquired without quite realizing how it came into his pocket. But of course things get a lot more complicated than this . . .

  Also available in Arrow

  Joy in the Morning

  P.G. Wodehouse

  A Jeeves and Wooster novel

  Trapped in rural Steeple Bumpleigh, a man less stalwart than Bertie Wooster would probably have given way at the knees. For among those present were Florence Craye, to whom Bertie had once been engaged . . . and her new fiancé ‘Stilton’ Cheesewright, who regarded Bertie as a snake in the grass . . . also Zenobia Hopwood and her guardian Lord Worplesdon, whose violent antipathy to ‘Boko’ Fittleworth amounted to obsession . . . and that biggest blot on the landscape, Edwin the Boy Scout, doing acts of kindness out of sheer malevolence.

  All Bertie’s forebodings were fully justified. For in his efforts to oil the wheels of commerce, promote the course of true love and avoid the consequences of a vendetta, he became the prey of all and sundry. Complete disaster might well have followed, but for the genius of Jeeves – who extricated the young master with a ploy as smoothly executed as it was brilliantly conceived.

  Also available in Arrow

  Uncle Fred in the Springtime

  P.G. Wodehouse

  A Blandings novel

  Uncle Fred is one of the hottest earls that ever donned a coronet. Or as he crisply said, ‘There are no limits, literally none, to what I can achieve in the springtime.’

  Even so, his gifts are stretched to the limit when he is urged by Lord Emsworth to save his prize pig, the Empress of Blandings, from the enforced slimming cure of the haughty Duke of Dunstable. Pongo Twistleton knows his debonair but wild uncle shouldn’t really be allowed at large – especially when disguised as a brain surgeon. He fears the worst. And his fears are amply justified.

  Also available in Arrow

  Right Ho, Jeeves

  P.G. Wodehouse

  A Jeeves and Wooster novel

  Gussie Fink-Nottle’s knowledge of the common newt is unparalleled. Drop him in a pond of newts and his behaviour will be exemplary, but introduce him to a girl and watch him turn pink, yammer, and suddenly stampede for great open spaces. Even with Madeline Bassett, who feels that the stars are God’s daisy chain, his tongue is tied in reef-knots. And his chum Tuppy Glossop isn’t getting on much better with Madeliene’s delectable friend Angela.

  With so many broken hearts lying about him, Bertie Wooster can’t sit idly by. The happiness of a pal – two pals, in fact – is at stake. But somehow Bertie’s best-laid plans land everyone in the soup, and so it’s just as well that Jeeves is ever at hand to apply his bulging brains to the problems of young love.

  The P G Wodehouse Society (UK)

  The P G Wodehouse Society (UK) was formed in 1997 to promote the enjoyment of the writings of the twentieth century’s greatest humorist. The Society publishes a quarterly magazine, Wooster Sauce, which includes articles, features, reviews, and current Society news. Occasional special papers are also published. Society events include regular meetings in central London, cricket matches and a formal biennial dinner, along with other activities. The Society actively supports the preservation of the Berkshire pig, a rare breed, in honour of the incomparable Empress of Blandings.

  MEMBERSHIP ENQUIRIES

  Membership of the Society is open to applicants from all parts of the world. The cost of a year’s membership in 2008 is £15. Enquiries and requests for membership forms should be made to the Membership Secretary, The P G Wodehouse Society (UK), 26 Radcliffe Rd, Croydon, Surrey, CRO 5QE, or alternatively frominfo@pgwodehousesociety.org.uk

  The Society’s website can be viewed atwww.pgwodehousesociety.org.uk

  Visit our special P.G. Wodehouse website www.wodehouse.co.uk

  Find out about P.G. Wodehouse’s books now reissued with appealing new covers

  Read extracts from all your favourite titles

  Read the exclusive extra content and immerse yourself in Wodehouse’s world

  Sign up for news of future publications and upcoming events

  This edition first published in the United States in 2001 by The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc. Woodstock and New York

  WOODSTOCK:

  One Overlook Drive Woodstock, NY 12498

  www.overlookpress.com

  [for individual orders, bulk and special sales, contact our Woodstock office]

  NEW YORK:

  141 Wooster Street

  New York, NY 10012

  Copyright 1933 by P.G. Wodehouse, renewed 1961 bv P.G. Wodehouse

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, clcctronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system now known or to be invented without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available from the Library of Congress

  Manufactured in Germany

  ISBN 1-58567-230-0

  13 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

  Chapter One

  Sunshine pierced the haze that enveloped London. It came down Fleet Street, turned to the right, stopped at the premises of the Mammoth Publishing Company, and, entering through an upper window, beamed pleasantly upon Lord Tilbury, founder and proprietor of that vast factory of popular literature, as he sat reading the batch of weekly papers which his secretary had placed on the desk for his inspection. Among the secrets of this great man’s success was the fact that he kept a personal eye on all the firm’s products.

  Considering what a pleasant rarity sunshine in London is, one might have expected the man behind the Mammoth to beam back. Instead, he merely pressed the buzzer. His secretary appeared. He pointed silently. The secretary drew the shade, and the sunshine, having called without an appointment, was excluded.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Lord Tilbury…’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘A Lady Julia Fish has just rung up on the telephone.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘She says she would like to see you this morning.’

  Lord Tilbury frowned. He remembered Lady Julia Fish as an agreeable hotel acquaintance during his recen
t holiday at Biarritz. But this was Tilbury House, and at Tilbury House he did not desire the company of hotel acquaintances, however agreeable.

  ‘Did she say what she wanted?’

  ‘No, Lord Tilbury.’

  ‘All right.’

  The secretary withdrew. Lord Tilbury returned to his reading.

  The particular periodical which had happened to come to hand was the current number of that admirable children’s paper, Tiny Tots, and for some moments he scanned its pages with an attempt at his usual conscientious thoroughness. But it was plain that his heart was not in his work. The Adventures of Pinky, Winky, and Pop in Slumberland made little impression upon him. He passed on to a thoughtful article by Laura J. Smedley on what a wee girlie can do to help mother, but it was evident that for once Laura J. had failed to grip. Presently with a grunt he threw the paper down and for the third time since it had arrived by the morning post picked up a letter which lay on the desk. He already knew it by heart, so there was no real necessity for him to read it again, but the human tendency to twist the knife in the wound is universal.

  It was a brief letter. Its writer’s eighteenth-century ancestors, who believed in filling their twelve sheets when they took pen in hand, would have winced at the sight of it. But for all its brevity it had ruined Lord Tilbury’s day.

  It ran as follows:

  Blandings Castle, Shropshire.

  Dear Sir,