Sir Gregory was not a man of the build that leaps from chairs, but he had levered himself out of the one he sat in with an animation that almost made the thing amount to a leap.
‘Know him? Why, he’s in the Castle because I know him! I engaged him to steal that infernal manuscript of your brother’s.’
‘What!’
‘Certainly. A week or so ago. Emsworth called one morning with Threepwood to see me, and accused me of having stolen that dashed pig of his, and when I told him I knew nothing about it Threepwood got nasty and said he was going to make a special effort to remember all the discreditable things that had ever happened to me as a young man and put them in his book. So I ran up to London next day and went to see this fellow Pilbeam—he had acted for me before in a certain rather delicate matter—and found that Emsworth had asked him to come here to investigate the theft of his pig, and I offered him five hundred pounds if, when he was at the Castle, he would steal the manuscript.’
‘Good gracious!’
‘And then you told me the pig had been found and Threepwood was going to suppress the book, so I naturally assumed that the chap would have gone back to London. Why, if he’s still here, the whole thing’s simple. He must go ahead, as originally planned, and get hold of that manuscript and hand it over to us and we’ll destroy it. Then it won’t matter if this marriage you speak of takes place or not.’ He paused. Animation gave place to concern. ‘But suppose there are more copies than one?’
‘There aren’t.’
‘You’re sure? He may have had it typed.’
‘No, I know he has not. He had never really finished the horrible thing. He keeps it in his desk and takes it out and adds bits to it.’
‘Then we’re all right.’
‘If Mr Pilbeam can get possession of the manuscript.’
‘Oh, he’ll do that. You can rely on him. There isn’t a smarter young fellow in London at that sort of thing. Why, he got hold of some letters of mine … but that is neither here nor there. I can assure you that if you engage Pilbeam to steal compromising papers, you will have them in the course of a day or two. It’s what he’s best at. You say Threepwood keeps the thing in a desk. Desks are nothing to Pilbeam. Those—er—those letters of mine … to which I alluded just now… those letters … perfectly innocent, you understand, but a wrong construction might have been placed upon one or two passages in them had they been published as the girl … as their recipient had threatened… Well, to cut a long story short, to secure them Pilbeam had to pretend to be the man come to inspect the gas meter and break into a safe. This will be child’s play to him. If you will excuse me, I will go and find him at once. We must put the matter in hand without delay. What a pity he popped off like that. We could have had everything arranged by now.’
Sir Gregory hurried from the room, baying on the scent like one
of his own hounds. And Lady Constance, drawing a deep breath, leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. After all that had passed in the last twenty minutes, she felt the need to relax.
On her face, as she sat, there might have been observed not merely relief, but a sort of awed look, as of one who contemplates the inscrutable workings of Providence.
Providence, she now perceived, did not put even Pilbeams into the world without a purpose.
Chapter Seven
Sue stood leaning out over the battlements of Blandings Castle, her chin cupped in her hands. Her eyes were clouded, her mouth a thin red line of depression. A little furrow of unhappiness had carved itself in the smooth whiteness of her forehead.
It was an instinct for the high places, like that of a small, nervous cat which fears vague perils on the lower levels, that had sent her climbing to this eminence. Wandering past the great gatehouse where a channel of gravel divided the west wing of the castle from the centre block, she had espied an open door, giving on to mysterious stone steps; and, mounting these, had found herself on the roof, with all Shropshire spread beneath her.
The change of elevation had done nothing to alter her mood. It was four o’clock of a sultry, overcast, oppressive afternoon, and a sullen stillness had fallen on the world. The heat wave which for the past two weeks had been grilling England was in the uncomfortable process of working up to a thunderstorm. Shropshire, under a leaden sky, had taken on a sinister and a brooding air. The flowers in the gardens drooped forlornly. The lake was a grey smudge, and the river in the valley below a thread of sickly tarnished silver. Gone, too, was the friendly charm of the Scotch fir spinneys that dotted the park. They seemed now black and haunted and menacing, as if witches lived in crooked little cottages in the heart of them.
‘Ugh!’ said Sue, hating Shropshire.
Until this moment, except for a few cows with secret sorrows, there had been no living creature to mitigate the gloom of the grim prospect. It was as if life, discouraged by the weather conditions, had died out upon the earth. But as she spoke, shaking her head with the flicker of a grimace, she perceived on the path below a familiar form. It looked up, sighted her, waved, and disappeared in the direction of the gatehouse. And presently feet boomed hollowly on the stone stairs, and there came into view the slouch-hatted head of Monty Bodkin. ‘Hullo, Sue. All alone?’
Monty, who seemed, like everything else, to be affected by the weather, puffed, removed his hat, fanned himself, and laid it down.
‘Gosh, what a day!’ he observed. ‘You been up here long?’
‘About an hour.’
‘I’ve been closeted with that fellow Pilbeam in the smoking-room. Went in to fill my cigarette-case and got into conversation with him. He’s been telling me all about himself. Interesting chap.’
‘I think he’s a worm.’
‘He is a worm,’ agreed Monty. ‘But even worms, don’t you think, are of more than passing interest when they run private inquiry agencies? Did you know he was a private detective?’
‘Yes.’
. ‘Now, there’s a job I should like.’
‘You would hate it, Monty. Sneaking about, spying on people.’
‘But with a magnifying-glass, remember,’ urged Monty. ‘You don’t feel that it makes a difference if you do it with a magnifying-glass? No? Well, perhaps you’re right. In any case, I suppose it requires special gifts. I wouldn’t know a clue if you brought me one on a skewer. I say, did you ever see such a day? I feel as if I were in a frying-pan. Still, I suppose one’s as well off up here as anywhere.’
‘I suppose so.’
Monty surveyed his surroundings with a sentimental eye.
‘Must have been fifteen years since I was on this roof. As a kid you couldn’t keep me off it. I smoked my first cigar behind that buttress. Slightly to the left is the spot where I was sick. You see that chimney-stack?’
Sue saw the chimney-stack.
‘I once watched old Gally chase Ronnie twenty-seven times round that with a whangee. He had been putting tin-tacks on his chair. Ronnie had on Gally’s chair, I mean, of course, not Gally on Ronnie’s. Where is Ronnie by the way?’
‘Lady Julia asked him to take her to Shrewsbury in his two-seater, to do some shopping.’
Sue’s voice was flat, and Monty looked at her inquiringly. ‘Well, why not?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Sue. ‘Only, considering that she was at Biarritz for three months and then in Paris and after that in London, it seems odd that she should wait to do her shopping till she got to Shrewsbury.’
Monty nodded sagely.
‘I see what you mean. A ruse, you think? A cunning stratagem to keep him out of the way? I shouldn’t wonder if you weren’t right.’
Sue looked out over the grey world.
‘She needn’t have bothered,’ she said, in a small voice. ‘Ronnie seems quite capable of keeping out of my way without assistance.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Haven’t you noticed?’
‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ said Monty apologetically. ‘What with being a good deal e
xercised about my lord Emsworth’s questionable attitude and musing in my spare time on good old Gertrude, I haven’t been much in the vein for noticing things. Has he been keeping out of your way?’
‘Ever since we got back.’
‘Oh, rot.’
‘It isn’t rot.’
‘A girlish fancy, child.’
‘It’s nothing of the kind. He’s been avoiding me all the time. He’ll do anything to keep from being alone with me. And if ever we do happen to be alone together he’s quite different.’
‘How do you mean, different?’
‘Polite. Horribly, disgustingly polite. All sort of stiff and formal, as if I were a stranger. You know that way he gets when he’s with someone he doesn’t like.’
Monty was concerned.
‘I say, this wants thinking over. I confess that my primary scheme, on spotting you leaning over the ramparts, was to buzz up and pour out my troubles on your neck. But if this is really so, you had better do the pouring. As what’s-his-name said to the stretcher-case, “Your need is greater than mine”.’
‘Are you in trouble, too?’
‘Trouble?’ Monty held up a warning hand. ‘Listen. Don’t
tempt me. One more word of encouragement, and I’ll be monopolizing the conversation.’
‘Go on. I can wait.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Quite.’
Monty sighed gratefully.
‘Well, it’ll be a relief, I must own,’ he admitted. ‘Sue, old girl, I am becoming conscious of an impending doom. The future is looking black. For some reason which I am unable to fathom I don’t seem to have made a hit with my employer.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Signs, Sue. Signs and portents. The old blighter bites at me. He clicks his tongue irritably. I look up and find his eyes fixed on me with an expression of loathing. You wouldn’t think it possible that a man who could stick Hugo Carmody as a secretary for a matter of eleven weeks would be showing distress signs after a mere two days of me, but there it is. Why, I cannot say, but the ninth Earl obviously hates my insides.’
‘Quite sure.’
‘But it seems so unlike Lord Emsworth. I’ve always thought him such an old dear.’
‘Precisely how I had remembered him from boyhood days. He used to tip me when I went back to school—tip me lavishly and with the kindest of smiles. But no longer. Not any more. He now views me with concern and dogs my footsteps.’
‘Does what?’
‘Dogs my footsteps. Tails me up, as they say at Scotland Yard. Do you recall that hymn about “See the hosts of Midian prowl and prowl around”? Well, that’s what this extraordinary bloke does. For some strange reason of his own he has started watching me, as if he were suspecting me of nameless crimes. I’ll give you an instance. Yesterday afternoon I had gone down to the pig-bin to chirrup to that pig of his in the hope of establishing cordial relations, as you advised, and as I approached the animal’s lair I happened to glance round, and there he was peering out from behind a tree, his face alight with mistrust. Wouldn’t you call that prowling?’
‘It certainly seems like prowling.’
‘It is prowling. Grade A prowling. And what, I am asking myself, will the harvest be? You may say, Oh, why worry? arguing that an Earl, on his own ground, has a perfect right to hide behind trees and glare at secretaries. But I go deeper than that. I look on the thing as a symptom, and a dangerous symptom. I contend that the Earl who hides behind trees today is an Earl who intends to apply the order of the boot tomorrow. And, my gosh, Sue, I can’t afford to go getting the boot twice daily like this. If I don’t stay put in some sort of job for a year, I fail to gather in Gertrude, and how am I to get another job if I lose this one? I’m not an easy man to place. I have my limitations, and I know it.’
‘Poor old Monty!’
‘“Poor old Monty” sums up the thing extraordinarily neatly,’ agreed the haunted man. ‘I’m sunk if this old bird fires me. And what makes it so particularly foul is that I haven’t a notion what he’s got against me. I’ve made a point of being so fearfully alert and obsequious and the perfect secretary generally. I’ve been simply fascinating. The whole thing’s a mystery.’
Sue reflected.
‘I’ll tell you what to do. Why not get hold of Ronnie and ask him to ask Lord Emsworth tactfully …’ Monty shook his head.
‘Not Ronnie. No. Not within the sphere of practical politics. Now, there’s another mystery, Sue. Old Ronnie. Once one of my closest pals, and now frigid, aloof, distant. Says “Oh, yes?” and “Really?” when I speak to him, and turns away as if desirous of terminating the conversation.’
‘Really?’
‘And “Oh, yes?’”
‘I mean, does he really seem not to like you?’
‘He’s as sniffy as dammit. And I can’t… Great Scott, Sue,’ cried Monty, struck with an idea, ‘you don’t suppose that by any chance he Knows All?’
‘That you and I were once engaged? How could he?’
‘No, that’s right. He couldn’t, could he?’
‘Nobody here can have told him, because nobody knows. Except Gally, who wouldn’t breathe a word.’
‘True. It only occurred to me as a rather rummy coincidence that he’s upstage like this with both of us. Why, if he does not Know All, should he be keeping out of your way, as you say he’s doing?’
All Sue’s pent-up misery found voice. She had not intended to confide in Monty, for she was a girl whom life had trained to keep her troubles to herself. But Ronnie had gone to Shrewsbury, and the heat was making her head ache, and the sky was looking like the underside of a dead fish, and she wished she were dead, so she poured out all the poison that was in her heart.
‘I’ll tell you why. Because his mother has been talking to him… never stopped since she got here … talking to him and nagging at him and telling him what a fool he is to think of marrying a girl like me, when there are dozens of girls in his own set… Oh, yes, she has. I know it just as if I had been there. I know exactly the sort of things she would say. And all quite true, too, I suppose. ” My dear boy, a chorus-girl!” Well, so I am. You can’t get away from that. Why should anyone want to marry me?’
Monty clicked his tongue. He could not subscribe to this.
‘My dear old egg! Do it myself tomorrow, if not already earmarked elsewhere. I consider Ronnie dashed lucky.’
‘That’s sweet of you, Monty, but I’m afraid Ronnie doesn’t agree with you.’
‘Oh, rot!’
‘I wish I could think so.’
‘Absolute rot. Ronnie’s not the sort of chap to back out of marrying a girl he’s asked to marry him.’
‘Oh, I know that. His word is his bond. We men of honour! My poor old Monty, you don’t really think I would marry a man who has stopped being fond of me, simply because he’s too decent to break the engagement? If there’s one person I despise in the world, it’s the girl who clings to a man when she knows it’s only politeness that keeps him from telling her for goodness’ sake to go away and leave him in peace. If ever I really feel certain that Ronnie wants to be rid of me,’ said Sue, staring dry-eyed at the menacing sky. ‘I’ll chuck it all up in a second, no matter how much it hurts.’
Monty shuffled uneasily.
‘I think you’re making too much of it all,’ he said, but without conviction. ‘If you boil it down, probably all that’s happened is that the old chap’s got a touch of liver. Enough to give anyone a touch of liver, weather like this.’
Sue did not reply. She had walked to the battlements and was looking down. Something in the aspect of her back seemed to tell Monty Bodkin that she was either crying or about to cry, and he did not know what to do for the best. The face of Gertrude Butterwick, floating between him and the sky, forbade the obvious move. A man with a Gertrude Butterwick on his books cannot lightly put his arms round other waists and murmur ‘There, there!’ into other ears.
He coughed and sa
id, ‘Er—well…’
Sue did not turn. He coughed again. Then, with a’ Well—I—er -ah…’ he sidled to the stairs. The clang of the closing door came to Sue’s ears as she dabbed at her eyes with the tiny fragment of lace which she called a handkerchief. She was relieved that he had gone. There are moments when a girl must be alone to wrestle single-handed with her own particular devils.
This she did, bravely and thoroughly. There was in her small body the spirit of an Amazon. She fought the devils and routed the devils, till presently a final sniff told that the battle had been won. Shropshire, which had been a thing of mist, became firmer in its outlines. She put away the handkerchief and stood blinking defiantly.
She was happier now. The determination to finish everything, if she saw Ronnie wanted it finished had not weakened. It still lay rooted at the back of her mind. But hope had dawned again. She was telling herself that she understood Ronnie’s odd behaviour. He was worried, poor darling, as who would not be with a woman of Lady Julia Fish’s powerful personality going on at him all the time. And when a man is worried, he naturally becomes preoccupied.
The sound of a car drawing up on the other side of the house broke in upon her meditations. She hurried across the roof, her heart quickening.
She turned away, disappointed. It was not Ronnie, back from Shrewsbury. It was only a short, stout man who had driven up in the station taxi. A short, stout, stumpy man of no importance whatever.
So thought Sue in her ignorance. The stout man, had he known that he was being thus casually dismissed as negligible, would have been not only offended, but amazed.
For this visitor to Blandings Castle, for all that he arrived without pomp, driven to his destination by charioteer Robinson in that humble conveyance, the Market Blandings station taxi, was none other than George Alexander Pyke, first Viscount Tilbury, founder and proprietor of the Mammoth Publishing Company of Tilbury House, Tilbury Street, London.
There are men of the bulldog breed who do not readily admit defeat. Crushed to earth, they rise again. To this doughty band belonged George Alexander, Viscount Tilbury. He had built up a very large fortune chiefly by the simple method of never knowing when he was beaten, and the fact that he was now ringing the doorbell of Blandings Castle proved that the ancient spirit still lingered. He had come to tackle the Hon. Galahad Threepwood in person about those Reminiscences of his, and he meant to stand no nonsense.
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