Blanding Castle Omnibus

by P. G. Wodehouse

  ‘Kindly put the thing through as soon as possible,’ he said coldly. ‘I have no wish to remain indefinitely at a rustic inn.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll snap into it. What rustic inn, by the way? I ought to have your address.’

  ‘The Emsworth Arms.’

  ‘I know it well. Try their beer with a spot of gin in it. Warms the cockles. All right, then. Expect me there very shortly, with manuscript under arm.’

  ‘Good-bye, then, for the present.’

  ‘Toodle-oo till we meet again,’ said Monty cordially.

  He watched Lord Tilbury disappear, then resumed his walk, immersed in roseate daydreams.

  This, he reflected, was a bit of all right. There were no traces in his mind now of the scruples and timidity which had given him that slightly sandbagged feeling when this proposition had first been sprung upon him. He felt bold and resolute. He intended to secure that manuscript if he had to use a meat-axe.

  In the shimmering heat-mist that lay along the grass it seemed to him that he could see the lovely face of Gertrude Butterwick gazing at him with gentle encouragement, as if she were endeavouring to suggest that he could count on her support and approval in this enterprise. Almost he could have fancied that the ripple of a lonely little breeze which had lost its way in the alder bushes was her silvery voice whispering’ Go to it!’

  Writers are creatures of moods. Too often the merest twiddle of the tap is enough to stop the flow of inspiration. It was so with the Hon. Galahad Threepwood. His recent unpleasant scene with that acquaintance of his youth, the erstwhile Stinker Pyke, had been brief in actual count of time, but it had left him in a frame of mind uncongenial to the resumption of his literary work. He was a kindly man, and it irked him to be disobliging even to the Stinker Pykes of this world.

  To send poor Stinker off with a flea in his ear was not, of course, the same as rebuffing, say, dear old Plug Basham or good old Freddie Potts, but it was quite enough to upset a man who always liked to do the decent thing by everyone and hated to say No to the meanest of God’s creatures. After Lord Tilbury’s departure the Hon. Galahad allowed the manuscript of his lifework to remain in its drawer. With no heart for further polishing and pruning, he heaved a rueful sigh, selected a detective novel from his shelf, and left the room.

  Having paused in the hall to ring the bell and instruct Beach, who answered it, to bring him a whisky and soda out on to the lawn, he made his way to his favourite retreat beneath the big cedar.

  ‘Oh, and Beach,’ he said when the butler arrived with clinking tray, ‘sorry to trouble you, but I wonder if you’d mind leaping up to the small library and fetching me my reading glasses. I forgot them. You’ll find them on the desk.’

  ‘No trouble at all, Mr Galahad,’ said the butler affably. ‘Is there anything else you require?’

  ‘You haven’t seen Miss Brown anywhere?’

  ‘No, Mr Galahad. Miss Brown was taking the air on the terrace shortly after luncheon, but I have not seen her since.’

  ‘All right, then. Just the reading glasses.’

  Addressing himself to the task of restoring his ruffled nerves, the Hon. Galahad had swallowed perhaps a third of the contents of the long tumbler when he observed the butler returning.

  ‘What on earth have you got there, Beach?’ he asked, for the other seemed heavily laden for a man who had been sent to fetch a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles. ‘That’s not my manuscript?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Galahad.’

  ‘Take it back,’ said the author, with pardonable peevishness. ‘I don’t want it. Good Lord, I came out here to forget it.’

  He broke off, mystified. A strange, pop-eyed expression had manifested itself on the butler’s face, and his swelling waistcoat was beginning to quiver faintly. The Hon. Galahad watched these phenomena with interest and curiosity.

  ‘What are you waggling your tummy at me for, Beach?’

  ‘I am uneasy, Mr Galahad.’

  ‘You shouldn’t wear flannel vests, then, in weather like this.’

  ‘Mentally uneasy, sir.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘The safety of this book of yours, Mr Galahad.’ The butler lowered his voice. ‘May I inform you, sir, of what occurred a few moments ago, when I proceeded to the small library to find your glasses?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just as I was about to enter I heard movements within.’

  ‘You did?’ The Hon. Galahad clicked his tongue ‘I wish to goodness people would keep out of that room. They know I use it as my private study.’

  ‘Precisely, Mr Galahad. Nobody has any business there while you arc in residence at the Castle. That is an understood thing. And it was for that reason that I immediately found myself entertaining suspicions.’

  ‘Eh? Suspicions? How do you mean?’

  ‘That some person was attempting to purloin the material which you have written, sir.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Yes, Mr Galahad. And I was right. I paused for an instant,’ said the butler impressively, ‘and then flung the door open sharply and without warning. Sir, there was Mr Pilbeam standing with his hand in the open drawer.’

  ‘Pilbeam?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Galahad.’

  ‘Good gad!’

  ‘Yes, Mr Galahad.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing, Mr Galahad. I looked.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing, Mr Galahad. He smiled.’

  ‘Smiled?’

  ‘In a weak, guilty manner.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Still without speaking, I proceeded to the desk, secured the 110 written material, and started to leave the room. At the door I paused and gave him a cold glance. I then withdrew.’

  ‘Splendid, Beach!’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Galahad.’

  ‘You’re sure he was trying to steal the thing?’

  ‘The papers were actually in his grasp, sir.’

  ‘He couldn’t have been just looking for notepaper or something?’

  A man of Beach’s build could not look like Sherlock Holmes listening to fatuous theories from Doctor Watson, nor could a man of his position, conversing with a social superior, answer as Holmes would have done. The word ‘Tush!’ may have trembled on his lips, but it got no farther.

  ‘No, sir,’ he said briefly.

  ‘But his motive? What possible motive could this extraordinary little perisher have for wanting to steal my book?’

  A certain embarrassment seemed to grip Beach. He hesitated. ‘Might I take the liberty, Mr Galahad?’

  ‘Don’t talk rot, Beach. Liberty? I never heard such nonsense. Why, we’ve known each other since we were kids of forty.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Galahad. Then, if I may speak freely, I should like to recapitulate briefly the peculiar circumstances connected with this book. In the first place, may I say that I am aware of its extreme importance as a factor in the affairs of Mr Ronald and Miss Brown?’

  The Hon. Galahad gave a little jump. He had always known the butler as a man who kept his eyes open and his ears pricked up and informed himself sooner or later of most things that happened at the Castle, but he had not realized that his secret service system was quite so efficient as this.

  ‘In order to overcome the opposition of her ladyship to the union of Mr Ronald and Miss Brown, you expressed your willingness to refrain from giving this volume of Reminiscences into the printer’s hands—her ladyship being hostile to its publication owing to the fact that in her opinion its contents might give offence to many of her friends—notably Sir Gregory Parsloe. Am I not correct, Mr Galahad?’

  ‘Quite right.’

  ‘Your motive in making this concession being that you were

  apprehensive lest, without this check upon her actions, her ladyship might possibly persuade his lordship to refuse to countenance the match?’

  ‘“Possibly” is good. You needn’t be coy, Beach. This meeting is tiled. No reporters
present. We can take our hair down and tell each other our right names. What you actually mean is that my brother Clarence is as weak as water, and that if it wasn’t for this book of mine there would be nothing to stop my sister Constance nagging him into a state where he would agree to forbid a dozen weddings just for the sake of peace and quiet.’

  ‘Exactly, Mr Galahad. I would not have ventured to put the matter into precisely those words myself, but since you have done so I feel free to point out that, the circumstances being as you have outlined, it would be very agreeable to her ladyship were this manuscript to be stolen and destroyed.’

  The Hon. Galahad sat up, electrified.

  ‘Beach, you’ve hit it! That fellow Pilbeam was working for Connie!’

  ‘The evidence would certainly appear to point in that direction, Mr Galahad.’

  ‘Probably Parsloe’s sitting in with them.’

  ‘I feel convinced of it, Mr Galahad. I may mention that on the night of our last dinner-party her ladyship instructed me with considerable agitation to summon Sir Gregory to the Castle by telephone for an urgent conference. Her ladyship and Sir Gregory were closeted in the library for some little time, and then Sir Gregory emerged, obviously labouring under considerable excitement, and a few moments later I observed him talking to Mr Pilbeam very earnestly in a secluded corner of the hall.’

  ‘Giving him his riding orders!’

  ‘Precisely, Mr Galahad. Plotting. The significance of the incident eluded me at the time, but I am now convinced that that was what was transpiring.’

  The Hon. Galahad rose.

  ‘Beach,’ he observed with emotion, ‘I’ve said it before, and I say it again—you’re worth your weight in gold. You’ve saved the situation. You have preserved the happiness of two young lives, Beach.’

  ‘It is very kind of you to say so, sir.’

  ‘I do say so. It’s no use our kidding ourselves. With that manuscript out of the way, those two wouldn’t have a dog’s chance of getting married. I know Clarence. Capital fellow—nobody I’m fonder of in the world—but constitutionally incapable of standing up against arguing women. We must take steps immediately to ensure the safety of this manuscript, Beach.’

  ‘I was about to suggest, Mr Galahad, that it might be advisable if in future you were to lock the drawer in which you keep it.’

  The Hon. Galahad shook his head.

  ‘That’s no good. You don’t suppose a determined woman like my sister Constance, aided and abetted by this ghastly little weasel of a detective, is going to be stopped by a locked drawer? No, we must think of something better than that. I’ve got it. You must take the thing, Beach, and keep it in some safe place. In your pantry, for instance.’

  ‘But, Mr Galahad!’

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Suppose her ladyship were to learn that the papers were in my possession and were to request me to hand them to her? It would precipitate a situation of considerable delicacy were I to meet such a demand with a flat refusal.’

  ‘How on earth is she to know you’ve got it? She doesn’t ever drop into your pantry for a chat, does she?’

  ‘Certainly not, Mr Galahad,’ said the butler, shuddering at the horrid vision the words called up.

  ‘And at night you could sleep with it under your pillow. No risk of Lady Constance coming to tuck you up in bed, what?’

  This time Beach’s emotion was such that he could merely shudder silently.

  ‘It’s the only plan,’ said the Hon. Galahad with decision.’ I don’t want any argument. You take this manuscript and you put it away somewhere where it’ll be safe. Be a man, Beach.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Galahad.’

  ‘Do it now.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Galahad.’

  ‘And, naturally, not a word to a soul.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Galahad.’

  Beach walked slowly away across the lawn. His head was bowed, his heart heavy. It was a moment when a butler of spirit should have worn something of the gallant air of a soldier commissioned to carry dispatches through the enemy’s lines. Beach did not look like that. He resembled far more nearly in his general demeanour one of those unfortunate gentlemen in railway station waiting-rooms who, having injudiciously consented at four-thirty to hold a baby for a strange woman, look at the clock and see that it is now six-fifteen and no relief in sight.

  Dusk was closing down on the forbidding day. Sue, looking out over her battlements, became conscious of an added touch of the sinister in the view beneath her. It was the hour when ghouls are abroad, and there seemed no reason why such ghouls should not decide to pay a visit to this roof on which she stood. She came to the conclusion that she had been here long enough. Eerie little noises were chuckling through the world, and somewhere in the distance an owl had begun to utter its ominous cry. She yearned for her cosy bedroom, with the lights turned on and something to read till dressing for dinner-time.

  It was very dark on the stone stairs, and they rang unpleasantly under her feet. Nevertheless, though considering it probable that at any moment an icy hand would come out from nowhere and touch her face, she braved the descent.

  Her relief as her groping fingers touched the comforting solidity of the door was short-lived. It gave way a moment later to the helpless panic of the human being trapped. The door was locked. She scurried back up the stairs on to the roof, where at least there was light to help her cope with this disaster.

  She remembered now. Half an hour before, a footman had come up and hauled down the flag which during the day floated over Blandings Castle. He had not seen her, and it had not occurred to her to reveal her presence. But she wished now that she had done so, for, supposing the roof empty, he had evidently completed his evening ritual by locking up.

  Something brushed against Sue’s cheek. It was not actually a ghoul, but it was a bat, and bats are bad enough in the gloaming of a haunted day. She uttered a sharp scream—and, doing so, discovered that she had unwittingly hit upon the correct procedure for girls marooned on roofs.

  She hurried to the battlements and began calling ‘Hi!’—in a small, hushed voice at first, for nothing sounds sillier than the word ‘Hi!’ when thrown into the void with no definite objective; then more loudly. Presently, warming to her work, she was producing quite a respectable volume of sound. So respectable that Ronnie Fish, smoking moodily in the garden, became aware that there were voices in the night, and, after listening for a few moments, gathered that they proceeded from the castle roof.

  He made his way to the path that skirted the walls.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Oh, Ronnie!’

  For two days and two nights grey doubts and black cares had been gnawing at the vitals of Ronald Fish. The poison had not ceased to work in his veins. For two days and two nights he had been thinking of Sue and of Monty Bodkin. Every time he thought of Sue it was agony. And every time his reluctant mind turned to the contemplation of Monty Bodkin it was anguish. But at the sound of that voice his heart gave an involuntary leap. She might have transferred her affections to Monty Bodkin, but her voice still remained the most musical sound on earth.

  ‘Ronnie, I can’t get down.’

  ‘Are you on the roof?’

  ‘Yes. And they’ve locked the door.’

  ‘I’ll get the key.’

  And at long last she heard the clang of the lock, and he appeared at the head of the stairs.

  His manner, she noted with distress, was still Eton, still Cambridge. Nobody could have been politer.

  ‘Nuisance, getting locked in like that.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Been up here long?’

  ‘All the afternoon.’

  ‘Nice place on a fine day.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Though hot.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a pause. The heavy air pressed down upon them. In the garden the owl was still hooting. ‘When did you get back?’ asked Sue. ‘About an hour ago.’
r />   ‘I didn’t hear you.’

  ‘I didn’t come to the front. I went straight round to the stables. Dropped mother at the Vicarage.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She wanted to have a talk with the vicar.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You’ve not met the vicar, have you?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘His name’s Fosberry.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Silence fell again. Ronnie’s eyes were roaming about the roof. He took a step forward, stooped, and picked up something. It was a slouch hat.

  He hummed a little under his breath.

  ‘Monty been up here with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ronnie hummed another bar or two.

  ‘Nice chap,’ he said. ‘Let’s go down, shall we?’

  Chapter Eight

  If you turn to the right on leaving the main gates of Blandings Castle and follow the road for a matter of two miles, you will find yourself approaching the little town of Market Blandings. There it stands dreaming the centuries away, a jewel in a green heart of Shropshire. In all England there is no sweeter spot. Artists who come to paint its old grey houses and fishermen who angle for bream in its lazy river are united on this point. The idea that the place could possibly be rendered more pleasing to the eye is one at which they would scoff—and have scoffed many a night over the pipes and tankards at the Emsworth Arms.

  And yet, on the afternoon following the events just recorded, this miracle occurred. The quiet charm of this ancient High Street was suddenly intensified by the appearance of a godlike man in a bowler hat, who came out of an old-world tobacco shop. It was Beach, the butler. With the object of disciplining his ample figure, he had walked down from the Castle to buy cigarettes. He now stood on the pavement, bracing himself to the task of walking back.

  This athletic feat was not looking quite so good to him as it had done three-quarters of an hour ago in his pantry. That long two-mile hike had taxed his powers of endurance. Moreover, this was no weather for Marathons. If yesterday had been oppressive, today was a scorcher. Angry clouds were banking themselves in a copper-coloured sky. No breath of air stirred the trees. The pavement gave out almost visible waves of heat, and over everything there seemed to brood a sort of sulphurous gloom. If they were not in for a thunderstorm, and a snorter of a thunderstorm, before nightfall, Beach was very much mistaken. He removed his hat, produced a handkerchief, mopped his brow, replaced the hat, replaced the handkerchief, and said ‘Woof!’ Disciplining the figure is all very well, but there are limits. An urgent desire for beer swept over Beach.