Presently, a little restored, he returned to the bed and sat down again. Endeavouring to recall the events which had led up to the tragedy, he found that he could do so only skctchily. One fact alone stood out clearly in his recollection—to wit, that in some way which he could not quite remember he had been insulted by Lady Constance Keeble. A great bitterness against Lady Constance began to burgeon within Percy Pilbeam, and it was not long before he reached the decision that, cost what it might, she must be scored off. There would be no auction sale. As soon as he felt physically capable of moving, he would take that manuscript to Lord Tilbury at the Emsworth Arms.
At this point in his meditations the house was blown up by a bomb. Or, what amounted to much the same thing as far as the effect on the nervous system was concerned, there was a knock at the door.
‘May I come in, my dear fellow?’
Pilbeam recognized the voice. He could not be rude to his only friend at Blandings Castle. He swallowed his heart again, and unlocked the door.
‘Ah! Sitting up, I see. Feeling a little better, eh? We all missed you at dinner,’ said Lord Emsworth, beginning to potter about the room as he pottered about all rooms which he honoured with his presence. ‘We wondered what had become of you. My sister Julia, if I remember rightly, speculated as to the possibility of your having got the Black Death. What put the idea into her head, I can’t imagine. Absurd, of course. People don’t get the Black Death nowadays. I’ve never heard of anyone getting the Black Death. In fact,’ said Lord Emsworth, with a burst of confidence, dropping into the fireplace the hair-brush which he had been attempting to balance on the comb,’ I don’t believe I know what the Black Death is:
A sense of being in hell stole over Percy Pilbeam. What with the clatter of that brush, which had set his head aching again, and his host’s conversation, which threatened to make it ache still more, he was sore beset.
‘No doubt all that has happened,’ proceeded Lord Emsworth, moving the soap-dish a little to the left, the water-bottle a little to the right, a chair a little nearer the door, and another chair a little nearer the window, ‘is that that thunderstorm gave you a headache. And I was wondering, my dear fellow, if a breath of fresh air might not do you good. Fresh air is often good for headaches. I am on my way to have a look at the Empress, and it crossed my mind that you might care to come with me. It is a beautiful night. There is a lovely moon, and I have an electric torch.’
Here, Lord Emsworth, pausing from tapping the mirror with a buttonhook, produced from his pocket the torch in question and sent a dazzling ray shooting into his companion’s inflamed eyes.
The action decided Pilbeam. To remain longer in the confined space of a bedroom with this man would be to subject his sanity to too severe a test. He said he would be delighted to come and take a look at the Empress.
Out on the gravel drive he began to feel a little better. As Lord Emsworth had said, it was a beautiful night. Pilbeam was essentially a creature of the city, with urban tastes, but even he could appreciate the sweet serenity of the grounds of Blandings Castle under that gracious moon. So restored did he feel by the time they had gone a hundred yards or so that he even ventured on a remark.
‘Aren’t we,’ he asked, ‘going the wrong way?’
‘What’s that, my dear fellow?’ said Lord Emsworth, wrenching his mind from the torch, which he was flashing on and off like a child with a new toy. ‘What did you say?’
‘Don’t you get to the sty by crossing the terrace?’
‘Ah, but you’ve forgotten, my dear Pilbeam. Acting on your advice, we moved her to the new one just before dinner. You recollect advising us to move her from her old sty?’
‘Of course. Quite. Yes, I remember.’
‘Pirbright didn’t like it. I could tell that by the strange noises he made at the back of his throat. He has some idea that she will feel restless and unhappy away from her old home. But I was particularly careful to wait and see that she was comfortably settled in, and I could detect no signs of restlessness whatever. She proceeded to eat her evening meal with every indication of enjoyment.’
‘Good,’ said Pilbeam, feeling distrait.
‘Eh?’
‘I said “Good”.’
‘Oh, “Good”? Yes, quite so. Yes, very good. I feel most pleased about it. As I pointed out to Pirbright, the risk of leaving her in her old quarters was far too great to be taken. Why, my dear Pilbeam, do you know that my sister Constance had actually invited that man Parsloe to dinner tonight? Oh, yes, there he was, at dinner with us. No doubt he had persuaded her to invite him, thinking that, having got into the place he would be able to find an opportunity during the evening of slipping away and going down to the sty and doing the poor animal a mischief. A nice surprise he’s going to get when he finds the sty empty. He won’t know what to make of it. He’ll be nonplussed.’
Here Lord Emsworth paused to chuckle. Pilbeam, though not amused, contrived to emit on his side something that might have passed as a mirthful echo.
‘This new sty,’ proceeded Lord Emsworth, having switched the torch on and off six times, ‘is an altogether more suitable place. As a matter of fact, I had it built specially for the Empress in the spring, but owing to Pirbright’s obstinacy I never moved her there. I don’t know if you know these Shropshire fellows at all, Pilbeam, but they can be as obstinate as Scotsmen. I have a Scots head gardener, Angus McAllister, and he is intensely obstinate. Like a mule. I must tell you some time about the trouble I had with him regarding hollyhocks. But Pirbright can be fully as stubborn when he gets an idea into his head. I reasoned with him. I said, “Pirbright, this sty is a new sty, with all the latest improvements. It is up to date, in keeping with the trend of modern thought, and, what is more—and this I consider very important—it adjoins the kitchen garden…”’
He broke off. A sound beside him in the darkness had touched his kindly heart.
‘Is your head hurting you again, my dear fellow?’
But the bubbling cry which had proceeded from Percy Pilbeam had not been caused by pain in the head.
‘The kitchen garden?’ he gasped.
‘Yes. And that is most convenient, you see, because Pirbright’s cottage is so close. No doubt you have seen the place if you have ever strolled round by the kitchen garden. It is made of stout red brick and timber, with a good tiled roof … In fact,’ said Lord Emsworth, flashing his torch, ‘here it is. And there,’ he went on with satisfaction,’ is the Empress, still feeding away without a care in the world. I told Pirbright he was all wrong.’
The Empress might have been without a care in the world, but Percy Pilbeam was very far from sharing that ideal state. He leaned on the rail of the sty and groaned in spirit.
In the light of the electric torch, Empress of Blandings made a singularly attractive, even a fascinating, picture. She had her noble head well down and with a rending, golluping sound was tucking into a late supper. Her curly little tail wiggled incessantly, and ever and anon a sort of sensuous quiver would pass along her Zeppelin-like body. But Percy Pilbeam was in no frame of mind to admire the rare and the beautiful. He was trying to adjust himself to this utterly unforeseen disaster.
He had only himself to blame—that was what made it all the more bitter. If he had not so casually given his casting vote in favour of shifting this infernal pig to new quarters, he would not now have been faced by a problem which every moment seemed to become more difficult of solution.
For Pilbeam was afraid of pigs. He seemed to remember having read somewhere that if you go into a pig’s sty and the pig doesn’t know you it comes for you like a tiger and chews you to ribbons. Greedy though he was for Lord Tilbury’s gold, something told him that never, no matter how glittering the reward, would he be able to bring himself to go into that sty in quest of the manuscript, guarded as it now was by this ravening beast. The Prodigal Son might have mixed with these animals on a clubby basis, but Percy Pilbeam knew himself to be incapable of imitating him.
> How long he would have stood there, savouring the bitterness of defeat, one cannot say. Left to himself, probably quite a considerable time. But his reverie had scarcely begun when it was shattered by a cry at his elbow.
‘God bless my soul!’
It seemed to Pilbeam for an instant that he had come unstuck. He clutched the rail, quivering in every limb.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ he demanded, far more brusquely than a guest should have done of his host.
An agitation almost equal to his own was causing the torch to wobble in Lord Emsworth’s hands.
‘God bless my soul, what’s that she’s eating? Pirbright! Pirbright! Can you see what she’s eating, Pilbeam, my dear fellow? Pirbright! Pirbright! Can it be paper?’
With a febrile swoop Lord Emsworth bent through the rails. He came up again, breathing heavily. The light of the torch came and went like a heliograph upon something which he held in his hand.
Galloping feet sounded in the night.
‘Pirbright!’
‘Yur, m’lord?
‘Pirbright, have you been giving the Empress paper?’
‘No, m’lord.’
‘Well, that’s what she’s eating. Great chunks of it.’
‘Ur, m’lord?’ said the pig-man, marvelling.
‘I assure you, yes. Paper. Look! Well, God bless my soul,’ cried Lord Emsworth, at last steadying the torch, ‘I’m dashed if it isn’t that book of my brother Galahad’s!’
Chapter Fourteen
At about the moment when Lord Emsworth had knocked at Percy Pilbeam’s door to inquire after his health and make his kindly suggestion of a breath of fresh air, his sister Lady Constance Keeble, his sister Lady Julia Fish, and his neighbour and guest Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe were gathered together in the drawing-room, talking things over and endeavouring to come to some agreement as to the best method of handling the situation which had arisen.
The tone of the meeting had been a little stormy from the very outset. Owing to the suddenness of his summons to the Castle and the difficulty of explaining things over the telephone, all that Sir Gregory had known till now was the bare fact that Pilbeam had obtained possession of the manuscript and was proposing to deliver it to Lord Tilbury. Informed over the coffee cups by Lady Julia that the whole disaster was to be attributed to her sister Constance’s tactless handling of the fellow, he had drawn his breath in sharply, gazed at Lady Constance in a reproachful manner, and started clicking his tongue.
Any knowledgeable person could have guessed what would happen after that. No woman of spirit can sit calmly and have a man click his tongue at her. No hostess, on the other hand, can be openly rude to a guest. Seeking an outlet for her emotions, Lady Constance had begun to quarrel with Lady Julia. And as Lady Julia, always fond of a family row, had borne her end of the encounter briskly, before he knew where he was Sir Gregory became aware that he had sown the wind and was reaping the whirlwind.
We mention these things to explain why it happened that there was a certain delay before G.H.Q. took the obvious step of trying to establish communication with Percy Pilbeam. More than a quarter of an hour had elapsed before Sir Gregory was able to still the tumult of battle with these arresting words:
‘But, I say, dash it all, don’t you think we ought to see the feller?’
They acted like magic. Angry passions were chained. Good things about to be said were corked up and stored away for use on some future occasion. The bell was rung for Beach. Beach was dispatched to Pilbeam’s room with instructions to desire him to be so good as to step down to the drawing-room for a moment. And the end of it all was that Beach returned and announced that Mr Pilbeam was not there.
Consternation reigned.
‘Not there?’ cried Lady Constance.
‘Not there!’ cried Lady Julia.
‘But he must be there,’ protested Sir Gregory. ‘Fellow goes to his room with a headache to lie down and have a sleep,’ he proceeded, arguing closely. ‘Stands to reason he must be there.’
‘You can’t have knocked loudly enough, Beach,’ said Lady Constance.
‘Go up and knock again,’ said Lady Julia.
‘Hit the dashed door a good hard bang,’ said Sir Gregory.
Beach’s demeanour was respectful but unsympathetic.
‘Receiving no response to my knocking, m’lady, I took the liberty of entering the room. It was empty.’
‘Empty?’
‘Empty!’
‘You mean,’ said Sir Gregory, who liked to get these things straight, ‘there wasn’t anybody in the room?’ Beach inclined his head.
‘The bedchamber was unoccupied,’ he assented.
‘He may be in the smoking-room,’ suggested Lady Constance.
‘Or the billiard-room,’ said Lady Julia.
‘Having a bath,’ cried Sir Gregory, inspired. ‘Fellow with a headache might quite easily go and have a bath. Do his headache good.’
‘I visited the smoking-room and the billiard-room, m’lady. The door of the bathroom on Mr Pilbeam’s floor was open, revealing emptiness within. I am inclined to think, m’lady,’ said Beach ‘that the gentleman has gone for a walk.’
The awful words produced a throbbing silence. Only too wellcould these three visualize the direction in which, if he had taken a walk, Percy Pilbeam would have taken it.
‘Thank you, Beach,’ said Lady Constance dully.
The butler bowed and withdrew. The silence continued unbroken. Sir Gregory walked heavily to the window and stood looking out into the night. It almost seemed to him that across that starry sky he could see written in letters of flame the story of the prawns.
Lady Constance gave a shuddering sigh.
‘We shan’t have a friend left!’
Lady Julia lit a cigarette.
‘Poor old Miles! Bang goes his reputation!’
Sir Gregory turned from the window.
‘Those Local Committee chaps will give the nomination to old Billing now, I suppose.’ His Regency-buck face twisted with injured wrath. ‘Why the devil need the feller have been in such a hurry? Why couldn’t he at least have let me talk to him? I brought my cheque-book with me specially. He knows I’d have given him five hundred pounds. I’ll bet he won’t get that from this Tilbury of his. I’ve met Tilbury. I’ve heard stories about him. Mean man. Tight with his money. Pilbeam’ll be lucky if he gets a couple of hundred out of him.’
‘A pity you put his back up like that, Connie,’ said Lady Julia suavely. ‘I don’t suppose now he cares about the money so much. What he wants is to be nasty.’
‘What I think a pity,’ retorted Lady Constance, with the splendid Keeble spirit, ‘is that Sir Gregory ever mentioned the matter to a man like this Pilbeam. He might have known that he was not to be trusted.’
‘Exactly,’ said Lady Julia. ‘An insane thing to do.’
This unexpected alliance disconcerted Sir Gregory Parsloe. He spluttered.
‘Well, I had had dealings with the fellow before on a … on a private matter, and had found him alert and enterprising. I just went and engaged him naturally, as you would engage anyone to do something. It never occurred to me that he wasn’t to be trusted.’
‘Not even after you saw that moustache?’ said Lady Julia. ‘Well, there’s just one gleam of comfort in this business, Connie’
We shall now be able to talk to Clarence and put a stop to any nonsense of his giving Ronnie his money.’
‘That’s true,’ said Lady Constance, brightening a little.
As she spoke, the door opened and Percy Pilbeam came in.
Everybody, as the poet so well says, is loved by someone, and it is to be supposed, therefore, that somewhere in the world there were faces that lit up when even Percy Pilbeam entered the room. But never, not even by his mother, if he had a mother, nor by some warm-hearted aunt, if he had a warm-hearted aunt, could he have been more rapturously received than he was received now by Lady Constance Keeble, by Lady Julia Fish, and by Sir Greg
ory Parsloe-Parsloe, Bart, of Matchingham Hall, Salop. Santa Claus himself would have had a less enthusiastic welcome.
‘Mr Pilbeam!’
‘Mr Pilbeam?’
‘Pilbeam, my dear chap!’
‘Come in, Mr Pilbeam!’
‘Sit down, Mr Pilbeam!’
‘Pilbeam, my dear fellow, a chair.’
‘How is your headache, Mr Pilbeam?’
‘Are you feeling better, Mr Pilbeam?’
‘Pilbeam, old man, I have a cigar here which I think you will appreciate.’
The investigator looked from one to the other with growing bewilderment. Though an investigator, he could not deduce what had caused this exuberance. He had come to the room expecting a sticky ten minutes, and had forced himself to face it because business was business and, now that that ghastly pig had transferred almost the entire manuscript of the Hon. Galahad’s Reminiscences to its loathsome inside, it was from the group before him alone that he could anticipate anything in the nature of a cash settlement.
‘Thanks,’ he said, accepting the chair.
‘Thanks,’ he said, taking the cigar.
‘Thanks,’ he said, in response to the inquiries after his health. ‘No, it isn’t so bad now.’
‘That’s good,’ said Sir Gregory heartily.
‘Splendid,’ said Lady Constance.
‘Capital,’ said Lady Julia.
These paeans of joy concluded, there occurred that momentary hush which always comes over any gathering or assembly when business is about to be discussed. Pilbeam’s eyes were flickering warily from face to face. He had got to do some expert bluffing, and was bracing himself to the task.
‘I came about—that thing,’ he said, at length.
‘Exactly, exactly, exactly,’ cried Sir Gregory. ‘You’ve been thinking it over and…’
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