Blanding Castle Omnibus

by P. G. Wodehouse

  ‘You hid it? But are you sure it is safe?’

  Monty leaned against the wall, holding his breath. He felt like the owner of a home-made radio who has accidentally got San Francisco.

  The Pilbeam who had borrowed Voule’s motor-bicycle and ridden down to the Emsworth Arms and now faced Lord Tilbury in the writing-room of that hostelry was a very different Pilbeam from the gay telephoner of before dinner. The telephoning Pilbeam had been a man who gave free rein to a jovial exuberance, knowing himself to be sitting on top of the world. The writing-room Pilbeam was a taut and anxious gambler, staking his all on one last throw.

  After that painful scene in the drawing-room, it had taken the detective perhaps ten minutes to realize that, though all seemed lost, there did still remain just one chance of saving the day. If he were salesman enough to dispose of that manuscript to Lord Tilbury, sight unseen, without being compelled to mention that it was no longer—except in a greatly transmuted state inside Empress of Blandings—in existence, all would be well.

  There might possibly be a little coldness on the other’s side next time they met, for Lord Tilbury, he knew, was one of those men who rather readily take umbrage on discovering that they have paid a thousand pounds for nothing, but he was used to people being cold to him and could put up with that.

  So here he was, making his last throw.

  ‘You hid it?’ said Lord Tilbury, after the detective in a brief opening speech had explained that he had not come to deliver the goods in person. ‘But are you sure it is quite safe?’

  ‘Oh, quite.’

  ‘But why did you not bring it with you?’

  ‘Too risky. You don’t know what that house is like. There’s Lady Constance after the thing and Gally Threepwood after the thing and Ronnie Fish and… well, as I said to Monty Bodkin this afternoon, a fellow trying to smuggle that manuscript out of the place is rather like a chap in a detective story trapped in the den of the Secret Nine.’

  A little gasp of indignation forced itself from Monty’s outraged lips. This, he felt, was just that little bit that is too much. He had been modestly proud of that crack about the Secret Nine. Not content with pinching his manuscripts, this dastardly detective was pinching his nifties. It was enough to make a fellow chafe and, Monty chafed a good deal.

  ‘I see,’ said Lord Tilbury. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. But if you hid it in your bedroom …’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Then where?’

  The crucial moment had arrived, and Pilbeam braced himself to cope with it.

  ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘I think, perhaps, before I tell you that, we had better just get the business end of the thing settled, eh? If you have your cheque-book handy..

  ‘But, my dear Pilbeam, surely you do not expect me to pay before…?’

  ‘Quite,’ said the detective, and held his breath. His stake was on the board and the wheel had begun to spin.

  It seemed to Monty that Lord Tilbury also must be holding his breath, for there followed a long silence. When he did speak, his tone was that of a man who has been wounded.

  ‘Well, really, Pilbeam! I think you might trust me.’

  “‘Trust nobody” is the Pilbeam family motto,’ replied the detective with a return of what might be called his telephone manner.

  ‘But how am I to know …?’

  ‘You’ve got to trust me,’ said Pilbeam brightly. ‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘if you don’t like that way of doing business, well, in that case, I suppose the deal falls through. No hard feelings on either side. I simply go back to the Castle and take the matter up with Sir Gregory Parsloe and Lady Constance. They want that manuscript just as much as you do, though, of course, their reasons aren’t the same as yours. They want to destroy it. Parsloe’s original offer was five hundred pounds, but I shall have no difficulty in making him improve on that…’

  ‘Five hundred pounds is a great deal of money,’ said Lord Tilbury, as if he were having a tooth out.

  ‘It’s not nearly as much as a thousand,’ replied Pilbeam, as if he were a light-hearted dentist. ‘And you agreed to that on the telephone.’

  ‘Yes, but then I assumed that you would be bringing…’

  ‘Well, take it or leave it, Tilbury, take it or leave it,’ said the detective, and from the little crackling splutter which followed the words Monty deduced that he was doing what we are so strongly advised to do when we wish to appear nonchalant, lighting a cigarette. ‘Good!’ he said a moment later. ‘I think you’re wise. Make it open, if you don’t mind.’

  There was a pause. The heavy breathing that came through the window could only be that of a parsimonious man occupied in writing a cheque for a thousand pounds. It is a type of breathing

  which it is impossible to mistake, though in some respects it closely resembles the sound of a strong man’s death agony.

  ‘There!’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And now—?’

  “Well, I’ll tell you,’ said Pilbeam. ‘It’s like this. I didn’t dare hide the thing in the house, so I put it carefully away in a disused pigsty near the kitchen garden. Wait. If you’ll lend me your fountain pen, I’ll draw you a map. See, here’s the wall of the kitchen garden. You go along it, and on your left you will see this sty in a little paddock. You can’t mistake it. It’s the only building there. You go in and under the straw, where I’m putting this cross, is the manuscript. That’s clear?’

  ‘Quite clear.’

  ‘You think you will be able to find it all right?’

  ‘Perfectly easily.’—‘Good. Well, now, there’s just one other thing. The merest trifle, but you want to be prepared for it. I said this pigsty was disused, and when I put the manuscript in it so it was. But since then they’ve gone and shifted that pig of Lord Emsworth’s there, the animal they call the Empress of Blandings.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I thought I had better mention it, as otherwise it might have given you a surprise when you got there.’

  The momentary spasm of justifiable indignation which had attacked Lord Tilbury on hearing this piece of information left him. In its place came, oddly enough, a distinct relief. In some curious way the statement had removed from his mind a doubt which had been lingering there. It made Pilbeam’s story seem circumstantial.

  ‘That is quite all right,’ he said as cheerfully as could be expected of a man of his views on parting with money so soon after the writing of a thousand-pound cheque. ‘That will cause no difficulty.’

  ‘You think you can cope with this pig?’

  ‘Certainly. I am not afraid of pigs. Pigs like me.’

  At these words, Monty found his respect for a breed of animal which he had always rather admired waning a good deal. No animal of the right sort, he felt, could like Lord Tilbury.

  ‘Then that’s fine,’ said Pilbeam. ‘I’d start at once if I were you. Are you going to walk?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ll need a torch.’

  ‘No doubt I can borrow one from the landlord of this inn.’

  ‘Good. Then everything’s all right.’

  There came to Monty’s ears the sound of the opening and closing of a door. Lord Tilbury had apparently left to begin the business of the night. For a moment Monty thought that Pilbeam must have left, too, but after a brief silence there came through the window a muttered oath, and, peeping in, he saw that the detective was leaning over the writing-desk. The ejaculation had presumably been occasioned by his discovery that there was no paper, no envelope, no pen, and only what a dreamer could have described as ink.

  And such, indeed, was the case. Percy Pilbeam was a man who believed in prompt action. He intended to dispatch that cheque to his bank without delay.

  He rang the bell.

  ‘I want some ink,’ Monty heard him say. ‘And a pen and some paper and an envelope.’

  He had placed the cheque on the desk before making the discovery of its lack of stationery. He now picked it up and stood l
ooking at it lovingly.

  He was well pleased with himself. It was a far, far better thing that he had done than he had ever done, felt Pilbeam. He wondered how many men there were who would have snatched victory out of defeat like that. He reached for his unpleasant moustache and gave it a complacent tug.

  And, as he did so, over his shoulder there came groping a hand. The cheque was twitched from his grasp. And, turning, he perceived Monty Bodkin.

  ‘Hell!’ cried Pilbeam, aghast.

  Monty did not reply. Actions speak louder than words. With a severe look, he tore the cheque in two pieces, then in four, then in eight, then in sixteen, then in thirty-two. Then, finding himself unable to bring the score up to sixty-four, he moved to the fireplace and, still with that austere expression on his face, dropped them in the grate like a shower of confetti.

  After that first anguished cry Pilbeam had not spoken. He stood watching the tragedy with a frozen stare. It seemed to him that he had spent most of his later life looking at people tearing up cheques made out to himself. For one brief instant the battling spirit of the Pilbeams urged him to attack this man with tooth and claw, but the impulse faded. The Pilbeams might be brave, but they were not rash. Monty was some eight inches taller than himself, some twenty pounds heavier, and in addition to this had a nasty look in his eye.

  He accepted the ruling of Destiny. In silence he watched Monty leave the room. The door closed. Percy Pilbeam was alone with his thoughts.

  Monty strolled into the lounge of the Emsworth Arms. It was empty, but presently Lord Tilbury appeared, hatted, booted, and ready for the long trail. Monty eyed him sardonically. He proposed very shortly to put a stick of dynamite under this Lord Tilbury.

  ‘Going out?’ he said.

  ‘I am taking a walk, yes.’

  ‘God bless you!’ said Monty.

  He followed Lord Tilbury with his eye. Shortly he was going to follow him in actual fact. But that could wait. He knew that he could give that stout, stumpy man five minutes’ start and still be at the tryst before him. And in the meantime there was grim work to be done.

  He went to the telephone and rang up Blandings Castle.

  ‘I want to speak to Lord Emsworth,’ he said, in one of those gruff assumed voices that sound like a bull-frog with catarrh.

  ‘I will put you through to his lordship,’ replied the more melodious voice of Beach.

  ‘Do so,’ said Monty, sinking an octave. ‘The matter is urgent.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lord Emsworth had taken his twisted ankle to the library and was lying with it on one of the leather-covered settees. The doctor had come and gone, leaving instructions for the application of hot fomentations and announcing that the patient was out of danger. And as the pain had now entirely disappeared it might have been supposed that the ninth Earl’s mind would have been at rest.

  This, however, was far from being the case. Not only was he anxiously awaiting the veterinary surgeon’s report on the paper-filled Empress, which was enough to agitate any man ill accustomed to bear up calmly under suspense, but to add to his mental discomfort, his two sisters, the Lady Constance Keeble and the Lady Julia Fish, had gathered about his sick-bed and were driving him half mad with some nonsense about his nephew Ronald’s money.

  However, for some time he had been adopting the statesmanlike policy of saying ‘Eh?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Oh, ah?’ and ‘God bless my soul’ at fairly regular intervals, and this had given him leisure to devote his mind to the things that really mattered.

  Paper … Ink… Wasn’t ink a highly corrosive acid or something? And could even the stoutest pig thrive on corrosive acids? Thus Lord Emsworth when his thoughts took a gloomy trend.

  But there were optimistic gleams among the grey. He recalled the time when the Empress, mistaking his carelessly dropped cigar for something on the bill of fare, had swallowed it with every indication of enjoyment and had been none the worse next day. Also Pirbright’s Sunday hat. There was another case that seemed to make for hopefulness. True, she had consumed only a mouthful or two of that, but to remain in excellent health and spirits after eating even a portion of the sort of hat that Pirbright wore on Sundays argued a constitution well above the average. Reviewing these alimentary feats of the past, Lord Emsworth was able to endure.But he wished that Beach would return and put an end to this awful suspense. The butler had been dispatched with the vet. to the sty to bring back his report, and should have been here long ago. Lord Emsworth found himself yearning for Beach’s society as poets of a former age used to yearn for that of gazelles and Arab steeds.

  It was at this tense moment in the affairs of the master of Blandings that Monty’s telephone call came through.

  ‘Lord Emsworth?’ said a deep, odd voice.

  ‘Lord Emsworth speaking.’

  ‘I have reason to believe, Lord Emsworth …’

  ‘Wait!’ cried the ninth Earl. ‘Wait a moment. Hold the line.’ He turned. ‘Well, Beach, well?’

  ‘The veterinary surgeon reports, m’lord, that there is no occasion for alarm.’

  ‘She’s all right?’

  ‘Quite, m’lord. No occasion for anxiety whatsoever.’

  A deep sigh of relief shook Lord Emsworth.

  ‘Eh?’ said the voice at the other end of the wire, not knowing quite what to make of it.

  ‘Oh, excuse me. I was just speaking to my butler about my pig. Extremely sorry to have kept you waiting, but it was most urgent. You were saying—?’

  ‘I have reason to believe, Lord Emsworth, that an attack is to be made upon your pig tonight.’

  Lord Emsworth uttered a sharp, gargling sound.

  ‘What!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t mean that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, do hurry, Clarence,’ said Lady Constance, who wished to get on with the business of the evening. ‘Who is it? Tell him to ring up later.’

  Lord Emsworth waved her down imperiously, and continued to bark into the telephone’s mouthpiece like a sea-lion. ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What time tonight?’

  ‘Any time now.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Oh, Clarence, do stop saying “What” and ring off.’

  ‘Yes, almost immediately.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘God bless my soul! What a ghastly thing! Well, I am infinitely obliged to you, my dear fellow… By the way, who are you?’

  ‘A Well-wisher.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, Clar-ence?

  ‘A Well-wisher.’

  ‘Fisher?’

  ‘Wisher.’

  ‘Disher? Beach,’ cried Lord Emsworth, as a click from afar told him that the man of mystery had hung up, ‘a Mr A. L. Fisher or Disher -I did not quite catch the name—says that an attack is to be made upon the Empress tonight.’

  ‘Indeed, m’lord?’

  ‘Almost immediately.’

  ‘Indeed, m’lord?’

  ‘Don’t keep saying “Indeed, m’lord”, as if I were telling you it was a fine day! Can’t you realize the frightful—? And you, Connie,’ said Lord Emsworth, who was now in thoroughly berserk mood, turning on his sister like a stringy tiger, ‘stop sniffing like that!’

  ‘Really, Clarence!’

  ‘Beach, go and bring Pirbright here.’

  ‘He shall do nothing of the kind,’ said Lady Constance sharply.

  ‘The idea of bringing Pirbright into the library!’

  It was not often that Beach found himself in agreement with the chatelaine of Blandings, but he could not but support her attitude now. Like all butlers, he held definite views on the sanctity of the home and frowned upon attempts on the part of the outside staff to enter it—especially when, like Pirbright, they smelt so very strongly of pigs. Five minutes of that richly scented man in the library, felt Beach, and you would have to send the place to the cleane
r’s.

  ‘Perhaps if I were to convey a message to Pirbright from your lordship?’ he suggested tactfully. Lord Emsworth, though dangerously excited, could still listen to the voice of Reason. It was not the thought of the pig-man’s aroma that made him change his mind—the library, in his opinion, would have been improved by a whiff of bouquet de Pirbright -but that deep, grave voice had said that the attack was to take place almost immediately, and in that case it would be madness to remove the garrison from its post even for an instant.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A very good idea. Much better. Yes, capital. Excellent. Thank you, Beach.’

  ‘Not at all, m’lord.’

  ‘Go at once to Pirbright and tell him what I have told you, and say that he is to remain in hiding near the sty and spring out at the right moment and catch this fellow.’

  ‘Very good, m’lord.’

  ‘He had better strike him over the head with a stout stick.’

  ‘Very good, m’lord.’

  ‘So we shall wind up the evening with a nice murder,’ said Lady Julia. ‘Eh?’

  ‘Don’t pay any attention to me, of course. If you like to incite pig-men to brain people with sticks, it’s none of my affair. But I should have thought you were taking a chance.’

  Lord Emsworth seemed impressed.

  ‘You think he might injure Parsloe fatally?’

  ‘Parsloe!’ Lady Constance’s voice caused a statuette of the young David prophesying before Saul to quiver on its base. ‘Are you off your head, Clarence?’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ replied Lord Emsworth manfully. ‘What’s the use of pretending that you don’t know as well as I do that it’s Parsloe who is making this attempt tonight? The way you let that fellow pull the wool over your eyes, Constance, amazes me. What do you think he wheedled you into inviting him to dinner for? So that he could be on the premises and have easy access to the Empress, of course. I’ll bet you find he has sneaked off while you were not looking.’

  ‘Clarence!’

  ‘Well, where is he? Produce Parsloe! Show me Parsloe!’

  ‘Sir Gregory left the house a few minutes ago. He wished to take a walk.’

  ‘Take a walk!’ This time it was Lord Emsworth’s voice that rocked the young David. ‘Beach, there isn’t a moment to lose! Hurry, man, hurry! Run to Pirbright and say that the blow may fall at any moment.’