Blanding Castle Omnibus

by P. G. Wodehouse

  He sat there for several minutes motionless. But though his limbs were inert, his brain was working with the speed which so often accompanies the imminence of peril. He saw that he was faced with a situation impossible for him to handle alone. He needed an ally who would give him moral support, and it was not long before he realized that there was only one man who could fill this position. He went to the telephone and called a London number, and after what seemed to him an eternity a cheery voice spoke at the other end of the wire.

  ‘Hullo?’

  ‘Oh, Galahad,’ Lord Emsworth bleated. ‘This is Clarence, Galahad. A most terrible thing has happened, Galahad. Connie’s back.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  At about the moment when Lady Constance was mounting the stairs that led to the library of Blandings Castle, all eagerness to confront her brother Clarence and let him know what she thought of his outer crust, a dapper little gentleman with a black-rimmed monocle in his left eye paid off the cab which had brought him from Piccadilly, trotted in at the front door of Berkeley Mansions, London W.I. and ascended to the fourth floor where he had his abode. He was feeling in excellent fettle after a pleasant dinner with some of his many friends, and as he started upward he hummed a melody from the music halls of another day.

  Thirty years ago it would have been most unusual for Galahad Threepwood to return home at so early an hour as this, for in his bohemian youth it had been his almost nightly custom to attend gatherings at the Pelican Club which seldom broke up till the milkman had begun his rounds—a practice to which he always maintained that he owed the superb health he enjoyed in middle age.

  ‘It really is an extraordinary thing,’ a niece of his had once said, discussing him with a friend, ‘that anyone who has had as good a time as Gally has had can be so frightfully fit. Everywhere you look you see men who have led model lives pegging out in their thousands, while good old Gally, who was the mainstay of Haig and Haig for centuries and as far as I can make out never went to bed till he was fifty, is still breezing along as rosy and full of beans as ever.’

  But a man tends to slow up a little as the years go by, and he was not averse nowadays to an occasional quiet home evening. He was looking forward to one tonight. The Pelican Club had been dead for ages and with its going had taken much of his enthusiasm for the more energetic forms of night life.

  Opening the door of his apartment and passing through the little hall into the sitting-room, he was surprised to see pacing the floor a human form. This naturally startled him, but it did not give him the instant feeling of impending doom which it would have done in his younger days, when a human form on his premises would almost certainly have been a creditor or a process server. A moment later he had recognized his visitor.

  ‘Why, hullo, Johnny, my boy. I thought for a second you were a ghost someone had hired to haunt the place. How did you get in?’

  ‘The hall porter let me in with his pass key.’

  Gally could not repress a slight frown. Of course it did not really matter now that he was respectable and solvent, but it was the principle of the thing. Hall porters, he felt, ought not to let people in; it undermined the whole fabric of civilized society. Like one wincing at the twinge of an old wound, he recalled the occasion many years ago when a landlady had admitted to his little nest a bookmaker trading under the name of Honest Jerry Judson, to whom a shortage of funds had compelled him to owe ten pounds since the last Newmarket Spring Meeting.

  ‘I told him I was your godson.’

  ‘I see. Still … Nevertheless … Oh, well, never mind. Always delighted to see you.’

  Gally had quite a number of godsons, offspring of old Pelican Club cronies. They were practically all of them orphans, for few of the Pelicans had had the stamina which had enabled him to take the life of that institution in his stride and thrive on it. John Halliday, the young man who had dropped in on him this evening, was the son of the late J.D. (‘Stiffy’) Halliday, one of the many for whom the club’s pace had proved too rapid. He had signed his last I.O.U. in his early forties, and it was a matter of surprise to his circle of intimates that he had managed to continue functioning till then.

  Scrutinizing John through his monocle, Gally, as always when they met, was impressed by the thought of how little resemblance there was between poor old Stiffy and this son of his. The former—splendid chap, but let’s face it not everybody’s cup of tea—had presented, as so many Pelicans did, the appearance of a man with a severe hangover who had slept in his clothes and had not had time to shave: the latter was neat, trim, fit and athletic looking. There was about him something suggestive of a rising young barrister who in his leisure hours goes in a good deal for golf and squash racquets, and that, oddly enough, was what he was. His golf handicap was six, his skill at squash racquets formidable, and he had been a member of the Bar for some five years, and while far from being one of the silk-robed giants whose briefs are marked in four figures, was doing quite nicely.

  During these brief exchanges he had continued to pace the room. Passing the open window, he paused and looked out, drawing an emotional breath.

  ‘What a night!’ he said. ‘What a night!’

  To Gally it appeared an ordinary London summer night. He conceded that it was not raining, but was not prepared to go further than that.

  ‘Seems pretty run-of-the-mill to me.’

  ‘The moon!’

  ‘There isn’t a moon. You must have been misled by the lights from the pub on the corner.’

  ‘Well, anyway, it’s a wonderful night, and to hell with anyone who says it isn’t.’

  For the first time Gally became aware of something unusual in his godson’s manner, a sort of fizzing and bubbling like that of a coffee percolator about to come to the height of its fever. In the old Pelican days he would automatically have attributed a similar exuberance in a fellow member to his having had one, if not more, over the eight, but he knew John to be as abstemious as befits a rising young barrister and told himself that it would be necessary to probe more deeply for an explanation.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he said. ‘You seem very happy about something. Did you back a winner today?’

  ‘I certainly did.’

  ‘What odds?’

  ‘A thousand to one.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘A thousand to one against was what I was estimating my chances at. Gally, I came here to tell you. I’m engaged.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Yes, you can start pricing wedding presents. A marriage has been arranged, and will shortly take place.’

  An elderly bachelor with a record like Gally’s might have been expected to receive such an announcement from a godson whose best interests he had at heart with pursed lips and a shake of the head, for nothing saddens a benevolent senior more than the discovery that a junior of whom he is fond is contemplating a step which can only lead to disaster and misery. Gally, however, though his sisters Constance, Dora, Charlotte, Julia and Hermione would have contested such a description of him hotly, was a man of sentiment. In the long ago he too had loved, the object of his affections a girl called Dolly Henderson who sang songs in pink tights at the old Oxford and Tivoli music halls. It had been the refrain of one of them that he had hummed tonight as he went up to his apartment.

  Well, nothing had come of it, of course. A Victorian father with enough driving force for two fathers had shipped him off to South Africa, and Dolly had married a fellow named Cotterleigh in the Irish Guards and he had never seen her again, but the memory of her still lingered, and this made him a sympathetic listener to tales of young love. Instead, therefore, of urging his godson not to make an ass of himself or enquiring anxiously if he couldn’t possibly get out of it, he displayed the utmost interest and said:

  ‘Good for you, Johnny. Tell me more. When did this happen?’

  ‘Tonight. Just before I came here.’

  ‘You really clicked, did you?’

  �
��I know it’s hard to believe, but I did.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Her name’s Linda Gilpin.’

  Gally frowned thoughtfully.

  ‘Gilpin. I know a young chap called Ricky Gilpin. The Duke of Dunstable’s nephew. Any relation?’

  ‘His sister.’

  ‘So she’s Dunstable’s niece?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you ever met Dunstable?’

  ‘No. I suppose I shall soon. What’s he like?’

  ‘He’s a stinker.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘And always has been. I’ve known him for thirty years. He once tried to get elected to the Pelican, but he hadn’t a hope. The top hat we used at committee meetings burst at the seams with black balls, several handfuls of them contributed by your father. We were very firm about letting stinkers into the Pelican.’

  ‘Why is he a stinker?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. I’m not a psychiatrist.’

  ‘I mean what’s wrong with him? What does he do?’

  ‘He doesn’t do anything in particular. He just is. Too fond of money, for one thing. When I first knew him, he was a Guardee with an allowance big enough to choke a horse, and he hung on to it with both hands. Then he married a girl who had the stuff in sackfuls, the daughter of one of those chaps up North who make cups and basins and things, and she died and left him a fortune. Then he came into the title and all the land and cash that went with it, and now he’s a millionaire twice over. But though so rich, he is constantly on the alert to become richer. He never misses a trick. If the opportunity presents itself of running a mile in tight shoes to chisel someone out of twopence, he springs to the task. I can’t understand what these fellows see in money to make them sweat themselves to get it.’

  ‘Money’s always useful.’

  ‘But not worth going to a lot of fuss and bother to get more of if you’ve already got your little bit. Dunstable makes me sick. I’m beginning to feel dubious about this step you’re taking, Johnny. I wonder if you’re being wise.’

  John reminded him of the fact, which he seemed to have overlooked, that it was not the Duke of Dunstable whom he was planning to marry, but merely a relative of his, and Gally admitted that he had a point there. It was not pleasant, though, to think that John would have to go through life calling the Duke Uncle Alaric, and John said that love would enable him to face even that prospect with fortitude.

  ‘Not that I expect to see enough of him to have to call him anything.’

  ‘You’ll see him at the wedding.’

  ‘I’ll be in a sort of trance at the wedding and won’t notice him.’

  ‘Something in that,’ Gally agreed. ‘Bridegrooms are seldom in a frame of mind to take a calm look at their surroundings as the situation starts to develop. How well I remember your father when the parson was putting him through it. White as a sheet and quivering in every limb. I was his best man, and I’m convinced that if I hadn’t kept near enough to him to grab him by the coat tails, he’d have run like a rabbit.’

  ‘I shan’t do that. I shall quiver all right, but I’ll stay put.’

  ‘I hope so, for nothing so surely introduces a sour note into the wedding ceremony as the abrupt disappearance of the groom in a cloud of dust. Tell me about this girl of yours.’

  ‘Don’t tempt me. I should go on for hours.’

  ‘Nice, is she?’

  ‘That describes her exactly.’

  ‘Big? Small?’

  ‘Just the right size.’

  ‘Slim? Slender?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Eyes?’

  ‘Blue.’

  ‘Hair?’

  ‘Brown. Sort of auburn. Chestnut.’

  ‘Make up your mind.’

  ‘All right, chestnut, then, damn you.’

  ‘No need to let your angry passions rise. Naturally I’m interested. I’ve known you since you were so high.’

  ‘I suppose you dandled me on your knee when I was a baby?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have done it on a bet. You were a revolting baby. More like a poached egg than anything. Well, from what you tell me she seems to be all right. A godfather’s blessing is yours, if you care to have it. Where are you going for the honeymoon?’

  ‘We were thinking of Jamaica.’

  ‘Expensive place.’

  ‘So I hear.’

  ‘Which brings me to a point I should like to discuss. How about your finances? I know you’re doing pretty well at the Bar, but will it run to marriage?’

  ‘I’m all right as far as money’s concerned. I’ve got a nest egg. Do you know the Bender gallery?’

  ‘Shooting gallery?’

  ‘Picture gallery.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘It’s in Bond Street. Not one of the big ones, but doing all right, and I’m a kind of sleeping partner. Joe Bender does all the running of it. He’s a man I knew at Oxford, and he took over the gallery from his father. He needed more capital and I had just been left quite a bit by an aunt of mine, so I put it in.’

  ‘All you’d got?’

  ‘Most of it.’

  ‘A rash move.’

  ‘Not rash at all. Joe’s a very live wire, all tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles and zip. We’ll make our fortunes.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘I read it in the crystal ball. Joe’s just pulled off a big deal. Ever heard of Robichaux?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘French painter. One of the Barbizon group.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s suddenly started getting hot. That’s always happening with these old French artists, Joe tells me. They jog along all their lives hardly able to give their stuff away, and then they die and suddenly the sky’s the limit. There was a time when you could buy a Renoir for a few francs, and now look at him. If you want a Renoir today, you have to sell the family jewels. It’s getting to be the same with this bloke Robichaux. A year or two ago nobody would touch him, but now a regular boom has started, and what I was going to say was that Joe sold a Robichaux the other day for a sum that made me gasp. I wouldn’t have thought it possible.’

  ‘Anything’s possible with the world as full of mugs as it is. Who was this cloth-headed purchaser?’

  ‘I was saving that up for the big surprise at the end. None other than my future uncle-by-marriage.’

  Gally snorted incredulously.

  ‘Dunstable?’

  ‘Yes, Uncle Alaric.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Dunstable never bought a picture in his life. A comic seaside postcard would be more his form.’

  ‘Perhaps he mistook it for a comic seaside postcard. Anyway, he bought it. You can ask Joe.’

  ‘Amazing. Was he tight?’

  ‘Not having been there when the deal went through, I couldn’t tell you. I’ll enquire if you like.’

  ‘Don’t bother. We’ll just take it as read that he must have been. There’s a boom, you say, in this Robichaux chap’s work?’

  ‘Price going up all the time, I believe.’

  Gally shook his head.

  ‘It still doesn’t explain Dunstable’s departure from the form book. With any ordinary man one would assume that he bought the thing on spec, hoping to sell at a profit, but not your Uncle Alaric. He wouldn’t risk a bob on the deadest of certs. No, we fall back on our original theory, that he must have been stewed to the gills. Now who would that be?’ said Gally, as the telephone rang. He went out into the hall, where the instrument was, and John was at liberty to devote his thoughts to the girl he loved.

  His had been a long and cautious courtship, culminating with unforeseen suddenness in an abruptly blurted out proposal in the cab in which he was taking her home from a cocktail party, and his elation at the happy outcome of that proposal had been marred by the fact that there had been no time for anything in the nature of extended conversation. He was looking forward to going into the ma
tter in what is called depth at their next meeting.

  He was just thinking how infinitely superior Linda Gilpin was to any of the poor female fishes of whom in the last few years he had mistakenly supposed himself to be enamoured, and was thanking his guardian angel for his excellent staffwork in not allowing him to become really involved with any of them, when Gally returned.

  He seemed amused.

  ‘Odd coincidence,’ he said, ‘that we should have been talking about Dunstable. That was my brother Clarence, and he was talking about him, too. It seems that hell has broken loose at Blandings. My sister Connie has blown in from America with a female friend, which alone would have been enough to shake Clarence to his foundations, and on top of that Dunstable is arriving with his niece on the early train tomorrow. No wonder he’s feeling like the Lady of Shalott when the curse had come upon her. Connie and friend would be bad enough. Add Dunstable and niece and he feels—rightly —that the mixture is too rich. Niece,’ said Gally. ‘Would that be your donah, or has he several?’

  His words had stunned John. He knew that the Duke had only one relative of that description. He said he could not understand it.

  ‘What puzzles you?’

  ‘Linda didn’t say anything about going to Blandings.’

  ‘When would this be?’

  ‘In the taxi, when I asked her to marry me.’

  ‘She probably didn’t know about it then. Dunstable must have sprung it on her when she got home.’

  ‘We were to have had lunch tomorrow.’

  ‘You weren’t going to see her earlier than that? A whole morning wasted?’

  ‘I have to be in court all the morning. Some damned motor accident case.’

  ‘Oh? Well, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that lunch is off. And so am I. A brother’s call for help is not a thing to be ignored,’ said Gally. ‘I leave for Blandings Castle in the morning.’