Blanding Castle Omnibus

by P. G. Wodehouse

  CHAPTER THREE

  To get from London to Market Blandings, which is where one alights for Blandings Castle, the traveller starts from Paddington, and at 11.12 on the following morning Gally, smoking a cigarette on the platform outside his compartment and waiting for the 11.18 to begin its journey, looked about him with the approval he always felt for this particular terminus.

  He liked its refined calm, so different from the hustle and bustle of such stations as Liverpool Street and Waterloo. Here all was cloistral peace. The trains as they got up steam puffed in a quiet undertone. The porters went about their duties with the reserve of junior Cabinet ministers. Guards, when compelled to whistle, whistled softly. And even the occasional cocker spaniel, on its way back to its Worcestershire or Shropshire home, postponed its barking to a more suitable time, knowing instinctively that a raised voice in these surroundings would be the worst of form.

  But all too soon it was borne in upon him that snakes could sometimes penetrate into this gentlemanly Garden of Eden. One of them was coming along the platform at this moment, a large, stout, walrus-moustached man with a brown paper parcel under his arm. He was brushing aside like flies the little groups of cultured men accustomed to mingling with basset hounds and the women in tailored suits who looked like horses, and at the sight of him Gally dived hastily into his compartment and tried to lurk behind his morning journal.

  It was a wasted effort. Not so easily as this was it possible to evade Alaric, Duke of Dunstable.

  ‘Thought it was you, Threepwood,’ said the Duke, seating himself. ‘Must be two years since we met.’

  ‘Two wonderful years.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I was saying how wonderful it was seeing you again.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Clarence tells me you’ve had a fire at your place.’

  ‘Yes. Wires fused.’

  ‘So you’re coming to Blandings.’

  ‘Never could stand London.’

  ‘Bad fire, was it?’

  ‘Made the place smell. I cleared out.’

  ‘And Connie came to the rescue of the homeless waif.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘She invited you to Blandings.’

  The Duke snorted a little. It was as though his pride had been touched.

  ‘Good God, she didn’t invite me. I rang up last night and said I was coming.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I was surprised to find she was over here. I was expecting Emsworth to answer the telephone. What made her leave America, do you know?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Some sudden whim, I suppose. In a week or so she’ll get another and go dashing back. Women are all potty. Never know their own minds from one day to another. What’s taking you to Blandings?’

  ‘Clarence was anxious for my company.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Who can say? Some sudden whim, do you think?’

  ‘Could be. Is he still mooning over that pig of his?’

  ‘He courts its society a good deal, I believe.’

  ‘Much too fat, that pig.’

  ‘Clarence doesn’t think so.’

  ‘No, because he’s as potty as Connie. Pottier. Fact of the matter is, the whole world’s potty these days. Look at Connie, going off to live in America with a man with a head like a Spanish onion. Look at those two nephews of mine, both married to girls I wouldn’t have let them so much as whistle at if I’d been able to stop them. And look at my niece. Came back to the hotel last night giggling and humming, and wouldn’t tell me what it was all about. Definitely potty.’

  Gally could of course have shed light on the mystery of the humming niece, but he felt that if she herself had been so reticent, it was not for him to speak. He allowed the slur of mental instability to continue to rest upon her.

  ‘Where is this unbalanced niece? Clarence said she would be coming with you. Not ill, I hope?’

  ‘No, she’s all right except for all that humming and giggling. She’s got to appear in court today; she’s a witness in some case that comes on this morning. She’ll be coming later. Do you know anything about pictures?’ asked the Duke, wearying of the subject of nieces and changing it with his customary abruptness.

  ‘Not much. I heard you had bought one.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘A usually reliable source.’

  ‘Well, it’s quite true. It’s what they call a reclining nude. You know the sort of thing. Girl with no clothes on, lying on a mossy bank. By some French fellow. I bought it at one of those art galleries.’

  ‘I suppose they told you it was a monument to man’s attainment of the unattainable and the work of a Master with his brush dipped in immortality?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Let it go. I was only thinking that that’s the way art galleries generally talk when a mug walks into the shop.’

  The Duke’s moustache shot up. His manner showed resentment.

  ‘Think I’m a mug, do you? Well, you’re wrong. I knew what I was doing, all right. Shall I tell you why I bought that reclining nude? Do you know a chap called Trout? Wilbur J. Trout?’

  ‘Not had that pleasure. What about him?’

  ‘He’s an American. What the Yanks call a playboy. He’s in London, and I ran into him at the club. He has a guest card. We got into conversation, and he told me he loved his wife. Blotto, of course.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Well, would a chap tell a chap he loved his wife, if he wasn’t?’

  ‘He might if the other chap had your charm.’

  ‘True. Yes, something in that.’

  ‘Yours is a very winning manner. Invites confidences.’

  ‘I suppose it does. Yes, I see what you mean. Well, anyway, as I was saying, he told me he loved his wife. She was his third wife. Or did he say fourth? Never mind, it’s immaterial. The point is that she recently divorced him, but he still loves her. He said he was carrying the torch for her, which struck me as a peculiar expression, but that’s what he said. He was crying into his cocktail as he spoke, and that seemed odd, too, because he was a big, beefy chap who you’d have thought would have been above that sort of thing. He told me he used to be a great footballer, played for Harvard or Yale or one of those places. Ginger-coloured hair, broken nose which I suppose he got at football unless one of his wives gave it him, inherited millions from his father, who was a big business man out in California.’

  Gally stirred uneasily in his seat. He had always been a better raconteur than listener, and it seemed to him that his companion was a long time coming to the point, assuming that there was a point to which he was coming.

  ‘All this,’ he said, ‘would be of the greatest help if I were planning to write a biography of Wilbur Trout or doing The Trout Story for the films, but how does it link up with reclining nudes and you as an art collector?’

  ‘I’m coming to that.’

  ‘Good. Come as quick as you can.’

  ‘Where was I?’

  ‘He told you he loved his wife.’

  ‘That’s right. And then he said something that held me spell-bound.’

  ‘Like me. I can hardly wait for the plot to unfold. I’ll bet it turns out that it was the butler who did it.’

  ‘What do you mean, the butler? What butler? I never mentioned any butler.’

  ‘Don’t give it another thought. What did he say that interested you so much?’

  ‘He said he saw this picture in the window of this picture gallery, and blowed if it wasn’t the living image of his third wife, the one he was carrying the torch for. And when he told me he was going to buy it because he had to have it just to remind him of her, no matter what it cost, I naturally said to myself “What ho!”.’

  ‘Why did you say that to yourself?’

  ‘Because I saw that this was where I could make a bit. Ten minutes later I was round at the gallery buying the thing, confident that I would be able to sell it to him for double the pric
e I’d paid, which, let me tell you, was stiff. It’s a crime what these galleries charge you. Still, I’ll get it all back and more.’

  ‘You look on it as an investment?’

  ‘Exactly. The profit should be substantial. So don’t let me hear any more of that talk of mugs walking into shops. Care to see the ruddy object? I’ve got it in this parcel. On second thoughts, no,’ said the Duke, changing his mind. ‘Too much trouble untying the string and doing it up again, and I’m feeling drowsy. Couldn’t get a wink of sleep last night, pondering over that niece of mine. Giggling she was and all starry-eyed. I didn’t like the look of her.’

  2

  Train journeys never bored Gally unless they involved extended conversations with an uncongenial companion, and he found the time pass very pleasantly with his thoughts. Nevertheless he was glad when he was able to wake the Duke, who had fallen into another coma after lunch, and inform him that in five minutes they would be arriving at Market Blandings.

  The first person he saw on the platform was his brother Clarence, the second his sister Constance. Her welcoming smile as the Duke alighted vanished from her face as if wiped off with a squeegee when she observed what was coming out of the train behind him. Her attitude towards Gally had always been austere. No matter how great his popularity in the circles in which he moved, to her, as to her sisters, he was a blot on the escutcheon of a proud family and something one preferred to hush up and try to forget. For years she had been haunted by the fear that he was going to write his Reminiscences, and though this threat had blown over, she still had a tendency to shudder when she saw him. She disliked his presence, his conversation and his monocle. She sometimes thought that she could almost have endured him if he had not worn an eyeglass.

  A certain chill, accordingly, marked this little gathering on the platform of Market Blandings station, and it was a relief to Lord Emsworth, who was in momentary fear lest his responsibility for Gally’s arrival might be revealed, when the Duke went off with her to see about his luggage, which on these visits was always considerable.

  ‘It was very good of you to come so promptly, Galahad,’ he said. ‘I was afraid you might have other engagements.’

  ‘My dear Clarence! As if any engagement, however other, could keep me from answering a cry for succour like yours. You were very wise to send for me. It must have shaken even a strong man like you when Connie suddenly popped up out of a trap like the Demon King in a pantomime.’

  ‘It did indeed.’

  ‘And the shock of hearing that Dunstable was coming must have been almost worse. Still we ought, standing shoulder to shoulder, to be able to cope with Dunstable. It only needs a firm hand. What about this friend of Connie’s?’

  ‘Oh, she is charming. I like her very much.’

  ‘Well, that’s something.’

  ‘Very sound on pigs. Nothing she actually said, but I could see that she had the right attitude when I was telling her about the Empress’s feeding schedule.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Well, no doubt I shall find out in God’s good time. You said something about some fellow young Freddie had sent to you with a letter of introduction. What’s his name?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘No need for you to join the Foreign Legion, where men go to forget, Clarence. You can do it comfortably without stirring a step from Blandings Castle. What’s he like? Nice chap?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t say that. He kept trying to sell me oil stock. Just the American business drive, I suppose, but it was embarrassing having to keep refusing, so I told Beach I would have all my meals in the library, and of course avoiding him in between meals was a simple task.’

  ‘Child’s play to one who has spent years avoiding Connie.’

  ‘Beach tells me he left for London yesterday.’

  ‘But he may be coming back.’

  ‘I fear so.’

  ‘In fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if this were not he whom I see approaching us. No, not there; the other direction; slightly more to your left.’

  ‘Yes, that is Mr… . Mr… . Mr… .’

  ‘Call him X,’ said Gally.

  Howard Chesney was a slender young man of medium height, distinctly ornamental in appearance, his flannel suit well cut, his hat just as good as the one Lady Constance had admired on the previous evening. The only criticism a purist could have made of him was that his eyes were a little too wary and a little too close together.

  Knowing at what a disadvantage Lord Emsworth would be if called upon to introduce him to a man whose name he had forgotten, Gally took it on himself to start the conversation.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘I am Lord Emsworth’s brother. Threepwood is the name. I hear you are a friend of my nephew Freddie. How was he when you left him?’

  ‘Oh, fine.’

  ‘Selling lots of dog biscuits?’

  ‘Oh, sure.’

  ‘Splendid. That’s the spirit one likes to see. My brother tells me that you and he have been whooping it up together these last days.’

  It was not quite how Howard Chesney would have described his association with Lord Emsworth, but he allowed the phrase to pass and spoke appreciatively of Blandings Castle and the many attractions it had to offer. He also had a good word to say about the beauties of the Shropshire countryside. He had walked to the station yesterday, he said, and was preparing now to walk back.

  ‘That,’ said Gally approvingly, ‘will be satisfactory to all parties concerned, for with Clarence and me and my sister Constance and the Duke … that is my sister over there and the substantial object with her is the Duke of Dunstable … it would be something of a squash if we all climbed into the car. The Duke takes up quite a bit of room, and Clarence has a way of spreading his legs about like an octopus’s tentacles. You’ll be happier singing gypsy songs along the high road. How right you were, Clarence,’ said Gally as Howard moved away, ‘not to invest in oil stock sponsored by our young friend. I don’t hold it against him that his eyes are so close together … some of my best friends are men with eyes close together … but if ever I saw a con man, and in the course of a longish life I’ve seen dozens, he’s one. Where on earth do you think Freddie dug him up?’

  3

  Up at the castle Beach was in his pantry sipping his evening glass of port, and seeing him one would have said that there sat a butler with his soul at rest and not a disturbing thought on his mind.

  One would have been in error. His soul was not at rest. It would perhaps be too much to put it that vultures were gnawing at his ample bosom, but he was certainly far from carefree. Sensitive to atmosphere, he found that which now prevailed at Blandings trying to his nervous system. It seemed to him that with the return of Lady Constance a shadow had fallen on the home he loved. He had not failed to note his lordship’s reaction to his announcement of her arrival, and he foresaw hard times ahead. If only, he was thinking, Mr. Galahad could have been here to lend aid and comfort to his stricken employer: and even as he framed the thought the door opened and Gally came in.

  To say that he leaped from his seat would be an overstatement. Men of Beach’s build do not leap from seats. He did, however, rise slowly like a hippopotamus emerging from a river bank, his emotions somewhat similar to those of a beleaguered garrison when the United States Marines arrive.

  ‘Mr. Galahad!’

  ‘Why not? Someone has to be. Beach, you see before you a bison making for the water hole with its blackened tongue hanging out.’

  ‘I shall be taking the tea into the drawing-room shortly, Mr. Galahad.’

  ‘Tea is no good to me. I want port. And in any case I wouldn’t go to the drawing-room. It will be full of Society’s lowest dregs. As a matter of fact, one of my motives in coming to your pantry was to discuss those dregs with you and get your opinion of them.’

  Beach was pursing his lips a little as he produced a second glass and prepared to play the host. His guest
, he perceived, was about to be frank about the castle’s personnel, and he knew that he ought to disapprove. But though his lips were pursed, there was a gleam in his eyes. As a butler he deplored Mr. Galahad’s habit of gossiping with the domestic staff, but as a man he simply loved it.

  ‘What, to start with, do you make of this chap Chesney?’ said Gally.

  It was a subject on which Beach held strong views. His reply was austere.

  ‘He is not what I have been accustomed to, Mr. Galahad.’

  ‘And you’ve seen some pretty weird specimens in your time.’

  ‘I have indeed, sir.’

  ‘Remember the fellow who wanted to eat jam with his fish?’

  ‘Very vividly, sir.’

  ‘And the one who put water in his claret?’

  ‘Please, Mr. Galahad. I have been trying to forget him.’

  ‘I have yet to observe Chesney at the dinner table, but I imagine he stops short of those awful extremes. Still, I know what you mean when you say he’s not what you’ve been accustomed to. He’s obviously a crook.’

  ‘Indeed, Mr. Galahad?’

  ‘No question about it. I can tell them a mile off.’

  ‘It seems strange that he should be a friend of Mr. Frederick.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he is. Probably just a casual acquaintance he picked up in a bar. Freddie wouldn’t see anything wrong with him, and he would give a letter of introduction to anyone who asked him.’

  ‘But what—’

  ‘—makes me think he’s a crook? He tried to sell Clarence oil stock. And though you may say that that’s only what John D. Rockefeller used to do when he met people, I find the fact damning. Be very careful how you have dealings with Chesney, Beach.’

  ‘I will indeed, sir.’

  ‘We now come to His Grace the Duke of Dunstable, and this is where we really shudder. You will agree with me, I think, that his presence at it would lower the tone of a silver ring bookies’ social and outing picnic?’

  Though his words were music to Beach’s ears, for the Duke was no favourite of his, routine called for a mild protest.