'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.
'It is scarcely for me, Mr. Galahad, to express derogatory opinions of the guests whom her ladyship sees fit to invite to—'
'All right, I get your point. But however much you may wear the mask, you know in your heart that he's utterly devoid of all the finer instincts which raise Man above the level of the beasts that perish. He's a twister to end all twisters.'
'Sir?'
'Well, look at the way he's doing down the unfortunate Trout.'
'I am afraid I do not understand you, Mr. Galahad.'
'Only because you weren't there when he was telling me that story on the train. It appears that there is a harmless innocent American of the name of Wilbur Trout whose only fault is that he marries rather too often, which is the sort of thing that might happen to anyone. King Solomon, if you remember, had the same tendency. Well, Trout saw a picture in the window of an art gallery which was the image of his latest wife. She divorced him recently, but in spite of that he still loves her. He was planning to buy the picture, to remind him of her, and was ass enough to tell Dunstable so, with the result, of course, that Dunstable nipped in ahead of him and bought it, so as to be able to sell it to him at an exorbitant price. He knows Trout wants the thing so badly that he will cough up anything he's asked, even unto half his kingdom. What do you think of that for chiselling and skulduggery, Beach?'
'Tut, tut.'
'You may well say Tut, tut. I wouldn't blame you if you'd said Gorblimey. So there you have His Grace of Dunstable in a nutshell, and it's not a pleasant thought that he will be with us for days and days, probably for weeks and weeks. One wonders how Clarence will bear up, especially as her ladyship will make him dress for dinner every night. She will, won't she?'
'I fear so, Mr. Galahad.'
'And he hates it even more than having to wear a top hat at the school treat. Ah well, we must just hope that his frail form will not crack beneath the strain. And now, Beach, with many thanks for your hospitality, I must be leaving you. The train journey, as always, has left me feeling like a cinder track and an immediate plunge into the waters of the bath tub is of the essence. We shall meet at Philippi, if not sooner.'
CHAPTER FOUR
Two days elapsed before Linda Gilpin arrived. She came in her car late at night and went straight to bed, tired from the long journey, and after breakfast next morning Gally, naturally anxious to have a confidential talk with her, took her to see the yew alley which was one of the features of the place and often got flattering notices in books with titles like 'British Gardens' and 'Olde Worlde England'. The brief glimpse he had had of her had impressed him favourably. She was, as John had said, slim, blue-eyed, just the right height, topped off with chestnut-coloured hair, and so unlike her uncle the Duke of Dunstable that it did him good to look at her. A girl, in short, whom any godfather would be glad to think his godson would at an early date be going off on honeymoons to Jamaica with. He could hardly wait to make her better acquaintance.
The Duke and Lady Constance were up in the portrait gallery. On the previous day the former's reclining nude had been hung there, and Lady Constance was scrutinizing it without pleasure. She was a woman who, while not knowing much about Art, knew what she liked, and the kind of paintings she liked were those whose subjects were more liberally draped. A girl with nothing on except a quite inadequate wisp of some filmy material, she told the Duke, was out of place in the company of her ancestors, and the Duke in rebuttal replied that her ancestors were such a collection of ugly thugs that it was a charity to give the viewer something to divert his attention from them. With a flight of imagery of which few would have thought him capable he compared the Blandings Castle portrait gallery to the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud's.
The critique ruffled Lady Constance, though anyone less prejudiced would have felt compelled to admit that some of the Earls of Emsworth, notably the third, fifth and seventh, had been rash to allow their portraits to be painted, but she checked the sharp response she would have liked to make. The Duke, when responded to sharply, was apt to take offence, and she had that to say to him which called for amiability on his part, or something as close to amiability as could be expected of him.
She was about to take up once again the matter of his marrying. For many years he had been a widower, and her own happy union with James Schoonmaker had made her feel more strongly than ever that this was a state of affairs that should be adjusted. She was a firm believer in a wife's influence for good over her husband, and she held the view that the Duke needed all the influence for good that he could get. Someone who would improve his manners and habits and general outlook on life was, in her opinion, what he ought to be supplied with as soon as possible.
She had often spoken to him on the subject before, but only in a vague, general way. Now that Vanessa Polk had come into her life and was actually here at Blandings with him, it seemed to her that the time had come to be more specific; to get, though she would never have used such an expression, down to brass tacks and talk turkey. She edged gently into her theme.
'How charming American women are,' she said. 'So pretty, so chic, so well dressed.'
The Duke saw that she was under a misapprehension. Only to be expected of a female, of course. In the sex to which she belonged one took muddleheadedness for granted.
'She isn't American. Chap who did the thing was French, so she must have been French, too. Stands to reason a fellow painting in France would have a French model. Probably her name was Gaby or Brigitte or Mimi or something. And if you think she's well dressed, you're potty. She hasn't got a ruddy stitch on.'
Lady Constance bit her lip and had to pause for a moment before speaking. The uncharitable thought floated into her mind that there were times when Alaric was just like her brother Clarence.
'I was not alluding to the woman in that picture,' she said coldly. 'I was thinking of—'
'Does she remind you of anyone?' the Duke proceeded. It was only inadvertently that he ever allowed anyone to finish a sentence. 'I ask because a fellow I know, an American fellow called Trout, says she's the image of his third wife, while Emsworth insists that she has a distinct look of that pig of his.'
'I was thinking—'
'Something about the expression in her eyes, he said, and t
he way she's lying. He said he had seen his pig lying like that a hundred times. It does it after a heavy meal.'
'What I was going to say—'
'And oddly enough I notice quite a resemblance to our vicar's wife down in Wiltshire. Only the face, of course, for I never saw her lying in the nude on a mossy bank. I doubt if the vicar would let her.'
'If you would just listen, Alaric—'
'By the way, meant to have told you before, I've invited Trout here. I thought it was the decent thing to do. His wife divorced him, and he's carrying the torch for her, so naturally the more he sees of a picture that reminds him of her, the better he'll like it. He's arriving this afternoon.'
Had Lady Constance been conversing with Lord Emsworth and had he let fall the statement that he had invited an American fellow called Trout to Blandings Castle without her permission, something reminiscent of the San Francisco earthquake must inevitably have resulted. But true to her policy of keeping the Duke in the best mood of which he was capable she allowed only the merest suggestion of annoyance to creep into her words.
'I wish you would not invite people to my house, Alaric.'
The Duke, a clear-headed man, saw the objection to this immediately, and once again the inability of females to reason anything out impressed itself upon him. It was something, he believed, to do with the bone structure of their heads.
'How the devil are they to get here, if they aren't invited?'
Lady Constance might have retorted that men who invited themselves were not unknown to her, but she merely heaved a weary sigh.
'Who is this Trout?'
'Aren't you listening? I told you. A Yank. I met him at the club. We got talking, and he told me about his wife. Not a bad chap. Potty, of course.'
'Why do you call him that?'
A Pelican at Blandings: Page 4