by Simon Brett
‘So socialize, Blotto. Ask pertinent questions.’
‘Right you are, old thing.’ There was a long silence. ‘Um . . . what sort of questions might be pertinent?’
‘Anything to do with Captain Schtoltz.’
‘Oh. Yes. Of course.’
It was a beautiful scene. An ex-King with his exiled courtiers in a clearing of a forest whose leaves were turning slowly crisp and gold. Some people might have been aware of an As You Like It parallel, the ex-King like the banished Duke in the Forest of Arden. Such a comparison would have been lost on Blotto. He’d never quite hit it off with Shakespeare. Or any other poet. Any writer, come to that. He had always been quite content for Twinks to take on the role of family brainbox.
The Tawcester Towers staff, making no concession to the outdoor setting, had set up long tables and chairs for the hunters. Silver tableware shone on top of stiff white linen. The food was excellent too. Joints of beef, hams, haunches of venison. Game pies. Perfect wines, of course. Champagne chilled with ice from the ice house, robust, chubby clarets.
The scene made ex-King Sigismund maudlin and nostalgic. And in his maudlin nostalgia, he indulged in that rather regrettable habit so characteristic of displaced Continental monarchs – boasting.
‘Of course in Mitteleuropia we have hunting parties much bigger than this. Around my Castle of Berkenziepenkatzen, which is only fifty miles from our capital, Zling, there I have the best hunting in the entire world.’
Blotto found this kind of talk, as well as being embarrassing, slightly pathetic. He was the last chap in the world to show off or score points, but the fact that the world’s best hunting was to be found in Tawcestershire was self-evident to the meanest intellect. Well, Blotto knew his own intellect to be pretty mean, and it was self-evident to him. To suggest that the hunting round the Castle of Berkenziepenkatzen – wherever that might be – could match the facilities round Tawcester Towers was the gibbering of an idiot.
Blotto was also again struck – as he had been in the presence of ex-Princess Ethelinde – by the inconvenience of not having English as one’s first language. The ex-King’s accent was deep and thick and there were a lot of perfectly simple words he just couldn’t pronounce properly.
Also, Blotto thought, the chap might have had a bad deal from life, but he did rather wallow in it. Losing a kingdom might be a candle-snuffer on the perkiest of spirits, but there still came a time when you just had to stop crying over spilt milk and put the lid on it . . . or mop it up . . . or . . . Blotto wasn’t very good at metaphors.
‘When I return in triumph to my rightful kingdom,’ Sigismund continued with mournful relish, ‘I will invite all your family –’ he nodded to Twinks and Blotto – ‘to enjoy the hospitality of Berkenziepenkatzenschloss.’
‘That’s very kind,’ said Twinks politely. ‘It would be such a lark.’
Blotto agreed effusively, though the thought running through his mind went: Come off it, I’m as likely to go there as I am to clean my own shoes.
Then, feeling that perhaps he ought to contribute more to the conversation, he asked, ‘And when is that likely to be?’
‘When is what likely to be?’
‘When you return in triumph to your rightful kingdom?’
It seemed not to have been the right question. There was an uneasy rumbling amongst his retinue and the ex-King’s brows, already dark, darkened a few more shades.
‘I will return to my rightful kingdom when the vile usurper of my throne is overthrown!’
‘Ah,’ said Blotto. ‘Right. Sorry, not terribly up with Mitteleuropian politics. So who is this vile usurper chappie?’
Again the retinue was uneasy. Some glanced at the ex-King nervously, as if expecting an eruption of anger. But the exiled monarch seemed prepared graciously to dissipate the fogs of Blotto’s ignorance.
‘The man who has stolen the throne of Mitteleuropia is none other than my own brother, Vlatislav The man I trusted like my own brother . . .’
‘But I thought you said he was your own brother?’
‘Of course. That is why I trusted him like my own brother.’
‘Ah. Right,’ said Blotto.
‘Vlatislav was my Minster for War.’
‘Do you have a lot of war in Mitteleuropia?’
‘Everywhere in Europe there is always war. A war that has just ended, a war that is just about to start, a war that has been bubbling under like lava in a volcano for many years.’
‘Right. So how did this Vlatislav johnnie actually seize the throne?’
The ex-King sighed and his retinue sighed with him. This tale of perfidy had been told many times, and grown in the telling. Now it had become almost a religious ritual. Ex-King Sigismund began: ‘Four years ago I leave Mitteleuropia with my family at the invitation of my second cousin, King Anatol of Transcarpathia. We are to spend a month at his summer residence by the lake at Bad Vibesz. Little did I know that for some years my brother had been making plans behind my back to usurp my rightful throne. He had suborned the military, promised to divide up the bulk of my estates among the aristocracy, bribed the middle classes with promises of tax-cuts, and the lower classes with free beer. Two days after our arrival in Bad Vibesz I discover he has organized a coup.’
Feeling some response was required, Blotto said, ‘Coo.’
‘Yes, coup,’ said ex-King Sigismund.
‘No, I just meant “Coo”.’
‘“Coup”?’
‘Oh, never mind,’ said Blotto.
‘But couldn’t you, Your Majesty,’ asked Twinks, ‘have mounted a counter-coup with the help of King Anatol of Transcarpathia?’
‘Tuh,’ said ex-King Sigismund dismissively ‘King Anatol is a nothing. He talks a good war, but when it comes to reality, he is a craven coward.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘The same is true of his son, Crown Prince Fritz-Ludwig. He is full of promises. He says he will recapture my kingdom for the love of the Princess Ethelinde, but when it comes to what you call the munch –’
‘“Crunch”, I think,’ said Twinks tactfully.
‘Yes, when it comes to the “crunch” . . . like his father, Crown Prince Fritz-Ludwig is also a broken reed.’
The good thing about this exchange, from Blotto’s point of view, was the news that ex-Princess Ethelinde had another admirer. If Crown Prince Fritz-Ludwig of Transcarpathia, despite being a broken reed, continued to do what was expected of him, then maybe she’d shift her romantic aspirations away from the denizens of Tawcester Towers. Blotto knew lots of women who’d married broken reeds, and it didn’t seem to have done them much harm.
‘No, for many years Vlatislav had been planning his evil coup . . .’
Blotto decided not to interject another ‘Coo’ into this pause. It might be wise to avoid complication.
‘Even when we were infants in the nursery, Vlatislav always envied what belonged to me. I remember, when I was a mere four years old, he . . .’
While this litany of fraternal betrayal continued and Blotto’s eyes began to glaze over, those of his sister, bright and observant, flickered round the assembled luncheon-eaters. The ex-King’s entourage comprised some dozen gentlemen. (Their servants were, needless to say, not involved in the hunting. They stayed below stairs at Tawcester Towers, being patronized by the resident staff. Twinks made a mental note to ask Grimshaw to question them about Captain Schtoltz.) In hunting dress the Mitteleuropians looked only slightly less ridiculous than they did the rest of the time. The ex-King and his acolytes had very Continental tastes in the matter of uniforms. The concept that one could have too much gold leaf or frogging, that there might be a desirable limit to the number of tassels, chains or medals attached to a jacket, seemed not to have occurred to them. Twinks had seen department store Christmas trees with less decoration.
The men around the ex-King were mostly, like him, shortish and of dark complexion, so the two tall blond bodyguards made a striking contrast. At the beginning
of the luncheon, Twinks had contrived to have herself introduced to them. Their names were Zoltan and Bogdan, and their mutual surname Grittelhoff suggested that they were at least brothers. A closer look at them confirmed that they were identical twins. Neither partook of any wine at the meal, and the constant vigilance of their grey eyes suggested that, even here under the protection of Tawcester Towers, they feared for the safety of their royal charge.
Their courtesy on meeting Twinks had been exemplary, and each had assured her how much he was enjoying his stay in the ‘beautiful English sidecountry’, but the words they spoke were automatic. The smiles on their thin lips brought no echoing glow to their eyes. And the way they handled their cutlery at the luncheon suggested that both brothers had experience in using knives for more sinister purposes.
One thing that had struck Twinks was how little the disappearance of Captain Schtoltz from their midst seemed to have affected the ex-royal party. So, boldly, in her conversation with Zoltan and Bogdan Grittelhoff she asked after the whereabouts of the man to whom she had been introduced on his arrival, but whom she had not seen since.
‘Ah, Captain Schtoltz has had to leave the party,’ Zoltan Grittelhoff replied.
‘Indeed,’ Bogdan Grittelhoff agreed. ‘For him it was necessary to go off on a special mission away from England.’
Well, he didn’t get far. He didn’t even leave Tawcester Towers. But Twinks kept such thoughts to herself. ‘Who was the special mission for?’ she asked.
‘For the King,’ replied Zoltan Grittelhoff.
‘Oh, surely you mean “the ex-King”?’
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew they were the wrong ones. The brothers stood up straight, clasped their right arms across their breasts, and Bogdan Grittelhoff spoke for both of them when he said, ‘There is only one King of Mitteleuropia. That is King Sigismund. Soon the traitor Vlatislav will be defeated and the crown will be returned to its rightful owner – King Sigismund!’
Like the ex-King’s own recounting of his woes, this statement carried overtones of a religious incantation.
At that point both brothers bowed and moved away, muttering to each other in their own guttural tongue. Twinks was left with the distinct feeling that, in an important matter of Mitteleuropian royal etiquette, she had been found wanting. Honestly, these Continentals were so sensitive. They set such store by the piffling difference between a ‘King’ and an ‘ex-King’, almost as if their monarchy had the same kind of history and significance as the British one.
But Twinks barely had time to have the thought, because she caught the words the Grittelhoff brothers exchanged as they left her. Which put a completely new gloss on the situation. She couldn’t wait to tell Blotto.
She had to wait until they were remounting after the meal, and she found her brother somewhat out of sorts. He hadn’t approved of taking a luncheon break in the first place and now he felt too replete with food and wine to appreciate fully the thrill of the chase. On top of that, he had had to listen to an ex-regal monologue about what felt like two millennia of Mitteleuropian history.
‘Captain Schtoltz was going on a special mission,’ Twinks hissed at him. ‘The ex-King doesn’t even know the man’s dead.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Blotto, jolted out of his grumpiness.
‘Yes,’ Twinks replied. ‘But though the ex-King doesn’t know, his bodyguards certainly do.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Just as they were leaving me, I heard them say that they’d have to be careful, that I was getting too curious about Captain Schtoltz’s death.’
‘Good gracious,’ said Blotto. ‘You heard them say that?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Nice of them to talk in English, so that you could understand what they were saying.’
‘No, Blotto, they talked in Mitteleuropian.’
‘Did they? Gosh, Twinks, do you speak Mitteleuropian?’
‘Enough to get by.’
‘Crikey! Is there no end to your talents?’
She laughed with fitting girlish modesty. But actually the answer to his question was no. Twinks could basically do everything.
5
Revelations at the Dinner Table
The day’s hunting concluded with the ritual dismantling of a fox by the hounds. Which was as it should have been. But the climax didn’t bring Blotto the effusion of pure joy that he usually felt at such moments. Breaking for luncheon had thoroughly taken the gloss off the day for him. They should have done the hunting in the proper way, not kowtowed to their guests’ predilection for gastronomic mollycoddling.
As he dressed for dinner that evening he still felt disgruntled. Normally he would have been in high spirits after a day in the field, and ravenous for the meal ahead. But the luncheon had taken the edge off his appetite. He wasn’t in his customary state of being ‘as hungry as a hunter’.
Add to that, he was having great difficulty pressing the stud through the slits of his wing collar. He would really have to speak to Grimshaw. Somebody in the laundry must have been slapping on the starch like it was going out of fashion. He knew he could ring for his manservant Tweedling to fix the collar for him, but he didn’t want to. There were areas of his life where Blotto liked to show his independence.
A tap sounded on his dressing-room door. ‘Come in, Twinks,’ he said. Nobody else would have had the temerity or lack of breeding to enter his inner sanctum.
The visitor was indeed his sister, a shimmering vision in an evening dress and matching snood of mother-of-pearl silk.
‘Hello, Twinks. You’ve arrived just in the nick of time. I’m about to garrotte myself with this spoffing useless contraption.’
‘Let me . . .’ In a matter of seconds her deft fingers had the recalcitrant collar anchored to its studs. ‘Listen, Blotto . . .’
‘Yes, me old biscuit barrel?’
‘We mustn’t lose vigilance.’
‘No, no certainly not.’ A confused silence. ‘Vigilance about what?’
‘The Grittelhoff brothers knew about Captain Schtoltz’s disappearance. We must find out how many others of the Mitteleuropian party do as well.’
‘Righty-ho.’ Another confused silence. ‘How do we do that?’
‘We ask them. But subtly.’
‘Tickey-tockey,’ said Blotto, sounding more confident than he was. Self-knowledge wasn’t his strong suit, but he did know that the words ‘Blotto’ and ‘subtly’ didn’t often appear in the same sentence. ‘May be simpler, old pineapple, if you just tell me exactly what you want me to do . . .’
‘Very well. I want you to concentrate on ex-Princess Ethelinde.’
‘Oh?’
‘She already thought you were the cat’s pyjamas before you rescued her in the hunting field this morning . . .’
‘Oh, biscuits,’ said Blotto.
‘Now she thinks you’re the retriever’s nightie.’
Her brother shrugged. ‘Didn’t do anything any other chap wouldn’t have done in the same gluepot.’
‘Nevertheless, the ex-Princess can’t refuse you anything. She only has eyes for you.’
‘Don’t talk such toffee, Twinks. Apparently, according to her old man, she’s got a chappie, anyway. Some Crown Prince boddo from one of the neighbouring principalities.’
‘Whatever loves she may previously have nurtured in her bosom, Blotto, I can assure you that you have now replaced them in her affections . . .’
‘Oh, rodents,’ he said miserably.
‘. . . and I want you to take advantage of your position to find out what she knows about Captain Schtoltz.’
‘What, beard her during the pre-prandials, you mean?’
‘No, I’ve spoken to Mummy, and she has rearranged the placement. You’ll be sitting next to ex-Princess Ethelinde right through dinner.’
‘Biscuits,’ said Blotto. ‘How dashed embarrassing.’ Proximity to a filly who had an eye for him always brought Blotto out in the crimps. Still, just ha
ve to grin and bear it. Distance, he seemed to recall, brought enchantment to the view, so maybe proximity might do the opposite. Spending more time in his company might take the shine off the ex-Princess’s romantic aspirations. ‘Incidentally, old bloater,’ he went on to Twinks, ‘do you know yet who killed the Captain johnnie?’
‘No. But I am continuing my enquiries.’
‘That’s all right then.’ It would be. If Twinks was on the case, there’d be no need for any worries.
‘I have to speak to Grimshaw. He is going to assist me in the next stage of my investigation.’
‘Oh, you’ll be all tickey-tockey then. He’s a good greengage . . . well, I mean, considering he’s a servant.’
Grimshaw was in his pantry, like a General planning the troop movement that would be dinner. Normally at such moments he dealt sharply with interruptions, but then he always had time for Twinks. Like most men, he was – in spite of his inappropriately humble status – a little in love with her.
She outlined the services she required of him. Grimshaw nodded sagely and said, ‘I think it would be prudent to employ Harvey in this matter.’
‘Her discretion is unimpeachable?’
‘Oh, I can vouch for that.’ And his tone of voice implied the wink which someone of his demeanour would never have allowed to cheapen his face.
‘Excellent, Grimshaw. I will call you in the morning for the relevant information.’
‘I will see to it that I am possessed of it by then, milady.’
Conversation at the dinner table that evening was as stilted as a twelve-foot clown. Blotto remembered some chap once telling him some witty tag about guests and cheese smelling after three days. Or was it guests and fish . . . ? Anyway, whichever it was, the line was certainly proving true with the Mitteleuropian party. This was the fourth dinner they’d spent at Tawcester Towers and the supply of conversational topics was running very low. The first night they’d started with family, because, like most English aristocrats, the Lyminsters were related to ex-King Sigismund through a complex spider’s web of cousins. They’d started with crowned heads – who’d married whom, which ones had been deposed, which surrendered in bloodless coups, which assassinated.