Blotto, Twinks and the Ex-King's Daughter

by Simon Brett

  Then the second night they’d dealt with the topics of hunting and other sports. This had inevitably led to discussion of cricket and the inability of any but the English to understand it properly. Blotto thought he’d been quite amusing during the hour and a half he’d spent explaining the laws of the game. Mind you, he reckoned three of the Mitteleuropian party going to sleep during his exposition had been pretty bad form.

  The third night they’d been reduced to that old conversational stand-by, the English weather.

  But on the fourth night . . . Everyone was tired after the day in the field – not to mention bloated after their excessive lunch. The dinner table talk stopped and started, puffed and juddered like a Sunday train on the Taws-worthy branch-line. It was enough to make a chap uneasy.

  And Blotto’s uneasiness was compounded by the way the guest to his right kept fluttering her dark eyelashes at him. He wondered at first whether the ex-Princess was suffering from some kind of nervous tic, but he was rather afraid she wasn’t. The eyelash-fluttering was for his benefit.

  ‘Um . . .’ said Blotto, falling back on the good old opening gambit which had never let him down before.

  ‘Yes?’ asked the ex-Princess eagerly.

  ‘Nothing, really . . . Just “um”, actually.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Encouraged by this successful ice-breaker – and remembering Twinks’s emphasis on the fact that his approach should be made subtly, he went on, ‘Did you know that Captain Schtoltz had been killed?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Maybe that direct assault had been a bit less subtle than his sister had intended. Blotto backtracked. ‘No, sorry, got my words wrong.’ Searching desperately for subtlety, he rephrased his previous remark. ‘What I meant to say was: “Has it ever occurred to you that Captain Schtoltz might have been killed?”’

  The dark brow of the ex-Princess furrowed. ‘I do not think so.’

  ‘Well, he isn’t here now, is he?’

  ‘No. My father has sent him on a secret mission.’

  ‘Do you know where to?’

  ‘Even if I did know, I could not tell you. I said it was a secret mission.’

  ‘Yes.’ For a moment Blotto chewed over this thought, together with a mouthful of excellent local lamb. ‘Presumably a secret mission could also be a dangerous mission?’

  The ex-Princess shrugged her deliciously slender shoulders. ‘Perhaps. Such things – such political things – are man’s work.’

  ‘Yes, of course. And you, being a woman – er, I mean a lady – would not be interested in man’s work.’

  ‘Not in man’s work,’ she breathed, ‘but in a man, yes.’ And her eyelashes went into a routine like two butterflies doing an energetic Charleston.

  Blotto didn’t think he was going to have that much to report back to his sister. Captain Schtoltz had been sent on a ‘special mission’ – they already knew that. He spent the rest of the dinner trying once again to explain cricket to ex-Princess Ethelinde. At the end she seemed to have got the laws pretty firmly ensconced in her mind. What she failed to grasp, though, was the point of it all.

  Women, thought Blotto.

  At the other end of the table, his sister was making rather more progress. She had leant on her mother about her own placement at the table, and as a result was seated next to the Margrave von Humpenstaupen, one of ex-King Sigismund’s closest aides. Twinks’s choice of companion had not been random. She had immediately recognized in the Margrave’s eyes the tell-tale signs of infatuation. In her English beaux the symptoms of this common malady were a mouth slightly agape, popping eyes, redness round the collar and a total inability to string two words together. In the Margrave von Humpenstaupen the mouth slightly agape, popping eyes and redness round the collar were coupled with the total inability to stop talking.

  But that was fine with Twinks. The main point was that the Margrave von Humpenstaupen was more than ready to fall in love with her. Men in that condition, she knew from experience, were liable to be indiscreet. And indiscretion was what she was after.

  While the Margrave prattled at some length about the quality of the hunting at Berkenziepenkatzenschloss, she took the opportunity to observe his moustache. It was indeed a construction of gothic proportions. Seemingly anchored to the face only from two small areas beneath the nostrils, it tapered and curled in black profusion, resembling nothing so much as some abstruse key notation on an ancient musical manuscript. At what system of nets, restraints and guards was used to preserve the moustache while the Margrave slept, Twinks could only conjecture.

  During the survey of his facial hair, she became aware that his voluble discourse had moved away from hunting to a subject to which she had become accustomed over the years – her beauty. And, though the topic itself bored her, the Margrave von Humpenstaupen’s elaborate Continental flourishes at least made a change from the strangulated compliments she regularly received from her English admirers.

  ‘From classical times . . .’ The words rolled grandiloquently off his tongue. ‘From classical times, there has always been an ideal of feminine beauty . . . an ideal sought after, bought at great price and fought over. This ideal has for men, since time immemorial, been a kind of Holy Gruel.’

  ‘Grail, I think you mean,’ suggested Twinks.

  ‘Grail, yes. Sorry, my English is not always so good. In English I do not have . . . how do you say, “the gift of the gob”?’

  ‘Gab,’ said Twinks.

  ‘Gab, yes, of course. But, as I am saying, feminine beauty is something for which men have always striven. To possess the immaculate, to own the perfect – it is for this end that many wars have been fought. Did not Helen of Troy have “the face that launched a thousand chips”?’

  ‘“Ships”,’ said Twinks.

  ‘Ships, yes. So, as I say, men have always wished for this ideal. I too – I, the Margrave von Humpenstaupen –’

  ‘Yes, I know who you are. We were introduced.’

  ‘I am sorry. I am employing the “emphatic nomenclature”. It is a device much used in Mitteleuropian literature.’

  ‘Ah,’ responded Twinks, thinking that so far, amongst her wide reading, she had managed to avoid Mitteleuropian literature. And that she might continue to do so. But, even as she had the thought, her diligent mind recognized that reading the literature of the country might help in her continuing studies of its language. She made a mental note to begin climbing the North Face of a Mitteleuropian novel at the earliest opportunity.

  ‘So I too – the Margrave von Humpenstaupen –’ the Margrave von Humpenstaupen went on, again using what Twinks now recognized to be Mitteleuropian ‘emphatic nomenclature’, ‘have wished to encounter this ideal of feminine beauty. And, to my surprise, when this transcendental moment comes to me, it is not amid the verdant forests of my homeland, but in England. Here at Tawcester Towers I find the woman who of all feminine beauty is the parasol!’

  ‘I think possibly you mean “paragon”,’ said Twinks.

  ‘Paragon, yes. And it is you, Lady Honoria, who is that paragon. All the beauty of all the world’s women in the past has been building up to one climax, to one high spot of perfection, of which you are the acne.’

  ‘Acme, I think, ‘said Twinks. She had by now decided that this cornucopia of compliment needed to be stemmed before he moved on to the declaration stage. The Continentals got so operatic about that kind of thing. She didn’t feel up to threats of duels to any other men who dared look at her, or the Margrave’s suicide if she did not succumb to his blandishments. ‘I would really like to talk to you,’ she went on, ‘about Captain Schtoltz.’

  His demeanour changed instantly, the complexion of his face darkening almost to the hue of his moustache.

  ‘Captain Schtoltz?’ he echoed. ‘What should I know of Captain Schtoltz?’

  ‘Well, he was with you when your party arrived at Tawcester Towers, and, so far as I can tell, he is no longer with you.’

  ‘Ah.’
The Margrave’s black pupils moved furtively from side to side, as if trying to escape the confines of their lids. ‘The fact is,’ he continued, ‘that Captain Schtoltz had suddenly to return to Zling, in Mitteleuropia . . . er, due to family decomposition.’

  ‘Decomposition?’

  ‘Yes, Lady Honoria. Does not this word mean “illness”?’

  ‘Well, a rather extreme form of illness. I think, Margrave, “indisposition” is perhaps the word you’re looking for.’

  ‘“Indisposition”, good. Yes, he has returned to Zling, due to family indisposition.’

  ‘You’re sure he hasn’t been sent there by the ex-King?’

  ‘No, he has gone there of his own occurred.’

  ‘Accord.’

  ‘Accord, right.’

  ‘But won’t he be in danger if he returns to Zling?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I understood that the country was now under the control of King Vlatislav.’

  ‘He is not the King! Sigismund is the only King of Mitteleuropia! Vlatislav is a usurper!’

  ‘Yes, of course, I’m so sorry,’ said Twinks, relieved that this outburst had passed unnoticed in the general conversation of the dinner. ‘But what I am saying is that, whatever the health of his family, surely Captain Schtoltz, as a loyal supporter of ex-King – sorry, King Sigismund, will be at risk from the forces of King – sorry, the usurper Vlatislav . . .?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said the Margrave von Humpenstaupen slowly. ‘Yes. No, I’m sorry. I have this wrong. I am thinking of something else . . . What I meant to say was that Captain Schtoltz has gone to London for an appointment . . .’ There was a long silence before he went on, ‘He has gone to meet his bootmaker.’

  Meet his Maker more likely, thought Twinks. And she reckoned even Blotto would have worked out that the Margrave von Humpenstaupen was lying.

  6

  An Overheard Conversation

  Blotto had mixed feelings when the time came for the ladies to withdraw from the dinner table. On the one hand, he was relieved to be excused the vigorous eyelash-fluttering of ex-Princess Ethelinde. On the other, he didn’t find the male company on offer much more attractive. Though fully aware of his duties as an Englishman and a host, he’d really rather had a bellyful of Mitteleuropians and their tedious politics. It was that gag about guests and fish again. Or was it cheese? Something niffy, anyway. Cracks were appearing in Blotto’s normally unfailing bonhomie. All he really wanted was a large brandy and soda and the welcome embrace of his single bed.

  But the Mitteleuropians still had rituals to perform. There were elaborate post-prandial toasts to be drunk and, to add to the general inconvenience, the guests had introduced their own alcohol. Bottles of a colourless fluid called Splintz were brought forward with great ceremony and the ex-King’s entourage waxed lyrical about the quality of the experience his ‘British friends’ were about to share. This was, they insisted, a very rare occasion.

  As though it were liquid gold, measures of Splintz were decanted into small glasses. Then followed an unnecessarily long explanation of Mitteleuropian drinking customs. Time-honoured tradition demanded that Splintz could only be drunk in company – drinking it alone brought bad luck – and it must be accompanied by the appropriate toast. Then, from all around the table there was a cry of ‘Zugbash!’ and the contents of the glass were downed in one. To Blotto, the first shot felt as though it had stripped several layers off his tongue and then wallpapered his throat with them.

  Gasping, he turned his watery eyes on to the gentleman next to him. ‘Just wait for the aftertaste,’ his neighbour confided with heavily accented glee.

  The aftertaste came. In Blotto’s opinion it combined the worst qualities of silver polish and turpentine. And none of their good points.

  It wasn’t just the taste of the stuff either. Each toast had to be accompanied not only by the cry of ‘Zugbash!’, but also by elaborate flourishes of compliment. ‘King Sigismund wishes to raise his glass to the Duke of Tawcester, whose beneficence and generosity are famed throughout the world, and whose fine qualities of . . .’ (This went on for hours.) ‘The Margrave von Humpenstaupen wishes to raise his glass in absentia to the ladies of Tawcester Towers, whose perfect beauty is without a flea . . .’ Toast followed toast, and all Blotto wanted to do was be in bed until he was woken next morning by his manservant Tweedling with some of the buttered variety.

  But noblesse oblige . . . He knew what belonged to a scion of the Tawcester dynasty. Over the years members of his family might have hacked up a few rival barons in the battlefield and mutilated the odd serf on the estate, but they had never been less than polite to guests within their home. So, after tedious rounds of ever more elaborate toasts, with the Splintz by now removing layers from his internal organs as well as his mouth, he finally escorted his Mitteleuropian guests to the billiard room.

  This cavernous space had been added to Tawcester Towers during the nineteenth-century indoor games boom. And fortunately for Blotto it had been added by the Duke who earned himself the soubriquet of Rupert the Antisocial. Not being a lover of his fellow man, this peer had decreed that the design of the room should incorporate a series of alcoves on either side, each centred on a fireplace, over which was fixed a display of swords and other weapons from the Tawcester family armoury. High-backed leather sofas made these spaces into virtually self-contained units.

  So, after the minimum of politesse to his now rather gamey guests, it was to one of these alcoves that Blotto stole with a quintuple brandy and the merest dribble of soda (after all that Splintz muck, he needed a proper drink).

  Ensconced in his refuge, he found himself, as Duke Rupert the Antisocial had intended, as if in a different room from the babble of the tiresome Mitteleuropians. And, having had a busy day on Mephistopheles, along with two very large and generously alcohol-sluiced meals – not to mention the lethal Splintz – Blotto very quickly fell asleep.

  When he awoke, it took him a moment or two to remember where he was. He didn’t know what time it was either, but the lamps over the billiard tables had been switched off and the only light came from the dying embers of the large open fires. Blotto was about to stretch his stiffening limbs and take himself off to an overdue appointment with bed, when suddenly he realized that he was not alone in the billiard room.

  He could hear two voices in earnest conversation. One spoke English with the guttural accent of the Mitteleuropians, the other with that slackness of vowels which always betrays the lack of private education. Blotto was confused as to why a member of the lower classes should be in the billiard room of Tawcester Towers. He was about to rise from his leathern repose to identify the interloper when he heard from the Mitteleuropian words that froze him to the spot.

  ‘The only way we can achieve what we want is to kidnap her.’

  ‘I’m sure that can be arranged, sir,’ said the common person.

  ‘She is heavily guarded when she travels.’

  ‘She may be heavily guarded when she travels, but she’s not so heavily guarded when she is a guest at an English country house.’

  The Mitteleuropian chuckled at this. ‘That is exactly the point, my friend. Here at Tawcester Towers she is thought to be safe.’

  It was all Blotto could do to stop himself from shouting out, ‘And she is safe! Whoever the she in question may be! Over the centuries guests have always been safe at Tawcester Towers! It is a point of family honour, and always has been. Even when Evil Baron Edmund the Murderous visited Rupert the Vicious during the Wars of the Roses, he was not set upon and slaughtered . . . at least not until he had passed the estate boundary. We Lyminsters have standards!’

  But he curbed his tongue. Experience – not to mention Twinks – had taught him that there were times when the instinctive response of an Englishman and a gentleman was not necessarily the right one. Sometimes it paid to play the long game. (As a lover of cricket, he should have known that, anyway – he was used to playing an interminable ga
me.) So he waited to see what further treachery was about to be revealed.

  ‘I cannot emphasize enough,’ the rasping foreign voice continued, ‘how important it is that no suspicion concerning the abduction attaches itself to me.’

  ‘That is fully understood, sir.’

  ‘Nor – and this is vital – that my brother ever finds out that I have any connection with the crime.’

  ‘That is also understood.’

  ‘My brother’s loyalty to ex-King Sigismund borders on the obsessive. He will happily lay down his life for any legitimate member of the Schtiffkohler royal family. His integrity is unimpeachable . . . as mine used to be . . .’ There was a reflective silence. ‘. . . before King Vlatislav showed me the error of my ways . . .’ A harsh laugh. ‘. . . and the colour of his money. If my brother gets wind of what we have in mind, he will not stop short of killing us both to foil our plans.’

  ‘I will see that his plans to foil your plans are foiled.’

  ‘But what if he tries to foil your plans to foil his plans to foil my plans?’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir. I have a plan to foil his plans to foil my plans to foil his plans to foil your plans.’

  ‘Good. I like people who think ahead. Yes, I knew I’d got the right man to do this job for me. It is for that reason that the fee you are being paid for your services is so generous.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Do you have a plan for how you will effect the kidnapping?’

  ‘I do. I think it will be easiest if I –’

  ‘Please! I do not wish to know. What I am ignorant of cannot be extracted from me . . . even under torture.’

  ‘As you wish, sir. You may rely on my discretion.’