Blotto, Twinks and the Ex-King's Daughter

by Simon Brett

  ‘Oh no, that’s nonsense. Once you start feeling responsible for the intricacies of what goes on in a place like Mitteleuropia . . . well, you’ll end up as daft as Rupert the Unhinged. No, it’s the wretched people’s own fault, and if only the kidnapper had waited until the ex-King and his entourage had moved on somewhere else . . . we’d never have to think about it again. As it is, though . . .’ The Dowager Duchess tapped her stick on the carpet of the Blue Morning Room with considerable aggravation and sighed. ‘. . . we can’t really give them their marching orders now. I mean, it’s as if one of Grimshaw’s staff had stolen a piece of jewellery from a guest . . .’

  Blotto was astonished by the concept. ‘Surely that’d never happen?’

  ‘Oh, it has done,’ his mother replied airily. ‘You’d be amazed the horrible things the lower classes get up to. And when something like that does happen – you know, a jewellery theft . . . well, it’s a point of honour not to allow your guests to leave until their property has been returned to them.’

  ‘And so, in the case of the ex-Princess . . .?’

  ‘Exactly the same rule applies. I’ve got to put up with ex-King Sigismund and that tedious ex-Queen Klara and the rest of their ghastly entourage until you bring his daughter back safe and sound.’

  ‘Broken biscuits, Mater! I didn’t realize the situation was as serious as that.’

  ‘Well, it is. So, Blotto my boy, time is of the essence.’

  ‘I can see that.’ He was about to regale his mother with a little quip about fish and . . . but he couldn’t remember how it went. Probably just as well, actually. The Dowager Duchess wasn’t much of a one for little quips.

  ‘And what if . . .?’ he posed the question tentatively. ‘What if I fail in my mission?’

  ‘You mean you don’t bring the wretched girl back?’

  ‘Yes. Will the ex-King and his lot stay here for ever?’

  ‘Oh no, I think in those circumstances, we’d be absolved of any further obligations of hospitality . . . provided you had tried, of course.’

  ‘Oh, Mater, I would try.’

  ‘No, that’d be fine.’ A moment of dubiety crossed the Dowager Duchess’s craggy features as she searched her memory for ancestral precedents. ‘Well, it’d certainly be fine if you tried and failed, but died in the attempt . . . That’d be absolutely tickey-tockey.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mater, I won’t fail.’ Blotto knew what belonged to a hero. ‘And if I do – and die in the attempt – at least I’ll die knowing the family honour is intact.’

  ‘Yes. So, Blotto my boy, you’d better start flexing your muscles, buckling on your breastplate, girding your loins and all that kind of stuff. Remember . . .’ She fixed him with the eye whose demands he had never, from the nursery onwards, been able to refuse. ‘ . . . every moment you delay is another moment I have to try and think of something to say to ex-Queen Klara.’

  ‘I’ll be off before the day is out.’ He looked out of the mullioned windows at the darkling shadows that crept across the lawns of Tawcester Towers. ‘Well, today actually nearly is out, but I’ll be off tomorrow morning at worm’s first waking yawn.’

  ‘That will be acceptable. Oh, by the way, Blotto, I don’t want you travelling alone.’

  He looked at his mother with incomprehension. Was this the first recorded instance of the Dowager Duchess actually showing concern for one of her offspring? ‘Why’s that, Mater?’

  ‘Well, you don’t speak any Mitteleuropian, do you?’

  ‘Not a cuckoo-spit.’

  ‘So you’ll need an interpreter.’

  ‘Yes . . .’ He was confused, searching for something. Then into the innocent fog of his mind came the sudden sunburst of an idea. ‘I say, Twinks speaks Mitteleuropian.’

  ‘Are you suggesting your sister should accompany you?’

  ‘Well, it is a notion. And I’m sure she’d love to do it.’

  ‘What she would love to do is neither here nor there. You, Blotto, are about to embark on a very dangerous mission . . .’

  ‘And it’s no place for the ladies – is that what you’re saying? Because Twinks can be a bit of a girl when it comes to –’

  ‘No. The point is that Twinks is my only daughter. If something happens to her, I don’t have another one. Whereas, with you . . . well, there’s always Loofah.’

  ‘Yes, take your point, Mater, right.’

  ‘And I’m still hoping to breed from Twinks,’ said the Dowager Duchess firmly. ‘So who will you take with you to Mitteleuropia, Blotto?’

  The answer was instant. ‘Corky Froggett.’

  ‘Excellent. That common little chauffeur who used to be in the army. Salt of the earth. Totally invaluable – and completely expendable.’

  ‘Yes. Mind you, Corky doesn’t speak Mitteleuropian.’

  ‘As I recall, he hardly speaks English. Anyway, don’t worry about that. Ex-King Sigismund is organizing an interpreter for you – and also a cover story.’

  ‘A cover story?’

  ‘Yes. You know what a “cover story” is, Blotto, don’t you?’

  He brought the full power of his brain to bear on the question. ‘Erm . . . is it the bit of the story that’s on the outside of a book?’

  ‘No, you nincompoop! In this case, it’s the reason why you’re going to Mitteleuropia.’

  ‘But I know that. I’m going to Mitteleuropia to rescue ex-Princess Ethelinde.’

  ‘Yes, but you can’t tell people that, can you?’

  Blotto was shocked. ‘Are you saying you want me to lie? Because I was always brought up to believe –’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! Don’t worry, ex-King Sigismund will tell you what to say.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘He requested that you should go and see him as soon as possible.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mater.’ Blotto rose from his chair and made for the door, but was frozen by the sound of his mother’s voice.

  ‘Oh, one thing . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Still family honour and all that . . .’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘If you do rescue ex-Princess Ethelinde . . . there’s a very strong chance that you’ll be expected to marry her.’

  Blotto felt as though he had just been struck over the head with a claw-footed bathtub. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, two unchaperoned young people scampering across Europe together . . . it’s hardly the thing, is it?’

  ‘No, but –’

  ‘And traditionally, under such circumstances, the kidnapped girl and her rescuer do tend to fall in love.’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘I think ex-King Sigismund would be very keen on such an alliance. Joining the ruling house of Mitteleuropia to the Tawcester dynasty . . . yes, he’d like that.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because we have discussed the matter.’

  ‘Oh.’ Blotto felt the freedom that surrounded him being drained away, as by a suction pump. ‘But – but – but – but . . .’ He sounded like a small car going up a very steep hill.

  ‘Of course,’ the Dowager Duchess went on, ‘it will depend on whether ex-King Sigismund remains an ex-King or not . . .’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, I can’t have you marrying an ex-Princess, can I?’

  ‘No,’ Blotto agreed, hope beginning to dawn. ‘No, that’d be awful. Going against family history. Rupert the Stuck-Up would really have disapproved of something like that happening.’

  ‘But, on the other hand, if your mission is successful . . .’

  ‘If I manage to rescue the girl, you mean?’

  ‘Not just that. If you manage to rescue the girl, and bring down the regime of the usurping King Vlatislav, and restore ex-King Sigismund to his rightful throne – which is the kind of thing I’d expect from any son of mine, Blotto . . .’

  ‘Well, obviously I’ll do my best.’

  ‘. . . then ex-King Sigismund will be King Sigismund . . . and ex-Princess Et
helinde will be Princess Ethelinde . . . and there’ll be absolutely nothing to stop you from marrying her!’

  ‘Oh, broken biscuits,’ murmured Blotto.

  He was in something of a bind. Family honour demanded that he should be successful in his quest. But the more successful he was, the more at risk he would be from the threat of marriage to ex-Princess Ethelinde . . . or Princess Ethelinde, as she would then be. Bit of a candle-snuffer, he reflected.

  13

  A Top Secret Mission

  Blotto’s interview with ex-King Sigismund took place in the suite above the library which the Mitteleuropian party had commandeered. In fact they met in the room where the unfortunate Captain Schtoltz had choked out his last breath. The covered bed and shrouded furniture suggested that no one else had taken up residency after him. In the middle of the room stood a large object draped in a dust-sheet, whose contours did not fit any piece of furniture that had come within the compass of Blotto’s experience.

  The usurped monarch was accompanied by the Margrave von Humpenstaupen who, with the escape of one Grittelhoff brother and the demise of the other, seemed to have taken over the role of royal bodyguard. This must have been an onerous task for someone who, up until that point, appeared to have devoted most of his energies to cultivating his moustache.

  ‘I cannot overemphasize,’ ex-King Sigismund began, ‘the vital importance of the mission you are about to undertake.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Blotto, ‘I’m up to it. I’ve played cricket. I’ll get your daughter back.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear of your confidence, but I think you should be aware of the seriousness of the situation in Mitteleuropia. My usurping brother Vlatislav has ears everywhere.’

  ‘Does he?’ asked Blotto, anatomically puzzled until he vaguely remembered something one of the beaks at school had said about metaphors.

  ‘In the remotest village of Mitteleuropia there are spies.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right,’ said Blotto. ‘I’m not going to the remotest village in Mitteleuropia. I’m going to the capital. Should all be tickey-tockey there.’

  ‘I mean, wherever you go in Mitteleuropia, there will be spies.’

  ‘What? Foreign spies?’

  ‘No, Mitteleuropian spies.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be snickered . . .’ murmured Blotto. ‘I mean, our chaps at the War Office sometimes send spies out to other countries . . . nasty business, but has to be done for national security and all that guff . . . but we’d never have any on home ground.’

  ‘In Mitteleuropia Vlatislav has spies everywhere. In Zling every second person is a spy.’

  ‘Broken biscuits . . . Well, this brother of yours does sound a shabby stencher. What, so he’s set up a whole system of secret police, has he?’

  ‘No. He has taken over my system of secret police. That is why I know how efficient they are.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘There is one thing I must advise you: in Mitteleuropia trust no one. Even the people you think to be your friends, they could easily be in the pay of my evil usurping brother Vlatislav. People change allegiances as readily as ladies change hats. There is a Mitteleuropian proverb: He whom you trust at ten o’clock will stab you at one minute past. Take nothing at face value. Once again I say: in Mitteleuropia trust no one.’

  ‘Get your drift.’ Blotto nodded sagely. ‘Leave it with me.’

  ‘So, Right Honourable Devereux Lyminster, you have to be very careful who you speak to – and what you say to them.’

  Blotto didn’t think it was probably the right moment to correct the ex-King on his use of titles. ‘Don’t worry, Your ex-Majesty –’ the expression on the ex-regal face suggested that he too was having problems with foreigners’ use of titles – ‘I mean Your Majesty. I know how to clam up, like a . . . well, like a clam.’

  ‘It is therefore important that we have a cover story which is foolproof – very important in your case.’ Had there been any implied insult in this sentence, Blotto was blithely unaware of it. ‘So I will hand over to the Margrave von Humpenstaupen, who will tell you what your cover is.’

  ‘Good ticket. So tell me, Margrave, who am I going to be?’

  Von Humpenstaupen ran his fingers through his luxuriant moustaches like a Chinese Emperor assessing a bolt of fine silk. ‘What matters is that the persona you take on is believable. Nobody must smell a rot.’

  ‘I think you possibly mean “rat”.’

  ‘Rat, yes. King Vlatislav –’

  ‘Usurping King Vlatislav,’ said ex-King Sigismund testily.

  ‘Of course, Your Majesty. Usurping King Vlatislav is a man of much suspicion and he has made all Mitteleuropia deeply suspicious too. Everyone in the country is a septic.’

  ‘Sceptic.’

  ‘Yes. So when suddenly an aristocratic Englishman crosses the Mitteleuropian border at the town of Zbrik, everyone is going to wonder why he is there.’

  ‘And,’ said the ex-King, ‘it is of paramount importance that no one ever finds out the reason for your journey. If the truth is discovered, it could threaten danger to the person who is dearest to our royal heart.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Blotto. ‘You mean your ex-daughter?’

  This prompted another burst of ex-royal irritation. ‘She is not my ex-daughter!’

  ‘Oh no, sorry, right. Get your drift, anyway. I must not reveal to anyone that the real purpose of my mission is to rescue ex-Princess Eth – I mean, Princess Ethelinde?’

  ‘Exactly Whatever pressures are put on you.’

  ‘I’ll be as silent as a butler’s shoes.’

  ‘Even under torture?’

  ‘Even under torture.’ As he repeated the ex-King’s words, a question rose naturally to Blotto’s lips. ‘Why, are they likely to use torture?’

  ‘Very likely. I trained my secret police well. If torture were an Olympic sport, the gold, silver and bronze medals would all be won by Mitteleuropians.’

  ‘Oh, congratulations,’ said Blotto. ‘So we need a good cover story for me . . .’

  ‘I have already devised –’

  ‘I say,’ said Blotto, so excited by his idea that he forgot his manners and interrupted. ‘Couldn’t I have gone for the hunting? You said the hunting’s pretty beezer in your country.’

  ‘Yes. But you could not hunt in Mitteleuropia without having been invited to hunt there, and since nobody there knows you, nobody is going to issue you with an invitation, are they?’

  ‘No. Rodents to that idea then.’

  ‘What we need,’ said the Margrave von Humpenstaupen, ‘is something that will make you welcome in the country, and will automatically give you a way in to all the top bras.’

  ‘Top brass, I think.’

  ‘Top brass, right. So, in other words, you have to go to Mitteleuropia taking with you something that the Mitteleuropians want, something they lack.’

  ‘Oh, hoopee-doopee!’ An idea irradiated Blotto’s perfect features. ‘I could offer to teach them how to play cricket!’

  The expression on the two Mitteleuropian faces suggested they didn’t share his high opinion of this solution. Nor did they buy his supporting argument that a knowledge of cricket couldn’t fail to turn the usurping Vlatislav into a decent bloke with a proper understanding of right and wrong, who would immediately hand the kingdom back to his brother and spend the rest of his life in the nets, blamelessly trying to improve his cover drive. Blotto was disappointed by their reaction, because he rarely had ideas of quite such dazzling quality.

  The Margrave von Humpenstaupen did not even bother to vocalize his reaction, but continued as if the suggestion had never been raised. ‘What we must concentrate on is the personality of the Usurping King Vlatislav.’ No danger of him making the same mistake twice. ‘He is an evil, vicious man, in whose heart there is no room for potty.’

  ‘Pity, I think.’

  ‘Yes, pity He is a tyrant, and how do tyrants impose their wills on their people?’

  ‘Sorry, you
’ve got me there,’ said Blotto. ‘Haven’t met that many tyrants . . . well, except for Mater, of course.’

  ‘Tyrants impose their will by causing pain, by hurting people. Wherever there is a tyrant, there will also be violins.’

  ‘Violence, perhaps?’

  ‘Violence, yes. So . . . what we have to use to attract the Usurping King Vlatislav to you is something that he needs to continue his course of viol . . . ence.’

  ‘How do you mean exactly?’

  ‘I mean this.’ With a dramatic gesture, the Margrave von Humpenstaupen swept away the dust-sheet to reveal the mysterious object in the middle of the room. It was a machine gun, gleaming with evil intent.

  ‘The Accrington-Murphy,’ said the Margrave von Humpenstaupen. ‘The latest model, capable of greater and speedier destruction than any weapon yet invented. The Usurping King Vlatislav would kill to get one of these.’

  ‘And then kill a lot more when he’d got one, eh?’

  ‘Exactly If he had this, he would be as happy as a clamp.’

  ‘Clam.’

  ‘Clam, yes.’

  ‘So you’re suggesting I should zap off instantly to Mitteleuropia and present him with this as a rich gift?’

  ‘No, no. If you did so, he would be instantly suspicious. He would small a rut.’

  ‘Rat.’

  ‘Damnation, yes. I knew it wasn’t “rot”, but I got the wrong bowel.’

  ‘Vowel.’

  ‘Yes. What I am suggesting is that you should go to Mitteleuropia and offer to sell him Accrington-Murphys. This is a sample only. If he knows you have access to these machines, Usurping King Vlatislav will be very keen to place an order for many more.’

  ‘Yes,’ ex-King Sigismund agreed, suddenly animated. ‘So that he can visit even more cruelty upon my people.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Blotto. ‘Are you suggesting that I should act as a gun-runner?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, is it the kind of thing that a member of the British aristocracy should do?’

  ‘It is the kind of thing for which many members of the British aristocracy were granted their titles.’