Blotto, Twinks and the Ex-King's Daughter

by Simon Brett

  ‘Usurping King Vlatislav, yes.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course, must get his title right.’

  ‘Though,’ Klaus Schiffleich hastened to say, ‘I think it’d be better if, to his face, you did call him “King Vlatislav”.’

  ‘Good ticket,’ Blotto responded. ‘No, I suppose he’s not that keen on the old “Usurping” label. Leave it with me. All be tickey-tockey, don’t you worry. You can rely on me to –’

  What Blotto could be relied on to do was never revealed, because at that moment Corky Froggett slammed on the Lagonda’s brakes. From a side turning on the outskirts of Zling, a vehicle had suddenly swung out in front of them.

  ‘What’s up? Is this a kidnap attempt?’ demanded Blotto.

  ‘No,’ replied Klaus Schiffleich. ‘Just the second part of our escort. See, it’s another Klig.’

  And so it proved. The car in front of them was identical to the one behind, which had now taken closer order. With only a car’s length space either end, the Lagonda allowed itself to be led through the medieval stone gateway of Zling and over cobbled streets towards the Korpzenschloss. In the fading evening light there were few citizens on the streets of the capital. Those who were there, hooded frightened figures wrapped up in cloaks, showed little interest in the gleaming Lagonda or its contents. As soon as the convoy of cars approached, they scuttled away up side alleys like crabs disturbed in a rock pool.

  The nearer they approached, the huger the Korpzenschloss loomed over them. It didn’t have the comforting chunkiness of an English castle; instead it rose in a profusion of ever taller towers, looking like an outgrowth of some exotic – and undoubtedly poisonous – fungus.

  All the approaches to the main gates were heavily sentried by soldiers with antiquated rifles and fixed bayonets. They wore the same dark green uniforms and black pointed helmets as the border guards. At apertures in the stone frontage of the castle the evening light caught the gleam on the barrels of machine guns (much less sophisticated models than the Accrington-Murphy). The soldiers’ looks were ugly, but again the presence of the two Kligs front and back of the Lagonda ensured that the new arrivals were not challenged.

  The escorting cars left no doubt as to where the Lagonda should stop, directly in front of the Korpzenschloss’s main gates.

  ‘Right,’ said Blotto. ‘Time for you to show us the colour of your Mitteleuropian, Schiffleich. If anyone starts spouting at me, I won’t understand a spoffing word.’

  But he needn’t have worried. As soon as he stepped out of the Lagonda, Blotto heard the English words, ‘Welcome to Mitteleuropia, the Right Honourable Devereux Lyminster.’

  And he found himself facing King Vlatislav. Or, to be strictly accurate, the Usurping King Vlatislav. But he wasn’t about to say that to the chap’s face.

  16

  Dinner with the Usurper

  Dinner in the Korpzenschloss was a splendid affair, though it included too many courses and sauces for Blotto’s taste. He favoured meals where large slabs of meat were served with the simplest and unfussiest of vegetables. Sauces always made him suspicious. Like flowers at a funeral, he felt there must be something unpleasant they were trying to hide.

  But the Great Hall of the castle, in which the dinner was served, was an impressive sight, its walls hung with weaponry and coats of arms, its vaulted ceilings trailing the colours of vanquished foes. One complete wall was given over to portraits of the Kings of Mitteleuropia. They were, to Blotto’s eyes, a shifty bunch, the sort you wouldn’t leave alone in a room with your sister’s honour. The final portrait was smaller than the pale square of panelling in the middle of which it hung. Clearly, like his throne, the place of King Sigismund’s likeness had been usurped by one of his brother.

  As is often the case with portraiture, the painted image was more prepossessing than the reality which sat beside Blotto. The Usurping King Vlatislav was, like his usurped brother Sigismund, short and dark. Though his black eyes were wells of deviousness, he did, however, ladle on the charm like a distemper brush dripping with honey. And, in spite of what his brother had said of his abilities, his English was remarkably good.

  The usurper also demonstrated some level of gentility in his conversation. Although the only thing about Blotto that interested him was the Englishman’s access to Accrington-Murphy machine guns, he did open their discussion to other topics. He asked, for instance, in which way his own position as King of Mitteleuropia differed from that of the King of England.

  Blotto didn’t know where to start. To mention the two monarchies in the same breath was a travesty of all that was sacred. England was England, whereas Mitteleuropia . . . well, that anyone imagined there could be any comparison between the two was preposterous.

  But Blotto had been well brought up and he knew that members of foreign royal families were sometimes unaware of their ultimate irrelevance in the scheme of things. As a result, he found himself explaining the British system of government to the Usurping King Vlatislav

  ‘All right, you’ve got the King at the top . . .’

  ‘And he has power to do whatever he wishes, as I do here in Mitteleuropia?’

  ‘Well, not exactly, no. You see, there’s also this bunch of chappies called the House of Commons . . . which is actually rather well named . . . because a lot of the boddos in there are rather common. You know, some of them didn’t even go to minor public schools. Anyway, they do all the boring guff . . . you know, making laws and increasing taxes and all that. But then there’s the House of Lords, which is where our sort of people go, and they do important things . . . like seeing that their own particular bits of the countryside get looked after . . . and finding ways of avoiding all these taxes that the little oiks in the House of Commons keep raising. It all seems to work rather well.’

  ‘And so your King, what does your King do?’

  ‘Oh, not a lot, really. Well, he does the right sort of things . . . the Season, hunting, what-have-you . . . And he entertains members of his family . . . you know, foreign Kings and Princes . . . when they come to visit. Nothing to do with the government, though. He doesn’t do any work. He’s one of us.’

  ‘And what do you call this system you have?’

  ‘Constitutional monarchy, I suppose.’

  ‘And what does this mean in practice?’

  ‘It means the monarch’s nominally in charge, but he doesn’t have any power.’

  The brow of the Usurping King of Mitteleuropia darkened. ‘I do not like the sound of this.’

  ‘Another description of the system is democracy,’ said Blotto.

  The Usurping King’s brow grew even darker. ‘This I do not like either. I have heard of it. Democracy means asking the common people what they think, does it not?’

  ‘Well, in a way. You ask, yes, but you don’t have to take any notice of what they say.’

  The Usurping King’s disquiet was still not assuaged. ‘Surely democracy is a system of government based on consultation with the common people?’

  ‘No,’ Blotto reassured him. ‘It’s a system based on the illusion of consultation with the common people.’

  ‘Ah.’ Relief flooded the usurping royal visage. ‘So it is not so different from what we do here then. Except that we don’t even have the illusion of consulting the common people. And we torture and kill a lot of them.’

  ‘Well,’ said Blotto, as ever the last person to condemn another human being or indeed another system of government, ‘horses for courses.’

  Of course no Mitteleuropian dinner could be complete without the dreaded Splintz. The only advantage Blotto could see of experiencing the ceremony in Zling rather than at Tawcester Towers was that, except for the word ‘Zugbash’, he couldn’t understand any of the elaborate toasts that accompanied drinking the muck. The Usurping King Vlatislav apologized for the fact that they were spoken in Mitteleuropian – and offered to summon an interpreter, but Blotto said he was fine. No need to drag Klaus Schiffleich out of the servants’ quarters,
where he’d been billeted with Corky Froggett. ‘The feeling of goodwill in the toasts will come across, in whatever language they are couched,’ Blotto asserted diplomatically.

  ‘Goodwill?’ the Usurping King Vlatislav echoed sceptically. ‘There is little goodwill in the toasts we are raising tonight. All of them wish confusion and lingering deaths to our enemies.’

  ‘Ah. Oh. Er, well, good ticket,’ said Blotto.

  ‘In particular, confusion and a lingering death to my brother Sigismund, who has had the audacity to lay claim to the throne that is rightfully mine.’

  ‘Has he?’ asked Blotto ingenuously. ‘Toad-in-the-hole . . . Families, eh?’

  A new shrewdness came into the usurper’s shifty eyes. ‘I wonder if you have met my brother . . .?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ Then Blotto added something that he thought was rather clever. ‘This is, after all, my first time in Mitteleuropia.’

  ‘It is not there that you might have met him.’ The glare from the dark eyes threatened to peel away a few layers of Blotto’s skin. ‘I happen to know that my evil brother is currently enjoying the hospitality of Tawcester Towers.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Which is the seat of your family, the Right Honourable Devereux Lyminster.’

  ‘Oh, right, yes. I do spend a certain amount of time there.’

  ‘Which means you must have met my brother Sigismund.’

  ‘Not necessarily’ Blotto eased a finger round the inside of his collar which had suddenly become unaccountably tight. ‘Big place, Tawcester Towers. Easy to miss the odd ex-King and his entourage.’

  ‘I am sure it is,’ said Vlatislav silkily

  But Blotto got the impression he had not really been believed. Time to move the conversation on to a slightly less gluey topic. ‘Still, I’m sure you’ll want to take a close look at the Accrington-Murphy I’ve brought with me.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Tomorrow morning we will have a demonstration of the machine’s capabilities.’

  ‘Hoopee-doopee! My chauffeur Corky Froggett will happily put the thing through its paces for you. Where do you want to do it?’

  ‘There is a large square behind us here at Korpzenschloss, which is known as the Square of the Butcher.’

  ‘Why, is there a butcher’s shop there?’ asked Blotto.

  All he got by way of reply was a satirical grimace. ‘I think you are having fun with me, the Right Honourable Devereux Lyminster.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ said Blotto, puzzled.

  ‘Anyway, the Square of the Butcher has often been used for such events.’

  ‘What events? Other demonstrations?’

  ‘Demonstrations, yes.’ The Usurping King Vlatislav let out a small evil laugh. ‘And reprisals for those who take part in demonstrations.’

  ‘Ah. Right. Well, sounds tickey-tockey to me.’

  ‘I will organize some prisoners to be ready tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Oh, we won’t need many.’

  ‘Do not worry. I have many. The many deep dungeons of Korpzenschloss are overflowing with prisoners.’

  The mention of dungeons reminded Blotto – almost for the first time since he left England – of his true mission in Mitteleuropia. He had been sent to rescue ex-Princess Ethelinde. Maybe she, even as he spoke, was directly beneath him, languishing in one of Korpzenschloss’s dungeons.

  But of course he didn’t mention that thought as he clarified his meaning. ‘What I meant was that we wouldn’t need many because the Accrington-Murphy’s not very heavy. One of its big selling points. We won’t actually need any prisoners. Corky Froggett’ll be able to carry it on his own.’

  ‘It is not for carrying duties that I will be organizing the prisoners.’

  ‘Oh, for what then?’

  ‘It is for target duties I will be organizing them.’

  Blotto looked bewildered. Then, like a shy spring crocus, understanding blossomed. ‘Target duties? You mean you’re going to use these prisoner johnnies as something to shoot at?’

  ‘Exactly If your Accrington-Murphy does not shoot anyone, I will not know how well it works, will I? Come on, you would not buy a horse without having taken it for a ride, would you?’

  ‘No,’ Blotto agreed uneasily.

  ‘In exactly the same way, you would not buy a machine for killing people until you have actually seen it killing people.’

  ‘But who are these prisoner johnnies? I mean what have they done?’

  The Usurping King’s eyes flashed danger as he replied, ‘They have dared to question the right of my claim to the throne of Mitteleuropia.’

  ‘Oh, get your drift.’

  ‘And death is the sentence imposed on anyone who dares to question that right.’

  ‘Broken biscuits,’ murmured Blotto.

  At this moment their conversation was interrupted by the appearance at the Usurping King’s side of a weasel-faced man in a black uniform with silver frogging. Blotto wasn’t aware of the man actually arriving. One moment he wasn’t there, the next moment he just was.

  Vlatislav apologized to his guest and then let the newcomer whisper in his ear. Even if Blotto had heard what was said, he would have been none the wiser, because the man spoke in Mitteleuropian.

  At the end of the message, the Usurping King nodded approval and the man was reabsorbed into the shadows at the edge of the Great Hall. ‘This is good news,’ Vlatislav announced.

  ‘Oh, tickey-tockey,’ said Blotto. ‘Something you can share with me?’

  ‘Let it just be said that another of my enemies has been captured.’

  Blotto couldn’t think of anything better to say than another ‘Oh, tickey-tockey.’

  ‘He too is now in the dungeons of Korpzenschloss.’

  ‘Oh, tickey-tockey,’ said Blotto for the third time. Conversational originality had never been his strongest suit.

  ‘And he, I think, would be a very suitable candidate to attend tomorrow morning’s demonstration of your Accrington-Murphy.’

  ‘You mean he’ll be shot?’

  ‘If your machine gun is as efficent as it is meant to be, yes.’

  ‘Oh.’ Something didn’t feel quite right to Blotto. ‘But will he have had a trial?’

  ‘By the morning he will have confessed to his evil plotting.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘I am sure. Everybody in the dungeons of Korpzenschloss confesses eventually. In most cases very quickly. And some,’ the usurper continued with some pride, ‘are still alive after they’ve confessed.’

  ‘I think maybe our legal system is a bit different,’ Blotto suggested tentatively. ‘We in England have this kind of judicial practice called “Trial by Jury”.’

  ‘And we in Mitteleuropia have many kinds of our own judicial practices. For instance –’ the Usurping King Vlatislav grinned with glee – ‘tomorrow you will witness “Trial by Accrington-Murphy”.’

  ‘And how exactly does that work?’ asked Blotto, not sure that he wanted to know the answer.

  ‘It is very simple. If the bullets from the Accrington-Murphy pierce the skin of the prisoner, we know him to be guilty If he is unharmed by them, then he is innocent. So he has what you in England I think call . . . “A Sporting Chance”.’

  The Usurping King beamed and then burst into a long, fruity laugh. He seemed to find the whole business a lot funnier than Blotto did.

  17

  A Traitor Revealed

  Blotto’s mouth felt as though it had been scoured with wire wool by an over-assiduous scullery maid. Splintz really didn’t agree with him. He reckoned by the time the average Mitteleuropian died, he must have a completely hollow body, all internal organs having been eroded by constant intake of the noxious fluid.

  Still, at least the evening was over, and he had finally been allowed to escape to the privacy of his room. Outside the door stood two green-uniformed, black-helmeted guardsmen, armed with fixed-bayonet rifles. If they were there to give the guest to Korpzenschlos
s a sense of security, they failed in their mission. Blotto had the distinct feeling the guards were there to prevent him from leaving the room rather than to protect him against intruders.

  The bedroom was decorated in the style of a family mausoleum, with tall barred windows which couldn’t have provided much illumination even in daylight. High-funnelled oil lamps shed a flickering light over the scene. But the large canopied bed looked comfortable, and after his long drive – not to mention excessive doses of Splintz – Blotto looked forward to a good night’s sleep. His dressing gown and pyjamas, he noted approvingly, were laid out on the bed, and Klaus Schiffleich stood in an appropriate posture of deference at the side of the room.

  ‘Is there anything else you require, milord?’ asked the manservant. Once again his master was struck by the high pitch of the voice. Almost as though it hadn’t broken yet. Maybe, he concluded, like everything else in a backward country like Mitteleuropia, puberty arrived late.

  ‘Tell you what would really fit the pigeon-hole,’ replied Blotto. ‘An octuple brandy and soda. I know, as a Mitteleuropian you may have been virtually weaned off your mother’s breast on to the stuff, but I’m afraid, as far as I’m concerned, the only proper use for that Splintz of yours would be removing barnacles from a boat’s bottom. I need something to wash the taste off my tonsils.’

  ‘I have anticipated your request,’ said Klaus Schiffleich. ‘You will see there is an octuple brandy and soda already standing on your bedside table.’

  ‘Oh, good ticket. Just give me a minute to gird the old loins in jim-jams and I’ll be wallowing in the B and S like a dying man at an oasis.’

  As the young man helped him out of his evening wear, Blotto found the pistol that Corky Froggett had given him. ‘You still got your one of these, Schiffleich?’

  ‘Yes, milord.’

  ‘Better give it to me for safe-keeping.’

  ‘But why, milord?’

  ‘Not good form, servants carrying guns, don’t you know? Kind of thing that could cause ructions below stairs.’