by Simon Brett
‘Of course. Which creature walks on four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three legs in the evening?’
Once again Blotto was perplexed. ‘Is it a horse that has some kind of nasty accident jumping a barbed wire fence?’
‘No, Blotters. It’s a man.’
‘What’s a man?’
‘The creature that walks on four legs in the morning, etc.’
‘Oh? Why?’
‘Because as a baby he goes on all fours, as an adult he goes on two legs and in old age he walks with a stick.’
‘Oh.’ Blotto looked puzzled. ‘He doesn’t live very long, though, does he?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, if he goes from being a baby to being an old man within a single day . . .’
Twinks decided not to pursue this line of conversation. She knew from experience the problems of trying to get her brother to understand metaphors. Instead, she said, ‘All that matters in our current treacle tin is that I’ve just answered the Riddle of the Sphinx and, if what the hieroglyphs on the side of the sarcophagus are telling is the truth, then we have escaped the Curse of Pharaoh Sinus Nefertop.’
‘Oh, that’d be beezer,’ said Blotto. But he couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice. Even though it involved ‘abroad’ (which he’d never been keen on), he had begun to get rather excited by the prospect of going off with Twinks on another daredevil adventure.
There was a silence. Then his sister announced, ‘There’s only one way to be sure that the curse has been lifted.’ She turned to the chauffeur. ‘Have you still got boils?’
‘Oh yes, milady,’ replied Corky Froggett.
‘Then Egypt it is, I’m afraid.’
‘Egypt?’
‘Do you know anything about Egypt, Corky?’
‘No, milady.’ This was not strictly true. Corky Froggett did know something about Egypt. Only one thing, and it was something he had learnt in the trenches. That Egypt was where dirty postcards came from. But he didn’t think that was an appropriate piece of information to pass on to the young mistress.
‘I think you’d better tell him,’ said Twinks.
Blotto nodded and took up the cue. ‘Corky, old man, there’s something we’d like you to do for us.’
‘Anything, milord,’ the chauffeur replied instantly. ‘Anything, even to the point of laying down my life for you. In fact, if the matter can be arranged, I would prefer a task which does involve my laying down my life for you.’
‘I don’t think it’ll necessarily come to that,’ said Blotto.
Seeing the disappointment in Corky Froggett’s eyes, Twinks hastened to inform him that the mission on which they were embarking would be exceedingly hazardous, and the possibility of their being put in mortal danger could by no means be ruled out.
He seemed reassured by this and asked what it was they wanted him to do. ‘As I say, anything. I am honoured to regard myself merely as a pawn in the greater game of life which you, my betters, are playing. And if by any chance it does come to a case of my laying down my life for—’
‘As I say,’ Twinks interrupted, ‘the mission on which we’re embarked is one of great potential danger.’
‘That’s the stuff to give the troops,’ said a gratified Corky Froggett. ‘And might I be allowed, milady, milord, to guess what the nature of that mission is?’
‘If you wish to,’ said Twinks.
‘Why?’ said Blotto.
‘Well, it seems to me,’ the chauffeur replied, ‘that there is only one mission on which you could be embarked. And I base this conclusion on recent events that have been observed in this area.’
Assuming that Corky was referring to the recent transportation of the sarcophagus, Blotto said, ‘Good ticket. But I’d bet a guinea to a groat you don’t know why we’re doing it.’
‘Why?’ demanded the chauffeur. ‘Not very difficult to answer that. You only have to listen to the rotter to know why.’
A furrow broke the surface of Twinks’s perfect forehead. ‘I’m sorry? To which particular “rotter” do you refer?’
‘You must know, milady. I refer to the scoundrel who has announced himself as your sworn enemy, whose sole aim in life is the destruction of Tawcester Towers and everyone connected with it.’
Twinks communicated that further elucidation was still required.
‘Why, I’m talking about that double-dyed villain who has been poisoning the minds of local people about the Lyminster family. He’s saying that your great fortune has all been built up by robbery and the exploitation of the sweat of the brows of working men and women.’
Blotto’s bewilderment cleared. It was the word ‘sweat’ that had provided the clue. ‘You’re talking about that four-faced filcher Alfred Sprockett.’
‘Of course I am, milord. I think it’s appalling that such filthy propaganda should be allowed to be uttered. If everyone was equal – which is the appalling idea that sewer rat is banging on about – what a disaster the world would become. It is right that toffs – if you’ll pardon the expression, milord, milady – should be in charge and the working man should know his place. I would be more than happy to—’
‘The mission is not about Alfred Sprockett,’ Twinks tried to interpose.
But Corky Froggett was too carried away to notice the interruption – or the further ones that occurred through his ensuing speech. ‘So I will be more than happy to assist you in your mission to destroy that Socialist blackguard. During the recent dust-up with the Hun I learned a wide variety of killing methods. For Alfred Sprockett I would favour garroting with his own tie . . . or perhaps a bayonet slipped under the ribs while he is sleeping . . . or hanging him by his fingernails from the underside of a—’
‘Corky, jam a gag in it, for the love of strawberries!’
This bellow from his young master finally brought Corky back to his senses. ‘I’m very sorry, milord. Got a bit caught up in myself there.’
‘You certainly did, you poor pineapple.’
‘But you do still want Alfred Sprockett eliminated, don’t you, milord?’
‘No, this mission doesn’t have a blind bezonger to do with Alfred Sprockett.’
Corky Froggett looked to Twinks. Experience had taught him that she was a better source of complicated explanations than her brother.
‘The mission on which we need to embark,’ she said quietly, ‘involves the three of us travelling to Egypt . . .’
‘Very good, milady.’
‘. . . in the Lagonda, taking the sarcophagus with us.’
‘Very good, milady.’
‘Once in Egypt our mission will be to return the sarcophagus to the tomb from which at some point in history it had been stolen.’
‘Stolen, eh?’ echoed the chauffeur. ‘And what kind of lowlife would steal a thing like that?’
‘One of our ancestors,’ replied Twinks icily.
‘Well, I’m sure he had his reasons,’ Corky said hastily. ‘Reasons which would be far above the intellectual capacity of someone of my background to understand.’
‘You are absolutely right there, Corky.’
‘Very good, milady. So, if I may recap the orders so far . . . Our mission is to drive in the Lagonda to Egypt, return the sarco . . . whatever you said . . . to its rightful place. And what do we do after that?’
‘We return here to Tawcester Towers.’
‘Excellent. Instructions received and understood, milady. And may I ask when our mission starts?’
‘Before daybreak. As soon as we’ve all got our bags packed.’
‘Very good, milady.’ Corky Froggett was completely unruffled by the suddenness of this demand on his time. It was not his place to ask questions. His sole purpose in life was obedience to the young master and the young mistress. And if following their instructions involved the laying down of that life . . . well, all the better so far as he was concerned.
It was just after 2 a.m. when the Lagonda nosed its way down the
long drive towards the splendid gates of Tawcester Towers. The garages were far enough distant from the main house for the three to have no worries about their departure being heard, but in case of some insomniac housemaid seeing them go, Blotto kept the headlights off until they had emerged from the estate.
It was hard to tell how the Lagonda was handling on the gravel of the drive. He’d have to wait till he got onto the open road to assess how much the bulk of the sarcophagus was slowing them down. But Blotto had unwittingly carried the bullion from America all the way back to England hidden in the same compartment, so he was well prepared. The Lagonda would probably not have the full raw power which he so relished, but she’d still get them to their destination all right.
The car’s top was up against the sharp October air. Inside the vehicle was an atmosphere of suppressed excitement. The three of them – Blotto, Twinks and Corky Froggett – were off on another adventure! ‘Larksissimo!’ cried Twinks.
Within Blotto’s uncomplicated mind the excitement was mixed with two other emotions. First was a sense of security from the knowledge that his faithful cricket bat was safely stowed in one of his valises in the Lagonda’s dickey. And second, he had a feeling of guilty devilment. For the first time in their lives he and Twinks were deliberately going against the instructions of the Dowager Duchess.
Hope the old dinosaur’s all right, was his fond parting thought as the Lagonda slipped out into the dark, misty lanes of Tawcestershire in the direction of the South Coast.
18
The Dowager Duchess Alone
It was some time before the absence of the two youngest members of the Lyminster dynasty was noticed at Tawcester Towers. Unless she had house guests to patronise, the Dowager Duchess tended to have her first meal of the day brought up to her bedroom rather than risking the danger of having conversation addressed to her in the Breakfast Room.
(She was one of those people who believed that had God intended her to say a civil word to anyone before noon, he would have fitted her body with some kind of gramophonic device for that purpose. Certainly no civil word had ever been said to her husband, the late Duke, in the morning – and very few had been spoken later in the day. Like most people of their class the two had had separate bedrooms from the kick-off. Some conjugation had been required in the early days of their marriage, but once the Lyminster dynasty was possessed of an heir and a spare and a daughter to breed from, such distasteful encounters had been speedily discontinued, to the considerable relief of both parties involved. The relationship between Duke and Duchess had, both found, worked best when they didn’t see each other from one day’s end to the next, a situation that was quite easy to achieve in a place as large as Tawcester Towers. Particularly since the Duke spent most of his waking life shooting or hunting on his extensive estates. Husband and wife had been obliged to meet for the occasional formal dinner where they were well enough bred to maintain conversation with house guests in whom they had no interest at all. Otherwise, the less they saw of each other the better. In the view of most of their acquaintance, an ideal marriage.)
So the absence of her son and daughter from the breakfast table was not noticed by the Dowager Duchess. Nor was it much remarked by the domestic staff. They were used to the contents of some chafing dishes being returned untouched to the kitchen when the Breakfast Room was finally cleared.
Besides, the young master and the young mistress led very free lives. Blotto quite frequently took an early morning spin in the Lagonda or a ride on Mephistopheles and lost track of time, only to return ravenous for his lunch. Twinks’s movements were equally random. She was quite capable of dropping into the Tawcester Towers library on her way to the Breakfast Room and becoming absorbed in some task like translating The Odyssey into Sanskrit, which could fill three or four hours before she noticed the time.
In fact, the only person aware of anyone’s absence that morning was the kitchen maid with whom Corky Froggett had been enjoying a dalliance. Having finished clearing the Breakfast Room, she had wandered over to the garages in expectation of a stimulating encounter and found only disappointment. Back in the kitchen she came across a note from Corky, saying that he’d had to go to Egypt. But, given her rather delicate situation in relation to the chauffeur, she didn’t think it prudent to mention his absence to any of the other staff.
As a result, it wasn’t until the following morning that Blotto’s and Twinks’s disappearance was registered. The fact that the Lagonda and its chauffeur had also vanished suggested that they might have left on some extended trip.
Grimshaw, the Tawcester Towers butler, brought this conjecture to the Dowager Duchess in the Blue Morning Room.
‘What do you suggest I should do, Your Grace?’
‘Do we have to do anything?’ True to her breeding, the Dowager Duchess had never been sentimental about her children.
‘Well, Your Grace, it is very unlike Lord Lyminster to be away from home in the middle of the hunting season.’
‘True. Are there any rumours below stairs as to what might have happened?’
‘There is a suggestion, Your Grace, that Mr Froggett the chauffeur might have gone to Egypt.’ Grimshaw hadn’t heard this from the kitchen maid. She had told no one, but the letter Froggett had left for her had been read by all the other kitchen staff before she got to it.
‘Does Mr Froggett have family connections in Egypt?’
‘Who can say, Your Grace?’
‘Then why do you tell me this, Grimshaw?’
‘I tell you, Your Grace, because the possibility had occurred to me that Lord Devereux and Lady Honoria might have accompanied him to Egypt.’
‘No, they haven’t done that,’ came the categorical response from the Dowager Duchess.
‘Very good, Your Grace.’
‘My younger son and daughter did say they wished to go to Egypt, but I told them they couldn’t. So they won’t have done.’
‘Very good, Your Grace.’
And there the matter rested.
* * *
It was in the Blue Morning Room later the same day that the Dowager Duchess acceded to Mr Crouptickle’s request for an interview.
‘What is it?’ she asked testily. Nothing could shake her deep patrician loathing for plebeians like accountants and solicitors. ‘Why do I need to see you?’
‘I thought it would be timely, Your Grace, for me to give you a review of the current state of the Tawcester Towers finances.’
‘Why, Crouptickle? Has anything materially changed since you last gave me such a review?’
‘Not a great deal, Your Grace. And certainly nothing for the better.’
‘Then why are you bothering me?’
‘I thought I should inform you, Your Grace, on the results of Mr Snidely’s creation of an inventory of the contents of Tawcester Towers.’
‘Oh?’ For a moment hope shed a small light on the tectonic plates of the Dowager Duchess’s features. ‘Did he find something valuable?’
Rather than reply to this Mr Crouptickle, looking more than ever like some predatory black insect, said, ‘You may have observed that Mr Snidely is no longer working at Tawcester Towers, that he has not been here for the last two days.’
‘Why should I observe that? Snidely is not the sort of person I notice. His presence or absence is a matter of complete indifference to me.’
‘I merely mention it, Your Grace, because the reason he has left is that his inventory is completed.’
‘And?’
‘And?’ Mr Crouptickle repeated.
‘And,’ said the Dowager Duchess peevishly, ‘did he unearth anything of value?’
‘No, Your Grace.’
‘If that was all the information you had to give me, Crouptickle, why did you need to set up a meeting? You could have sent me a message to that effect.’
‘Indeed I could, Your Grace, but there were other matters I wished to discuss with you face to face.’
‘What other matters?’ To the Dowa
ger Duchess Mr Crouptickle’s manner was becoming very close to insolent. He was behaving as if he rather than she were the person in charge of their meeting.
‘I will come on to those in due time,’ he said smoothly, confirming her impression. ‘First I would like to give you a bulletin about the current state of the Tawcester Towers finances.’
‘You’ve told me already that you want to give me a bulletin,’ the Dowager Duchess snapped, ‘so I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss about it. By telling me you’ll only be doing your job. What else do I pay you for?’
‘You don’t pay me. That is rather the point, Your Grace. I haven’t been paid anything for over six months.’
‘A trifle, Crouptickle. You know you’ll be paid eventually.’
‘Ah, but I don’t know that. And in fact I am in a unique position to know how very unlikely I am ever to be paid by you.’
‘How dare you!’ The Dowager Duchess’s steel-grey hair stood up in affront like the bony frill of a triceratops. ‘Remember to whom you are talking. Are you suggesting that members of the Lyminster family do not pay their debts?’
‘I am not suggesting it, Your Grace, I am stating it. The fortunes of the Lyminsters have always been based on taking what did not belong to them.’
‘People have been horsewhipped in this house for saying less!’
‘I’m sure they have. But who is going to horsewhip me? The current duke?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ The image of Loofah horsewhipping anyone – or indeed doing anything useful – was too incongruous to bear contemplation.
‘Well, since your other children, Your Grace, are absent and since the rest of your staff are so sick of not being paid that they are on the verge of mutiny, I am not too worried about the prospect of my being horsewhipped.’
‘If I had one here,’ the Dowager Duchess growled, ‘I’d take a whip to you myself!’
‘Fortunately you don’t have one here.’ But Mr Crouptickle looked round the Blue Morning Room with some anxiety. He knew she was quite capable of carrying out her threat.
‘But the Tawcester Towers staff are loyal,’ the Dowager Duchess insisted, a note of bewilderment in her voice.