Blotto, Twinks and the Intimate Revue

by Simon Brett

‘Well, actually, I’d prefer you didn’t use either—’

  ‘I’ll just fetch my sister, and then we can do the old chitter-chatter in my suite.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir. Why do you want to fetch your sister?’

  ‘Oh, you must understand, when it comes to brainpower, I’m a pygmy and she’s Goliath. Always like to have her around if I’m being asked questions. She can help me out with the gummy ones.’

  ‘But did your sister actually witness the abduction of Mr Tortington at the Pocket Theatre last night?’

  ‘No, she wasn’t actually there. She’d already gone off to nosebags with some actor boddo.’

  ‘In that case, Mr Lyminster sir, I don’t think there is any necessity for her to be present at our interview.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Blotto, not a little put out. Still, he knew one shouldn’t unnecessarily antagonise those who represented the majesty of British Law. ‘Tickey-Tockey then, if you say so.’

  ‘I do say so, sir.’

  Back inside his suite, Blotto was struck by how very short his interrogator was. But he wasn’t about to be prejudiced by that. Some of the most lucrative days Blotto had enjoyed at the races had been thanks to the efforts of very short people.

  Having taken the proffered seat, Detective Inspector Craig Dewar drew out from his pocket a battered blue-covered notebook and the stub of a pencil. He opened a new page and licked the point of his pencil. (This is something frequently done by fictional policemen and fictional reporters. It is an action rarely seen in real life. Presumably real-life policemen and real-life reporters sensibly try to avoid lead poisoning.)

  ‘Well, Mr Lyminster,’ he began ponderously, ‘as someone who has spent his entire career at Scotland Yard, I am a great believer in teamwork.’

  ‘Oh, me too. You’re bong on the nose there, Inspector. Out on the cricket field, it’s not you who counts, it’s all the other greengages.’

  ‘Exactly right. So, Mr Lyminster, assuming that you and I have the same aim in mind – to find Mr Tortington – it is important that we work together.’

  ‘Hoopee-doopie,’ Blotto agreed.

  ‘So, if you get any new information which may lead to our solving the case, I hope you will pass it on to me as soon as possible.’

  ‘Good ticket.’

  ‘But only tell it to me. I can’t overemphasise the importance of secrecy in a case like this.’

  ‘Don’t don your worry-boots about that, Inspector. Everything under the dustbin lid, I understand.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Oh, just one thingette . . . When you say I shouldn’t spill the haricots to anyone, does that include my sister?’

  ‘A general rule in these affairs, Mr Lyminster, is that the fewer people who know the details, the better.’

  ‘Point taken and digested. I’ll be as tight as a limpet with lockjaw.’ The idea of conducting an investigation independent of Twinks was not without its attraction. Though he had enormous love and respect for his sister, Blotto liked the idea of doing something off his own cricket bat (without remembering the previous occasions when such a course had proved disastrous).

  ‘Very well, Mr Lyminster . . .’ Detective Inspector Craig Dewar licked the tip of his pencil again in a businesslike manner. ‘As a witness to the abduction of Mr Tortington yesterday evening, I am sure you have a lot to tell me.’

  ‘Well, he was abducted,’ said Blotto. ‘In a black saloon. By two men.’

  ‘Are you sure it was only two men?’

  ‘I only spoffing well saw two men.’

  ‘And did they get into the front of the car or the back?’

  ‘The back.’

  ‘And the car then drove off?’

  ‘Bong on the nose, Inspector.’

  ‘So, are you suggesting that one of the men you saw was driving the car from the back seat?’

  ‘Erm . . .’

  ‘Or maybe it was a driverless car?’ The Inspector chuckled heartily. He was enjoying himself. ‘Though it’ll be a strange world when such a thing as a driverless car exists, won’t it, Mr Lyminster?’

  ‘It certainly will, by Denzil.’

  ‘So how many abductors do you reckon Mr Tortington had?’

  Understanding broke through at last, like the sun from behind storm clouds, and irradiated Blotto’s honest face. ‘Three!’ he replied with pride.

  ‘At least three,’ Dewar corrected him.

  ‘Toad-in-the-hole!’ murmured Blotto, deeply impressed. ‘You’ve got a brainbox and a half, haven’t you, Inspector. How did you work that out?’

  ‘Oh,’ came the casual reply, ‘just a matter of logic. When you’ve been in the detection game as long as I have, Mr Lyminster, you find these kinds of deductions come instinctively. Every mystery eventually gives up its secrets to the processes of logic and minute examination of the known facts. The deduction is in the detail.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be battered like a pudding!’

  ‘So, bearing what I’ve just said in mind, Mr Lyminster, could you tell me, in detail, exactly what happened last night when you and your party left the Pocket Theatre?’

  Blotto started out by repeating his previous answer verbatim, but the shrewdly targeted questions from Detective Inspector Craig Dewar prompted a lot of extra recollection. He was able to give a more exact description of the overcoats and hats worn by the abductors. He recalled the dark stubbly chins which were all he could see of their faces. He confirmed that neither of them spoke.

  ‘And what about their victim, Mr Lyminster? Did Mr Tortington say anything?’

  ‘Well, not words exactly.’

  ‘Not words? Then what?’

  ‘As I recall, he let out a kind of yelp.’

  ‘A yelp, Mr Lyminster?’

  ‘Yes, you know, like when you tread on a puppy.’

  ‘I have to confess, Mr Lyminster, that I have never trodden on a puppy.’

  ‘Haven’t you?’ Blotto was amazed. Clearly the Inspector must have been brought up in the city. No one brought up in the country could have reached his age without treading on a puppy. Though very few people – and they were the worst kind of stenchers – actually trod on puppies deliberately, treading on puppies by accident was just one of the hazards of country life.

  ‘Don’t let’s worry, Mr Lyminster, about the precise kind of yelp Mr Tortington emitted. Incidentally . . .’ The Inspector took a fountain pen out of his pocket and wrote a number on the hotel notepad. ‘This will find me at Scotland Yard. Any time of the day or night. If you have any thoughts on the case, even the smallest idea, don’t hesitate to contact me.’

  ‘Good ticket. And if my sister has any thoughts, shall I give her this number to—’

  ‘Your sister is not to be given that number!’

  ‘Tickey-Tockey.’

  ‘Now, Mr Lyminster, let’s move on to your view of the crime.’

  ‘My view of the crime?’

  ‘Yes. Surely, having witnessed the abduction, some thoughts must have gone through your head as to why it might have happened.’

  ‘Erm . . .’

  ‘You must have asked yourself why your friend should be the victim of kidnapping.’

  ‘I’m not really a whale on asking myself things,’ Blotto confessed. ‘Or asking other people things, when it comes to it.’ But then, once again, the sun burst through the clouds. ‘Ah, I see. You’re asking me what kind of stencher I think might have kidnapped old Whiffler.’

  ‘Precisely that, Mr Lyminster.’

  ‘Oh, Tickey-Tockey. Well, actually, I was talking to my beloved sis this morning on that very subject. Incidentally, are you sure we shouldn’t be letting Twinks in on this confab? She’s got a brainbox the size of Westminster Hall – with the rest of the House of Commons thrown in.’

  ‘The fact remains, Mr Lyminster, that your sister was not a witness to the criminal event which took place at the Pocket Theatre last night. Therefore, she has nothing of relevance to tell us.’

  ‘No, but she’s t
he panda’s panties when it comes to all the logic and deduction stuff you were talking about.’

  ‘I think, Mr Lyminster,’ the detective said, with some hauteur, ‘you will find that my experience in the business of deduction will be quite adequate to deal with the current enquiry.’

  ‘Fair biddles. I just thought—’

  ‘So, Mr Lyminster,’ Dewar continued forcefully, ‘what conclusions did you and your highly talented sister come up with, as to who might have been responsible for the abduction?’

  ‘Well, I’m a bit of an empty revolver when it comes to that kind of rombooley, but Twinks did flush out the partridge that Whiffler might be being held to ransom. But she said the chock in the cogwheel there was that there hadn’t been a ransom note.’

  ‘I think what your amazingly gifted sister was saying,’ suggested the Inspector, his sarcasm getting stronger by the minute, ‘was that you weren’t aware of there being a ransom note.’

  ‘Not quite sure what you—’

  ‘I know it’s always difficult for amateur sleuths . . .’ sarcasm now slapped on with a distemper brush ‘. . . to understand that the police do have certain advantages over them . . . like having access to relevant evidence. A ransom note was left at the stage door of the Pocket Theatre.’

  ‘Was it, by Cheddar!’

  ‘And an identical one was delivered last night to the Earl of Hartlepool at Little Tickling.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be kippered like a herring! I’d give a millionaire’s wallet to know what’s in that note.’

  ‘How fortunate then that you’re talking to me, Mr Lyminster.’ Smugly, the Inspector drew a folded sheet of paper out of his overcoat pocket. ‘Obviously, this is not the original, just a copy, but it might entertain you to have a look at it.’

  Blotto took the proffered note and read the following:

  ‘IF YOU WANT TO SEE YOUR SON ALIVE AGAIN, IT’LL COST YOU A HUNDRED THOUSAND POUNDS. YOU WILL SHORTLY BE GIVEN INSTRUCTIONS ON HOW TO MAKE THE PAYMENT.’

  ‘Biscuits!’ said Blotto. And he meant it. ‘So, has the aged Earl stumped up the spondulicks?’

  ‘No. This, Mr Lyminster, is where the case becomes rather unusual . . . and indeed why I am seeking your help.’

  ‘Seeking my help?’

  ‘Yes. You know the Earl of Hartlepool, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, met the old fossil a few times when I went up to Little Tickling to turn out for Whiffler’s estate cricket team.’

  ‘I would be grateful, Mr Lyminster, if you could make another trip up to Shropshire, as soon as possible.’

  ‘Well, I could do. No icing off my cake. But why?’

  ‘To persuade the Earl to take this ransom note seriously.’

  ‘Sorry, old thimble. Not on the same page.’

  ‘I spoke to the Earl of Hartlepool this morning . . .’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘. . . to check whether he had received his copy of the ransom note.’

  ‘And had the old warthog?’

  ‘Yes, he had.’

  ‘Then everything is all tiddle and pom, isn’t it?’

  ‘No. Everything is far from what you call “tiddle and pom”. The Earl’s response when he read the note, which, as you will recall, began, “IF YOU WANT TO SEE YOUR SON ALIVE AGAIN . . .”.’

  ‘Yes, of course I recall that,’ said Blotto, who didn’t like having aspersions cast on his short-term memory.

  ‘The Earl’s response was: “I’m actually not that bothered about seeing my son again.”’

  ‘Broken biscuits,’ said Blotto. And he only said that when things were really serious.

  6

  A Peer of the Realm

  The first thing to be said about Little Tickling is that it was extremely big. The Earl of Hartlepool’s estate did actually take up most of Shropshire, and the stately home at the centre of it had been built to scale. The original structure, a castle, complete with moat and drawbridge, had been built soon after the Norman Conquest. To this, over the years, had been added, in a broad selection of architectural styles, multiple wings and extensions. At various times over the building’s history, various estate managers and other functionaries had begun an inventory of the number of rooms the premises contained, but all had given up, round the two hundred mark, from sheer exhaustion.

  Unlike many stately piles – Tawcester Towers, to name but one – Little Tickling was in an extraordinarily good state of repair. The rents the Earl of Hartlepool received, from properties in the vast swathes of central London that he owned, ensured that money was never a problem, in any area of his life. So, to pay out a hundred thousand to the abductors of his son would be no more than a fleabite. The reason for his unwillingness to stump up the old jingle-jangle, therefore, must have lain elsewhere.

  Twinks, who had quickly winkled out of Blotto the truth about the ransom note, was determined to find out that reason.

  They drove up the next morning in the Lagonda. It was a delightful spring day, so they had the hood down. Though Blotto took the wheel, they did bring Corky Froggett along with them. This pleased the chauffeur enormously. Not only because it offered another opportunity for him to serve and – always a possibility – perhaps to lay down his life for the young master, but also because Little Tickling held another attraction for him. On previous visits to the ancestral pile, he had formed a close acquaintanceship with one of the parlour maids called Rosie. And seeing Rosie again was a very appealing prospect. (Though the one true love of Corky Froggett’s life had been Yvette in war-torn France, he had always been a man of a practical nature, ready to explore the possibilities of the second best.)

  When they entered the main gates of Little Tickling, they still had two miles of drive to traverse before they reached the house, and it was then, as the noise of the main roads receded, that Twinks started to interrogate her brother.

  ‘You know Whiffler well, don’t you?’

  ‘As well as I know the handle of my cricket bat.’

  ‘And would you say that there had ever been any antagonism between him and his father?’

  ‘No, I’d never say that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t know what “antagonism” means.’

  ‘Ah. Well, to take the thing down to its frilly drawers, did you ever see them getting angry with each other? Did Whiffler and his Aged P often disagree about things?’

  ‘Good ticket,’ said Blotto. ‘On the same page now. Oh yes; in fact, shuffling through the old memory cards, I can’t remember a single thing on which they did agree.’

  ‘Did they actually argue?’

  ‘Like a pair of cats shut in the same dustbin.’

  ‘And what were their arguments about?’

  ‘Oh, everything under the umbrella, really. But what really got them going shovel and poker was the inheritance.’

  ‘What, you mean all this?’ Twinks gestured to the rolling hills of the Little Tickling estate.

  ‘That too, but particularly the actual Earldom.’

  ‘What do you mean, Blotters? Come on, uncage the ferrets.’

  ‘Well, as you know, Twinks me old steam bath, the Earl is an Earl.’

  ‘With you so far, bro.’

  ‘And when he tumbles off the trailer, Whiffler, as his only son, will become the Earl.’

  ‘Tickey-Tockey.’

  ‘The Earl of Hartlepool.’

  ‘Yes, I know which one.’

  ‘But Whiffler doesn’t want to do that.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘He’s very happy with his life as it’s currently trickling along, thank you very much. So long as he’s got enough of the old jingle-jangle to lunch at the Gren and take the odd actress out for dinner, he’s as happy as a duck in orange. Never one to stick his head out of the trenches, Whiffler, he hates the idea of being pointed out to everyone as an Earl. And the prospect of having to take a seat in the House of Lords, along with all the other fossils . . . well, that appeals to him about as much as a
car tyre does to a hedgehog. So, he keeps saying his Aged P should change his will and pass the title on to the next in line, but the Pater won’t hear of it.’

  ‘And who is the next in line?’

  ‘A solicitor living in Croydon.’

  Twinks could not suppress a patrician shudder. ‘Well, you can see the Earl’s point, can’t you?’

  ‘Oh, I agree. The thought of that kind of oikish sponge-worm sitting in the House of Lords . . .’ Blotto’s shudder matched his sister’s. ‘They’ll be letting in Socialists next.’

  * * *

  The Earl of Hartlepool’s face was as pale as his son’s was red. His body was as thin as Whiffler’s was bulky. The tweed suit hung around him like a dustsheet on a lectern. Tufts of white hair stuck out at random angles from his cranium. His nose was smudged with what might have been ink, and his hands were encrusted with some yellowish compound.

  The huge space into which the Little Tickling butler ushered Blotto and Twinks had once been one of Little Tickling’s ballrooms, but now appeared to have been converted into a carpenter’s workshop. Dusty portraits, displays of weaponry and ancient shotguns hinted at its previous use, but now tools hung from hooks on the walls, and everything (including the Earl) was covered with a thin layer of sawdust. On a small brazier bubbled a pot of something whose smell identified it as hoof glue.

  And on the massive workbench stood the artefact, on which the Earl was working with such manic intensity that he did not notice the new arrivals. Though far from finished – there were still over a hundred rooms to go – it was recognisable as a model of the stately home in which they stood, Little Tickling in miniature. And from the piles of components on the workbench, it was clear that the model was made of matchsticks.

  The butler, who gloried in the name of Pentecost, cleared his throat with that smooth finesse which only very experienced butlers can achieve, and the noble Earl looked up.

  ‘Well, fiddle my faddle,’ he said. ‘Visitors?’

  ‘Yes, milord,’ said Pentecost.

  ‘Why the devil have you let them in?’

  ‘They are Devereux and Honoria Lyminster, and their father was the Duke of Tawcester.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘And I have always understood, milord, that you wish me always to admit genuine aristocrats into the house.’