by Simon Brett
Such reflections did not trouble the brain of the Earl of Hartlepool. Nor did he have any interest in Item Two on the agenda, ‘Minutes of the Last Meeting’, because he hadn’t attended the last meeting. He couldn’t wait to get on to Item Three.
The meeting of EGGS was taking place in a private room at Biddles, a gentlemen’s club of much starchier demeanour than the Gren. It was here that the Earl of Hartlepool, on his rare visits to the metropolis, invariably stayed.
Around the table sat the usual components of such committees. There were a couple of minor peers of the realm, a retired judge who didn’t seem to realise he was no longer in court, a superannuated Colonel who had ‘had a good war’ (in the sense that he’d survived it) and two members of the Great and the Good, whose only activity was appearing on a variety of committees.
There was also a younger man, who was an idealist in the matter of banning guns. The rest of them treated his naïveté with tolerant cynicism. Youth must be indulged (he was in his late sixties).
A lot of other committees might also have featured female representatives. The country was crowded with women who, having bossed their families into submission, were on the lookout for other people to boss. And committees, supporting whatever cause (though most usually interference into the lives of the underprivileged), were a natural outlet for such frustrated energy.
The Chairman of the EGGS committee, however, was a profound misogynist. At home he submitted continuously to the will of his wife (who was on endless committees), and he did not want that situation to cast a cloud over his public life as well. So, he decreed that no women should be allowed on to the EGGS committee. And he prevented his ruling from being challenged by insisting that all meetings should be held at Biddles, an institution on to whose premises, since its founding, only one female had ever strayed. (This was still referred to by members muttering in corners as ‘The Great Bishop and Actress Incident of 1889’.)
‘Right,’ said the Chairman. ‘Item Three on your agenda. “Definition of the Word Gun”.’
The Earl of Hartlepool beamed. It was at his instigation that this topic had made its way on to the agenda. And he had lobbied hard with the Chairman and Secretary to ensure that it got an early place in the listing. He knew how frequently items down towards the end failed to be discussed for lack of time.
‘Maybe you’d like to start us on this one, Cyril,’ said the Chairman.
‘Well, yes, thank you. It is something to which I have given a lot of thought. The question we really have to ask is: Is “gun” an adequate word to describe all of the kind of weaponry which we wish to ban?’
‘It’s been perfectly adequate in the past,’ asserted the retired judge.
‘But does it cover the vast range of firearms which are now available, or have been available in the past? Cannon, mortar, flintlock, arquebus, musket, howitzer—’
‘You can go on with your list as long as you like, Cyril,’ said the retired judge testily. ‘The fact is they are all guns. That is the word to describe them. You say the word “gun”, and people in general know what you’re talking about.’
‘That maybe all right now, Cedric,’ the Earl cautioned, ‘but what about in the future?’
‘What about in the bloody future?’ demanded the retired judge.
‘Cedric, I must ask you to moderate your language,’ interposed the Chairman.
‘Well, I apologise, but we’re wasting our time on this item. There are far more important matters for discussion later in the agenda, and we won’t get around to them if we keep maundering on about the definition of the word “gun”.’
The Earl raised a polite hand. ‘If I may just make a quick point, Mr Chairman . . .’
‘Of course, Cyril. And then we must be moving on.’
‘Certainly. I would like to draw the committee’s attention to the dictionary definition of a “gun”. It is – and I quote – “a tubular weapon from which projectiles are discharged, usually by explosion”. Now I would suggest—’
‘No one’s arguing with your definition, Cyril.’
For this the retired judge received another reprimand from the Chair. ‘Please allow Cyril to finish, Cedric.’
‘Very well,’ came the huffy response.
The Earl of Hartlepool beamed. He was really in his element. The only thing he enjoyed more than making his matchstick model was engaging in debate of this kind. ‘I concede,’ he said, ‘Cedric’s point about the word “gun” covering most existing firearms, but shouldn’t we, as a responsible committee, be preparing ourselves for the possibility of other weapons being developed in the future? Weapons which perhaps aren’t tubular, and which do not use explosions to discharge their projectiles. We don’t want to be caught napping by the invention of something that does the work of a gun but doesn’t come under the traditional definition of a gun. Now, I have prepared some discussion points, which I would like to circulate around the committee . . .’
The discussion of the definition of a gun continued for another three hours. At the end, it being lunchtime, the committee agreed (as committees always do) that a subcommittee should be appointed to consider the matter and come up with a report to be presented at the next meeting of the main committee. The other items which there had not been time to discuss (nearly all of them) would be added to the agenda for that day.
As he went through to the dining room to enjoy the nursery food of a Biddles lunch, the Earl of Hartlepool felt the satisfaction that can only come from a good morning’s work. And the glow that achievement brought to him was enhanced by the thought of his forthcoming wedding.
Twinks apparently preoccupied with Pierre Labouze that day, her brother felt at a loose end. He knew he was faced with two major problems. One was finding Whiffler, the other somehow getting out of his virtual engagement to Araminta fffrench-Wyndeau.
His sister was possibly making progress on the first, but he could see no escape from the life sentence represented by the second. Blotto felt deeply frustrated, unable to move in any direction.
Then he had a cheering thought of something he could do. He rang the stage door of the Pocket Theatre and left a message, asking whether Dolly Diller could join him for dinner after the show.
He was surprised, though not alarmed, that he didn’t get a message back from her. He decided not to worry, and that he would pick her up after the performance.
So, after the Savoy concierge had organised him a ticket for the hottest show in London, he went to see Light and Frothy again. He was struck again that, though Frou-Frou Gavotte was pretty enough, Dolly Diller was the real bell-buzzer of the two. He felt excited by the prospect of the evening ahead.
But, as he waited outside with the other Stage-Door Johnnies (of whose clan he still did not think of himself as a member), he was astonished that, when Dolly Diller emerged, she cut him stone dead.
She looked through him like a shop window, strode past in her white fur, and got into a waiting black saloon with tinted glass.
Blotto could not begin to imagine what he had done wrong.
13
A Nice Little Business
‘Maybe you can explain it to me, Twinks me old banana-skin,’ said Blotto. ‘I mean, I know women are strange fish, and liable to change their minds at the drop of an earring, but why should a breathsapper like Dolly Diller be decorating me old visage with lipstick one day, and not recognising me forty-eight hours later?’
‘Is it possible, that when you last shared nosebags here, you said something which put lumps in her custard?’ After their busy days (well, Twinks’s busy day, anyway), they were consoling themselves with late-night steaks in the Savoy Grill. Twinks was now out of her Florrie Coster uniform, and of course dressed in something shimmeringly gorgeous.
Blotto searched the contents of his brain. It didn’t take long. ‘Can’t think of anything. We parted as harmonious as two swallows on a telegraph wire.’
‘What, you saw the young thimble to a cab?’
> ‘No, she had her own “special taxi service”.’
‘And what’s that when it’s got its spats on?’
‘A black saloon with tinted glass in the windows.’
‘Doesn’t that muster the old memory?’
His noble brow furrowed. ‘Sorry? Not on the same page.’
‘Where have you seen a similar vehicle?’ Twinks prompted.
‘Ah.’ Recollection dawned. ‘It was just like the one that picked her up from the Pocket Theatre tonight, now I bring the brain to bear on it.’
‘And before that?’
‘Before what?’
Twinks, not for the first time with her brother, gave up the subtle approach. ‘And also,’ she suggested, ‘just like the one in which Whiffler was abducted?’
Blotto’s jaw dropped like a trapdoor in a farce. ‘Great Wilberforce, yes! I hadn’t thought of that! Do you think there might be some connection, Twinks me old apple core?’
‘I think there could be, Blotters. You know, the deeper we get into this case, the iffier the Stilton becomes.’
There was a silence. Blotto didn’t say anything. He knew better than to interrupt when the delicate cogs of his sister’s brainbox were whirring.
‘I keep thinking,’ Twinks pronounced, ‘that it’s all tied up with white slavery.’
‘Good ticket,’ said Blotto.
‘Do you know what white slavery is?’
‘No,’ he confessed. ‘I mean, I know that slavery is what a lot of the Lyminster jingle-jangle used to come from. It’s basically getting boddoes to work for nothing. And I never quite know why people get so puce around the gills about that. It worked perfectly well during the feudal system.’ Blotto shared his mother’s view that the ending of the feudal system was a retrograde step for human civilisation. For families like the Lyminsters, it had worked perfectly. ‘So, I know what “slavery” means. Not sure about the “white” bit.’
‘White slavery concerns women.’
‘Oh? Well, nothing wrong with that. I’m not against this spoffing suffragette business. I’m all for equality. So far as I’m concerned, women should have exactly the same rights to be slaves as men.’
Twinks wasn’t interested in her brother’s liberal credentials. She went on, ‘White slavery is the trafficking of women for immoral purposes.’
‘Ah.’ Blotto nodded sagely. ‘And what does that mean?’
His sister leant across the table in the Savoy Grill Room. And explained it to him.
Blotto turned the colour of his rare steak. ‘Well, I’ll be battered like a pudding! What kind of stencher would do a thing like that?’
‘I’m not sure, but I think Pierre Labouze and Everard Stoop have got their grubby hands in the cake mixture. Anyway, I’m about to find out more. I have a snitch.’
‘Oh, bad luck, old girl. Want to use my snot-rag?’ And he offered it across the table.
‘No, Blotters. I used the word “snitch” in the sense of an informant.’
‘Ah.’
‘Someone who is prepared to lift the dustbin lid on what’s been going on.’
‘And why would your informant be prepared to uncage the ferrets? Out of the goodness of his or her heart?’
‘Of course not, Blotters. Don’t be such a voidbrain. He’s doing it for money. In most areas of life, bro, a bit of the old jingle-jangle usually does the business.’ She looked up across the room. ‘Ah, and here he comes, right on cue.’
The maître d’ had stepped across to deny entrance to the shabby figure, but, at a gesture from Twinks, he backed away. The newcomer wore a faded raincoat and a flat cap, neither of which he showed any intention of removing.
‘Thank you so much for coming,’ said Twinks, offering him an empty seat. ‘This is my brother Blotto.’ Clearly it was going to be an informal chat. Otherwise she would have introduced him as ‘Devereux Lyminster’. ‘Blotto, this is Émile.’
Since the scruffy figure had been allowed to enter by the maître d’, he now got the full Savoy treatment. A waiter immediately hovered at his shoulder, proffering a menu.
‘Would you like to order something?’ asked Twinks.
‘I’m a musician,’ said Émile. ‘Get me a bottle of Scotch.’
She nodded at the waiter, sanctioning him to do as instructed. Nothing was said until the bottle arrived. Ignoring the glass that had been provided, the pianist pulled out the cork and took a long swig from the bottle. He sighed with satisfaction.
‘So . . .’ Émile seemed to take in Twinks fully for the first time. ‘You’re not a real Cockney sparrer, are you?’
‘You noticed?’
‘Didn’t notice back in Fulham. Seeing you here in that get-up . . . well, I’d have to be blind not to.’
‘And you don’t have any problem about sluicing the slime on Pierre Labouze?’
‘Certainly not. When I consider the pittance he pays me as a rehearsal pianist . . . huh. No, I don’t have any loyalty there.’
‘And you’ll keep quiet about the fact that I’m not really Florrie Coster?’
The pianist’s lower lip jutted forward thoughtfully. ‘Not so sure about that. Might do it . . . for a consideration.’
Twinks opened her sequinned reticule, extracted something and slid it across the table. Recognising a ten-pound note when he saw one, Émile immediately stowed it away in his grubby raincoat pocket. ‘You’re you, ma’am, and Florrie Coster’s Florrie Coster. No similarity at all between the two.’
‘Thank you. So, decant the haricots. What is the dastardly plot that Pierre Labouze and Everard Stoop are hatching? Is it something to do with white slavery?’
The pianist chuckled. ‘You’re way off the mark there.’
‘But it is something to do with making money out of women?’
‘Nearer the bull with that, yes. I don’t know if you read the popular press, ma’am . . . ?’
‘I have been known to,’ said Twinks, sounding uncannily like her mother.
‘Well, you may have seen reports of liaisons which might come under the heading of “Prince and Showgirl Romances”.’
‘I have encountered such tittle-tattle.’
‘Well, there you have it!’
‘There I have what, Émile?’
‘There you have what Pierre and Everard are getting up to.’
‘What are you cluntering on about?’ asked Blotto.
And even Twinks’s finely tuned brain was confused. ‘Could you provide a little further elucidation, please, Émile?’
‘Well, look, I don’t know who came up with the idea, but you are aware that Pierre Labouze makes his money from putting on revues?’
‘Yes, we’re fully aware of that,’ said Twinks, feeling that Émile was rather slow in providing her money’s worth. ‘Don’t teach your grandmother how to behave at a Coronation.’
‘All right.’ The informant took a long draught of Scotch. ‘And he keeps finding these new performers for his shows, girls who come from nothing that he turns into stars.’
‘We know that too.’
‘Well, although Pierre’s had his successes, producing revues is a dodgy game. Couple of years back, he tried to get one of his shows going on Broadway and lost a packet. So, he’s always on the lookout for other ways of making money. And this is where Everard Stoop comes in.’
‘I’m still not with you,’ said Twinks.
‘Nor am I,’ said Blotto, predictably enough.
‘Well, Everard’s got a kind of entrée with the aristocracy. He gets invited to lots of stately homes, you know, to like entertain the toffs after they’ve had their dinner, play a few songs, in-house cabaret, that kind of stuff.’
‘Oh, I know what you mean,’ said Blotto. ‘The oikish sponge-worm actually tried to claim acquaintance with the Mater, said he’d been introduced to her at some weekend party at the Marquess and Marchioness of Tolworth’s country house, Brinkmans.’
‘I hope,’ said Twinks, ‘that our mother put him in his place.’
‘She did,’ said her brother, relishing the recollection. ‘With three veg and gravy.’
Twinks watched Émile down another gulp of Scotch. ‘You may continue,’ she said.
‘Right. Well, through Everard’s aristocratic connections, he checks out single toffs who’ve either got lots of the old mazuma or stand to inherit it. Then they get invited to see Pierre Labouze’s revues, where they—’
Twinks was ahead of him now and completed the sentence. ‘Where they fall in love with the female stars of the shows.’
‘Exactly, ma’am. Everard and Pierre’ve had quite a few successes.’ He mentioned a couple of names of showgirls who’d made lucrative marriages into the aristocracy during the previous year.
‘So, they set those up?’
‘Certainly. Thriving little industry they’ve got going there.’
‘But how do they make money out of it?’
‘They draw up contracts with the girls. If the marriage actually happens, the girls agree to pay a percentage of the estate’s total income every year.’
‘In perpetuity?’
‘In perpetuity, too right.’
‘But don’t some of the poor little pineapples object?’ asked Twinks. ‘Don’t the girls resent having their marriages organised for them?’
‘Not a bit of it. Most of them come from nowhere, never had any of the old spondulicks. And their lives in the world of revue are short. Soon they’re too old to attract the men like they used to, and impresarios like Pierre Labouze are very quick to put them out to grass. So what choice would you make, ma’am? Scraping an existence back in the gutter? Or living high on the hog with some chinless toff, having servants doing everything for you, and your only duty being to produce the occasional sprog?’
Twinks liked to think that someone in her position would have more life-choices than that, but she could see Émile’s point.