8 THE STORM CLOUDS HOVER OVER BLANDINGS

HEAVING RE-READ THE half-dozen pages which he had written since luncheon, the Hon. Galahad Threepwood attached them with a brass paper-fastener to the main body of his monumental work and placed the manuscript in its drawer – lovingly, like a young mother putting her first-born to bed. The day’s work was done. Rising from the desk, he yawned and stretched himself.

He was ink-stained but cheerful. Happiness, as solid thinkers have often pointed out, comes from giving pleasure to others; and the little anecdote which he had just committed to paper would, he knew, give great pleasure to a considerable number of his fellow-men. All over England they would be rolling out of their seats when they read it. True, their enjoyment might possibly not be shared to its fullest extent by Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe, of Matchingham Hall, for what the Hon. Galahad had just written was the story of the prawns: but the first lesson an author has to learn is that he cannot please everybody.

He left the small library which he had commandeered as a private study and, descending the broad staircase, observed Beach in the hall below. The butler was standing mountainously beside the tea-table, staring in a sort of trance at a plateful of anchovy sandwiches: and it struck the Hon. Galahad, not for the first time in the last few days, that he appeared to have something on his mind. A strained, haunted look he seemed to have, as if he had done a murder and was afraid somebody was going to find the body. A more practised physiognomist would have been able to interpret that look. It was the one that butlers always wear when they have allowed themselves to be persuaded against their better judgement into becoming accessories before the fact in the theft of their employers’ pigs.

‘Beach,’ he said, speaking over the banisters, for he had just remembered there was a question he wanted to ask the man about the somewhat eccentric Major-General Magnus in whose employment he had once been.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ he added with some irritation. For the butler, jerked from his reverie, had jumped a couple of inches and shaken all over in a manner that was most trying to watch. A butler, felt the Hon. Galahad, is a butler, and a startled fawn is a startled fawn. He disliked the blend of the two in a single body.

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘Why on earth do you spring like that when anyone speaks to you? I’ve noticed it before. He leaps,’ he said complainingly to his niece Millicent, who now came down the stairs with slow, listless steps. ‘When addressed, he quivers like a harpooned whale.’

‘Oh?’ said Millicent dully. She had dropped into a chair and picked up a book. She looked like something that might have occurred to Ibsen in one of his less frivolous moments.

‘I am extremely sorry, Mr Galahad.’

‘No use being sorry. Thing is not to do it. If you are practising the Shimmy for the Servants’ Ball, be advised by an old friend and give it up. You haven’t the build.’

‘I think I may have caught a chill, sir.’

‘Take a stiff whisky toddy. Put you right in no time. What’s the car doing out there?’

‘Her ladyship ordered it, sir. I understand that she and Mr Baxter are going to Market Blandings to meet the train arriving at four-forty.’

‘Somebody expected?’

‘The American young lady, sir. Miss Schoonmaker.’

‘Of course, yes. I remember. She arrives to-day, does she?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The Hon. Galahad mused.

‘Schoonmaker. I used to know old Johnny Schoonmaker well. A great fellow. Mixed the finest mint-juleps in America. Have you ever tasted a mint-julep, Beach?’

‘Not to my recollection, sir.’

‘Oh, you’d remember all right if you had. Insidious things. They creep up to you like a baby sister and slide their little hands into yours and the next thing you know the Judge is telling you to pay the clerk of the court fifty dollars. Seen Lord Emsworth anywhere?’

‘His lordship is at the telephone, sir.’

‘Don’t do it, I tell you!’ said the Hon. Galahad petulantly. For once again the butler had been affected by what appeared to be a kind of palsy.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr Galahad. It was something I was suddenly reminded of. There was a gentleman just after luncheon who desired to communicate with you on the telephone. I understood him to say that he was speaking from Oxford, being on his way from London to Blackpool in his automobile. Knowing that you were occupied with your literary work, I refrained from disturbing you. And till I mentioned the word “telephone”, the matter slipped my mind.’

‘Who was he?’

‘I did not get the gentleman’s name, sir. The wire was faulty. But he desired me to inform you that his business had to do with a dramatic entertainment.’

‘A play?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Beach, plainly impressed by this happy way of putting it. ‘I took the liberty of advising him that you might be able to see him later in the afternoon. He said that he would call after tea.’

The butler passed from the hall with heavy, haunted steps, and the Hon. Galahad turned to his niece.

‘I know who it is,’ he said. ‘He wrote to me yesterday. It’s a theatrical manager fellow I used to go about with years ago. Man named Mason. He’s got a play, adapted from the French, and he’s had the idea of changing it into the period of the nineties and getting me to put my name to it.’

‘Oh?’

‘On the strength of my book coming out at the same time. Not a bad notion, either. Galahad Threepwood’s a name that’s going to have box-office value pretty soon. The house’ll be sold out for weeks to all the old buffers who’ll come flocking up to London to see if I’ve put anything about them into it.’

‘Oh?’ said Millicent.

The Hon. Galahad frowned. He sensed a lack of interest and sympathy.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ he demanded.

‘Nothing.’

‘Then why are you looking like that?’

‘Like what?’

‘Pale and tragic, as if you’d just gone into Tattersall’s and met a bookie you owed money to.’

‘I am perfectly happy.’

The Hon. Galahad snorted.

‘Yes, radiant. I’ve seen fogs that were cheerier. What’s that book you’re reading?’

‘It belongs to Aunt Constance.’ Millicent glanced wanly at the cover. ‘It seems to be about Theosophy.’

‘Theosophy! Fancy a young girl in the spring-time of life … What the devil has happened to everybody in this house? There’s some excuse, perhaps, for Clarence. If you admit the possibility of a sane man getting so attached to a beastly pig, he has a right to be upset. But what’s wrong with all the rest of you? Ronald! Goes about behaving like a bereaved tomato. Beach! Springs up and down when you speak to him. And that young fellow Carmody…’

‘I am not interested in Mr Carmody.’

‘This morning,’ said the Hon. Galahad, aggrieved, ‘I told that boy one of the most humorous limericks I ever heard in my life – about an Old Man Of – however, that is neither here nor there – and he just gaped at me with his jaw dropping, like a spavined horse looking over a fence. There are mysteries afoot in this house, and I don’t like ’em. The atmosphere of Blandings Castle has changed all of a sudden from that of a normal, happy English home into something Edgar Allan Poe might have written on a rainy Sunday. It’s getting on my nerves. Let’s hope this girl of Johnny Schoonmaker’s will cheer us up. If she’s anything like her father, she ought to be a nice, lively girl. But I suppose, when she arrives, it’ll turn out that she’s in mourning for a great-aunt or brooding over the situation in Russia or something. I don’t know what young people are coming to nowadays. Gloomy. Introspective. The old gay spirit seems to have died out altogether. In my young days a girl of your age would have been upstairs making an apple-pie bed for somebody instead of lolling on chairs reading books about Theosophy.’

Snorting once more, the Hon. Galahad disappeared into the smoking-room, and Millicent, tight-lipped, returned to her book. She had been reading for some minutes when she became aware of a long, limp, drooping figure at her side.

‘Hullo,’ said Hugo, for this ruin of a fine young man was he.

Millicent’s ear twitched, but she did not reply.

‘Reading?’

He had been standing on his left leg. With a sudden change of policy, he now shifted, and stood on his right.

‘Interesting book?’

Millicent looked up.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Only said – is that an interesting book?’

‘Very,’ said Millicent.

Hugo decided that his right leg was not a success. He stood on his left again.

‘What’s it about?’

‘Transmigration of Souls.’

‘A thing I’m not very well up on.’

‘One of the many, I should imagine,’ said the haughty girl. ‘Every day you seem to know less and less about more and more.’ She rose, and made for the stairs. Her manner suggested that she was disappointed in the hall of Blandings Castle. She had supposed it a nice place for a girl to sit and study the best literature, and now, it appeared, it was overrun by the Underworld. ‘If you’re really anxious to know what Transmigration means, it’s simply that some people believe that when you die your soul goes into something else.’

‘Rum idea,’ said Hugo, becoming more buoyant. He began to draw hope from her chattiness. She had not said as many consecutive words as this to him for quite a time. ‘Into something else, eh? Odd notion. What do you suppose made them think of that?’

‘Yours, for instance, would probably go into a pig. And then I would come along and look into your sty and I’d say, “Good gracious! Why, there’s Hugo Carmody. He hasn’t changed a bit!”’

The spirit of the Carmodys had been a good deal crushed by recent happenings, but at this it flickered into feeble life.

‘I call that a beastly thing to say.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘I oughtn’t to have said it?’

‘No, you oughtn’t.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t have, if I could have thought of anything worse.’

‘And when you let a little thing like what happened the other night rot up a great love like ours, I – well, I call it a bit rotten. You know perfectly well that you’re the only girl in the world I ever …’

‘Shall I tell you something?’

‘What?’

‘You make me sick.’

Hugo breathed passionately through his nose.

‘So all is over, is it?’

‘You can jolly well bet all is over. And if you’re interested in my future plans, I may mention I intend to marry the first man who comes along and asks me. And you can be a page at the wedding if you like. You couldn’t look any sillier than you do now, even in a frilly shirt and satin knickerbockers.’

Hugo laughed raspingly.

‘Is that so?’

‘It is.’

‘And once you said there wasn’t another man like me in the world.’

‘Well, I should hate to think there was,’ said Millicent. And as the celebrated James–Thomas–Beach procession had entered with cakes and gate-leg tables and her last word seemed about as good a last word as a girl might reasonably consider herself entitled to, she passed proudly up the stairs.

James withdrew. Thomas withdrew. Beach remained gazing with a hypnotized eye at the cake.

‘Beach!’ said Hugo.

‘Sir?’

‘Curse all women!’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Beach.

He watched the young man disappear through the open front door, heard his footsteps crunch on the gravel, and gave himself up to meditation again. How gladly, he was thinking, if it had not been for upsetting Mr Ronald’s plans, would he have breathed in his employer’s ear as he filled his glass at dinner, ‘The pig is in the gamekeeper’s cottage in the west wood, your lordship. Thank you, your lordship.’ But it was not to be. His face twisted, as if with sudden pain, and he was aware of the Hon. Galahad emerging from the smoking-room.

‘Just remembered something I wanted to ask you, Beach. You were with old General Magnus, weren’t you, some years ago, before you came here?’

‘Yes, Mr Galahad.’

‘Then perhaps you can tell me the exact facts about that trouble in 1912. I know the old chap chased young Mandeville three times round the lawn in his pyjamas, but did he merely try to stab him with the bread-knife or did he actually get home?’

‘I could not say, sir. He did not honour me with his confidence.’

‘Infernal nuisance,’ said the Hon. Galahad. ‘I like to get these things right.’

He eyed the butler discontentedly as he retired. More than ever was he convinced that the fellow had something on his mind. The very way he walked showed it. He was about to return to the smoking-room when his brother Clarence came into the hall. And there was in Lord Emsworth’s bearing so strange a gaiety that he stood transfixed. It seemed to the Hon. Galahad years since he had seen anyone looking cheerful in Blandings Castle.

‘Good God, Clarence! What’s happened?’

‘What, my dear fellow?’

‘You’re wreathed in smiles, dash it, and skipping like the high hills. Found that pig under the drawing-room sofa or something?’

Lord Emsworth beamed.

‘I have had the most cheering piece of news, Galahad. That detective – the one I sent young Carmody to see – the Argus man, you know – he has come after all. He drove down in his car and is at this moment in Market Blandings, at the Emsworth Arms. I have been speaking to him on the telephone. He rang up to ask if I still required his services.’

‘Well, you don’t.’

‘Certainly I do, Galahad. I consider his presence vital.’

‘He can’t tell you any more than you know already. There’s only one man who can have stolen that pig, and that’s young Parsloe.’

‘Precisely. Yes. Quite true. But this man will be able to collect evidence and bring the thing home and – er – bring it home. He has the trained mind. I consider it most important that the case should be in the hands of a man with a trained mind. We should be seeing him very shortly. He is having what he describes as a bit of a snack at the Emsworth Arms. When he has finished, he will drive over. I am delighted. Ah, Constance, my dear.’

Lady Constance Keeble, attended by the Efficient Baxter, had appeared at the foot of the stairs. His lordship eyed her a little warily. The châtelaine of Blandings was apt sometimes to react unpleasantly to the information that visitors not invited by herself were expected at the castle.

‘Constance, my dear, a friend of mine is arriving this evening, to spend a few days. I forgot to tell you.’

‘Well, we have plenty of room for him,’ replied Lady Constance, with surprising amiability. ‘There is something I forgot to tell you, too. We are dining at Matchingham to-night.’

‘Matchingham?’ Lord Emsworth was puzzled. He could think of no one who lived in the village of Matchingham except Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe. ‘With whom?’

‘Sir Gregory, of course. Who else do you suppose it could be?’

‘What!’

‘I had a note from him after luncheon. It is short notice, of course, but that doesn’t matter in the country. He took it for granted that we would not be engaged.’

‘Constance!’ Lord Emsworth swelled slightly. ‘Constance, I will not – dash it, I will not – dine with that man. And that’s final.’

Lady Constance smiled a sort of lion-tamer’s smile. She had foreseen a reaction of this kind. She had expected sales-resistance, and was prepared to cope with it. Not readily, she knew, would her brother become Parsloe-conscious.

‘Please do not be absurd, Clarence. I thought you would say that. I have already accepted for you, Galahad, myself, and Millicent. You may as well understand at once that I do not intend to be on bad terms with our nearest neighbour, even if a hundred of your pig-men leave you and go to him. Your attitude in the matter has been perfectly childish from the very start. If Sir Gregory realizes that there has been a coolness, and has most sensibly decided to make the first move towards a reconciliation, we cannot possibly refuse the overture.’

‘Indeed? And what about my friend? Arriving this evening.’

‘He can look after himself for a few hours, I should imagine.’

‘Abominable rudeness he’ll think it.’ This line of attack had occurred to Lord Emsworth quite suddenly. He found it good. Almost an inspiration, it seemed to him. ‘I invite my friend Pilbeam here to pay us a visit, and the moment he arrives we meet him at the front door, dash it, and say, “Ah, here you are, Pilbeam! Well, amuse yourself, Pilbeam. We’re off.” And this Miss – er – this American girl. What will she think?’

‘Did you say Pilbeam?’ asked the Hon. Galahad.

‘It is no use talking, Clarence. Dinner is at eight. And please see that your dress clothes are nicely pressed. Ring for Beach and tell him now. Last night you looked like a scare-crow.’

‘Once and for all, I tell you …’

At this moment an unexpected ally took the arena on Lady Constance’s side.

‘Of course we must go, Clarence,’ said the Hon. Galahad, and Lord Emsworth, spinning round to face this flank attack, was surprised to see a swift, meaning wink come and go on his brother’s face. ‘Nothing gained by having unpleasantness with your neighbours in the country. Always a mistake. Never pays.’

‘Exactly,’ said Lady Constance, a little dazed at finding this Saul among the prophets, but glad of the helping hand. ‘In the country one is quite dependent on one’s neighbours.’

‘And young Parsloe – not such a bad chap, Clarence. Lots of good in Parsloe. We shall have a pleasant evening.’

‘I am relieved to find that you, at any rate, have sense, Galahad,’ said Lady Constance handsomely. ‘I will leave you to try and drive some of it into Clarence’s head. Come, Mr Baxter, we shall be late.’

The sound of the car’s engine had died away before Lord Emsworth’s feelings found relief in speech.

‘But, Galahad, my dear fellow!’

The Hon. Galahad patted his shoulder reassuringly.

‘It’s all right, Clarence, my boy. I know what I’m doing. I have the situation well in hand.’

‘Dine with Parsloe after what has occurred? After what occurred yesterday? It’s impossible. Why on earth the man is inviting us, I can’t understand.’

‘I suppose he thinks that if he gives us a dinner I shall relent and omit the prawn story. Oh, I see Parsloe’s motive all right. A clever move. Not that it’ll work.’

‘But what do you want to go for?’

The Hon. Galahad raked the hall with a conspiratorial monocle. It appeared to be empty. Nevertheless, he looked under a settee and, going to the front door, swiftly scanned the gravel.

‘Shall I tell you something, Clarence?’ he said, coming back. ‘Something that’ll interest you?’

‘Certainly, my dear fellow. Certainly. Most decidedly.’

‘Something that’ll bring the sparkle to your eyes?’

‘By all means. I should enjoy it.’

‘You know what we’re going to do? To-night? After dining with Parsloe and sending Constance back in the car?’

‘No.’

The Hon. Galahad placed his lips to his brother’s ear.

‘We’re going to steal his pig, my boy.’

‘What!’

‘It came to me in a flash while Constance was talking. Parsloe stole the Empress. Very well, we’ll steal Pride of Matchingham. Then we’ll be in a position to look young Parsloe squarely in the eye and say, “What about it?”’

Lord Emsworth swayed gently. His brain, never a strong one, had tottered perceptibly on its throne.

‘Galahad!’

‘Only thing to do. Reprisals. Recognized military manoeuvre.’

‘But how? Galahad, how can it be done?’

‘Easily. If young Parsloe stole the Empress, why should we have any difficulty in stealing his animal? You show me where he keeps it, my boy, and I’ll do the rest. Puffy Benger and I stole old Wivenhoe’s pig at Hammer’s Easton in the year ’95. We put it in Plug Basham’s bedroom. And we’ll put Parsloe’s pig in a bedroom, too.’

‘In a bedroom?’

‘Well, a sort of bedroom. Where are we to hide the animal – that’s what you’ve been asking yourself, isn’t it? I’ll tell you. We’re going to put it in that caravan that your flower-pot-throwing friend Baxter arrived in. Nobody’s going to think of looking there. Then we’ll be in a position to talk terms to young Parsloe, and I think he will very soon see the game is up.’

Lord Emsworth was looking at his brother almost devoutly. He had always known that Galahad’s intelligence was superior to his own, but he had never realized it could soar to quite such lofty heights as this. It was, he supposed, the result of the life his brother had lived. He himself, sheltered through the peaceful, uneventful years at Blandings Castle, had allowed his brain to become comparatively atrophied. But Galahad, battling through these same years with hostile skittle-sharps and the sort of man that used to be a member of the old Pelican Club, had kept his clear and vigorous.

‘You really think it would be feasible?’

‘Trust me. By the way, Clarence, this man Pilbeam of yours. Do you know if he was ever anything except a detective?’

‘I have no idea, my dear fellow. I know nothing of him. I have merely spoken to him on the telephone. Why?’

‘Oh, nothing. I’ll ask him when he arrives. Where are you going?’

‘Into the garden.’

‘It’s raining.’

‘I have my macintosh. I really – I feel I really must walk about after what you have told me. I am in a state of considerable excitement.’

‘Well, work it off before you see Constance again. It won’t do to have her start suspecting there’s something up. If there’s anything you want to ask me about, you’ll find me in the smoking-room.’

For some twenty minutes the hall of Blandings Castle remained empty. Then Beach appeared. At the same moment, from the gravel outside there came the purring of a high-powered car and the sound of voices. Beach posed himself in the doorway, looking, as he always did on these occasions, like the Spirit of Blandings welcoming the lucky guest.