'In order to overcome the opposition of her ladyship to the union of Mr Ronald and Miss Brown, you expressed your willingness to refrain from giving this volume of Reminiscences into the printer's hands - her ladyship being hostile to its publication owing to the fact that in her opinion its contents might give offence to many of her friends - notably Sir Gregory Parsloe. Am I not correct, Mr Galahad?'
'Quite right.'
'Your motive in making this concession being that you were
apprehensive lest, without this check upon her actions, her ladyship might possibly persuade his lordship to refuse to countenance the match?'
'"Possibly" is good. You needn't be coy, Beach. This meeting is tiled. No reporters present. We can take our hair down and tell each other our right names. What you actually mean is that my brother Clarence is as weak as water, and that if it wasn't for this book of mine there would be nothing to stop my sister Constance nagging him into a state where he would agree to forbid a dozen weddings just for the sake of peace and quiet.'
'Exactly, Mr Galahad. I would not have ventured to put the matter into precisely those words myself, but since you have done so I feel free to point out that, the circumstances being as you have outlined, it would be very agreeable to her ladyship were this manuscript to be stolen and destroyed.'
The Hon. Galahad sat up, electrified.
'Beach, you've hit it! That fellow Pilbeam was working for Connie!'
'The evidence would certainly appear to point in that direction, Mr Galahad.'
'Probably Parsloe's sitting in with them.'
'I feel convinced of it, Mr Galahad. I may mention that on the night of our last dinner-party her ladyship instructed me with considerable agitation to summon Sir Gregory to the Castle by telephone for an urgent conference. Her ladyship and Sir Gregory were closeted in the library for some little time, and then Sir Gregory emerged, obviously labouring under considerable excitement, and a few moments later I observed him talking to Mr Pilbeam very earnestly in a secluded corner of the hall.'
'Giving him his riding orders!'
'Precisely, Mr Galahad. Plotting. The significance of the incident eluded me at the time, but I am now convinced that that was what was transpiring.'
The Hon. Galahad rose.
'Beach,' he observed with emotion, 'I've said it before, and I say it again - you're worth your weight in gold. You've saved the situation. You have preserved the happiness of two young lives, Beach.'
'It is very kind of you to say so, sir.'
'I do say so. It's no use our kidding ourselves. With that manuscript out of the way, those two wouldn't have a dog's chance of getting married. I know Clarence. Capital fellow - nobody I'm fonder of in the world - but constitutionally incapable of standing up against arguing women. We must take steps immediately to ensure the safety of this manuscript, Beach.'
'I was about to suggest, Mr Galahad, that it might be advisable if in future you were to lock the drawer in which you keep it.'
The Hon. Galahad shook his head.
'That's no good. You don't suppose a determined woman like my sister Constance, aided and abetted by this ghastly little weasel of a detective, is going to be stopped by a locked drawer? No, we must think of something better than that. I've got it. You must take the thing, Beach, and keep it in some safe place. In your pantry, for instance.'
'But, Mr Galahad!'
'Now what?'
'Suppose her ladyship were to learn that the papers were in my possession and were to request me to hand them to her ? It would precipitate a situation of considerable delicacy were I to meet such a demand with a flat refusal.'
'How on earth is she to know you've got it? She doesn't ever drop into your pantry for a chat, does she?'
'Certainly not, Mr Galahad,' said the butler, shuddering at the horrid vision the words called up.
'And at night you could sleep with it under your pillow. No risk of Lady Constance coming to tuck you up in bed, what?'
This time Beach's emotion was such that he could merely shudder silently.
' It's the only plan,' said the Hon. Galahad with decision.' I don't want any argument. You take this manuscript and you put it away somewhere where it'll be safe. Be a man, Beach.'
'Very good, Mr Galahad.'
'Do it now.'
'Very good, Mr Galahad.'
'And, naturally, not a word to a soul.'
'Very good, Mr Galahad.'
Beach walked slowly away across the lawn. His head was bowed, his heart heavy. It was a moment when a butler of spirit should have worn something of the gallant air of a soldier commissioned to carry dispatches through the enemy's lines. Beach did not look like that. He resembled far more nearly in his general demeanour one of those unfortunate gentlemen in railway station waiting-rooms who, having injudiciously consented at four-thirty to hold a baby for a strange woman, look at the clock and see that it is now six-fifteen and no relief in sight.
Dusk was closing down on the forbidding day. Sue, looking out over her battlements, became conscious of an added touch of the sinister in the view beneath her. It was the hour when ghouls are abroad, and there seemed no reason why such ghouls should not decide to pay a visit to this roof on which she stood. She came to the conclusion that she had been here long enough. Eerie little noises were chuckling through the world, and somewhere in the distance an owl had begun to utter its ominous cry. She yearned for her cosy bedroom, with the lights turned on and something to read till dressing for dinner-time.
It was very dark on the stone stairs, and they rang unpleasantly under her feet. Nevertheless, though considering it probable that at any moment an icy hand would come out from nowhere and touch her face, she braved the descent.
Her relief as her groping fingers touched the comforting solidity of the door was short-lived. It gave way a moment later to the helpless panic of the human being trapped. The door was locked. She scurried back up the stairs on to the roof, where at least there was light to help her cope with this disaster.
She remembered now. Half an hour before, a footman had come up and hauled down the flag which during the day floated over Blandings Castle. He had not seen her, and it had not occurred to her to reveal her presence. But she wished now that she had done so, for, supposing the roof empty, he had evidently completed his evening ritual by locking up.
Something brushed against Sue's cheek. It was not actually a ghoul, but it was a bat, and bats are bad enough in the gloaming of a haunted day. She uttered a sharp scream - and, doing so, discovered that she had unwittingly hit upon the correct procedure for girls marooned on roofs.
She hurried to the battlements and began calling 'Hi!' - in a small, hushed voice at first, for nothing sounds sillier than the word 'Hi!' when thrown into the void with no definite objective; then more loudly. Presently, warming to her work, she was producing quite a respectable volume of sound. So respectable that Ronnie Fish, smoking moodily in the garden, became aware that there were voices in the night, and, after listening for a few moments, gathered that they proceeded from the castle roof.
He made his way to the path that skirted the walls.
'Who's that?'
'Oh, Ronnie!'
For two days and two nights grey doubts and black cares had been gnawing at the vitals of Ronald Fish. The poison had not ceased to work in his veins. For two days and two nights he had been thinking of Sue and of Monty Bodkin. Every time he thought of Sue it was agony. And every time his reluctant mind turned to the contemplation of Monty Bodkin it was anguish. But at the sound of that voice his heart gave an involuntary leap. She might have transferred her affections to Monty Bodkin, but her voice still remained the most musical sound on earth.
'Ronnie, I can't get down.'
'Are you on the roof?'
'Yes. And they've locked the door.'
'I'll get the key.'
And at long last she heard the clang of the lock, and he appeared at the head of the stairs.
His manner, s
he noted with distress, was still Eton, still Cambridge. Nobody could have been politer.
'Nuisance, getting locked in like that.'
'Yes.'
'Been up here long?' 'All the afternoon.' 'Nice place on a fine day.' 'I suppose so.' 'Though hot.' 'Yes.'
There was a pause. The heavy air pressed down upon them. In the garden the owl was still hooting. 'When did you get back?' asked Sue. 'About an hour ago.' 'I didn't hear you.'
'I didn't come to the front. I went straight round to the stables. Dropped mother at the Vicarage.' 'Yes?'
'She wanted to have a talk with the vicar.' *I see.'
'You've not met the vicar, have you?' 'Not yet.'
'His name's Fosberry.' 'Oh?'
Silence fell again. Ronnie's eyes were roaming about the roof. He took a step forward, stooped, and picked up something. It was a slouch hat.
He hummed a little under his breath.
'Monty been up here with you?'
'Yes.'
Ronnie hummed another bar or two.
'Nice chap,' he said. 'Let's go down, shall we?'
Chapter Eight
If you turn to the right on leaving the main gates of Blandings Castle and follow the road for a matter of two miles, you will find yourself approaching the little town of Market Blandings. There it stands dreaming the centuries away, a jewel in a green heart of Shropshire. In all England there is no sweeter spot. Artists who come to paint its old grey houses and fishermen who angle for bream in its lazy river are united on this point. The idea that the place could possibly be rendered more pleasing to the eye is one at which they would scoff - and have scoffed many a night over the pipes and tankards at the Emsworth Arms.
And yet, on the afternoon following the events just recorded, this miracle occurred. The quiet charm of this ancient High Street was suddenly intensified by the appearance of a godlike man in a bowler hat, who came out of an old-world tobacco shop. It was Beach, the butler. With the object of disciplining his ample figure, he had walked down from the Castle to buy cigarettes. He now stood on the pavement, bracing himself to the task of walking back.
This athletic feat was not looking quite so good to him as it had done three-quarters of an hour ago in his pantry. That long two-mile hike had taxed his powers of endurance. Moreover, this was no weather for Marathons. If yesterday had been oppressive, today was a scorcher. Angry clouds were banking themselves in a copper-coloured sky. No breath of air stirred the trees. The pavement gave out almost visible waves of heat, and over everything there seemed to brood a sort of sulphurous gloom. If they were not in for a thunderstorm, and a snorter of a thunderstorm, before nightfall, Beach was very much mistaken. He removed his hat, produced a handkerchief, mopped his brow, replaced the hat, replaced the handkerchief, and said 'Woof!' Disciplining the figure is all very well, but there are limits. An urgent desire for beer swept over Beach.
He could scarcely have been more fortunately situated for the purpose of gratifying this wish. The ideal towards which the City Fathers of all English county towns strive is to provide a public-house for each individual inhabitant; and those of Market Blandings had not been supine in this matter. From where Beach stood, he could see no fewer than six such establishments. The fact that he chose the Emsworth Arms must not be taken to indicate that he had anything against the Wheatsheaf, the Waggoner's Rest, the Beetle and Wedge, the Stitch in Time, and the Jolly Cricketers. It was simply that it happened to be closest.
Nevertheless, it was a sound choice. The advice one would give to every young man starting life is, on arriving in Market Blandings on a warm afternoon, to go to the Emsworth Arms. Good stuff may be bought there, and of all the admirable hostelrics in the town it possesses the largest and shadiest garden. Green and inviting, dotted about with rustic tables and snug summerhouses, it stretches all the way down to the banks of the river; so that the happy drinker, already pleasantly in need of beer, may acquire a new and deeper thirst from watching family parties toil past in row-boats. On a really sultry day a single father, labouring at the oars of a craft loaded down below the Plimsoll mark by a wife, a wife's sister, a cousin by marriage, four children, a dog, and a picnic basket, has sometimes led to such a rush of business at the Emsworth Arms that seasoned barmaids have staggered beneath the strain.
It was to one of these summerhouses that Beach now took his tankard. He generally went there when circumstances caused him to visit the Emsworth Arms, for as a man with a certain position to keep up he preferred privacy when refreshing himself. It was not as if he had been some irresponsible young second footman who could just go and squash in with the boys in the back room. This particular summerhouse was at the far end of the garden, hidden from the eye of the profane by a belt of bushes.
Thither, accordingly, Beach made his way. There was nobody in the summerhouse, but he did not enter it, having a horror of earwigs and suspecting their presence in the thatch of the roof. Instead, he dragged a wicker chair to the table which stood at the back of it, and, sinking into this, puffed and sipped and thought. And the more he thought, the less did he like what he thought about.
As a rule, when members of the Family showed their confidence in him by canvassing his assistance in any little matter, Beach was both proud and pleased. His motto was 'Service'. But he could not conceal it from himself that the Family had a tendency at times to go a little too far.
The historic case of this, of course, had been when Mr Ronald, having stolen the Empress and hidden her in a disused keeper's cottage in the west wood, had prevailed upon him to assist in feeding her. His present commission was not as fearsome an ordeal as that, but nevertheless he could not but feel that the Hon. Galahad, in appointing him the custodian of so vitally important an object as the manuscript of his book of Reminiscences, had exceeded the limits of what a man should ask a butler to do. The responsibility, he considered, was one which no butler, however desirous of giving satisfaction, should have been called upon to undertake.
The thought of all that hung upon his vigilance unnerved him. And he had been brooding on it with growing uneasiness for perhaps five minutes, when the sound of feet shuffling on wood told him that he had no longer got his favourite oasis to himself. An individual or individuals had come into the summerhouse.
'We can talk here,' said a voice, and a seat creaked as if a heavy body had lowered itself upon it.
And such was, indeed, the case. It was Lord Tilbury who had just sat down, and his was one of the heaviest bodies in Fleet Street.
When, a few minutes before, meditating in the lounge of the Emsworth Arms, he had beheld Monty Bodkin enter through the front door, Lord Tilbury's first thought had been for some quiet retreat where they could confer in solitude. He could see that the young man had much to say, and he had no desire to have him say it with half a dozen inquisitive Shropshire lads within easy earshot.
Great minds think alike. Beach, intent on an unobtrusive glass of beer, and Lord Tilbury, loath to have intimate private matters discussed in an hotel lounge, had both come to the conclusion that true solitude was best to be obtained at the bottom of the garden. Silencing his young friend, accordingly, with an imperious gesture his lordship had led the way to this remote summerhouse.
'Well,' he said, having seated himself. 'What is it?' It seemed to Beach, who had settled himself comfortably in his chair and was preparing to listen to the conversation with something of the air of a nonchalant dramatic critic watching the curtain go up, that that voice was vaguely familiar. He had a feeling that he had heard it before, but could not remember where or when. He had no difficulty, however, in recognizing the one which now spoke in answer. Monty Bodkin's vocal delivery, when his soul was at all deeply disturbed, was individual and peculiar, containing something of the tonal quality of a bleating sheep combined with a suggestion of a barking prairie wolf. 'What is it? I like that!'
Monty's soul at this moment was very deeply disturbed. Since breakfast-time that morning, this young man, like Sir Gregory
Parsloe, had run what is known as the gamut of the emotions. A pictorial record of his hopes and despairs would have looked like a fever chart.
He had begun, over the coffee and kippers, by feeling gay and buoyant. It seemed to him that Fortune - good old Fortune - had amazingly decently put him on to a red-hot thing. All he had to do, in order to ensure the year's employment which would enable him to win Gertrude Butterwick, was to nip into the small library and lift the manuscript out of the desk in which, Lord Tilbury had assured him, it reposed.
Feeling absolutely in the pink, accordingly, and nipping as planned, he had fallen, like Lucifer, from heaven to hell. The bally thing was not there. Fortune, in a word, had been pulling his leg.
And here was this old ass before him saying' What is it ?'
'Yes, I like that!' he repeated. 'That's rich! Oh, very fruity, indeed.'
Lord Tilbury, as we have said, had never been very fond of Monty. In his present peculiar mood he found himself liking him less than ever.
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