Galahad at Blandings

by P. G. Wodehouse

  His statement ought not to have startled Lady Hermione as greatly as it did. She should have been used to impostors by this time. They had been in and out of Blandings Castle for years. A thoughtful writer had once said of the place that it had impostors the way other houses had mice. Nevertheless she uttered a sound which in a woman of less breeding might have been classified as a snort, and the buttered toast she was holding fell from her hand.

  An impostor!’

  ‘Yes, m’lady.’

  ‘But what grounds have you for saying such a thing?’

  ‘It seemed to me peculiar that shortly after his arrival another gentleman should have rung up from London on the telephone saying that he, too, was Mr Augustus Whipple.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Yes, m’lady. He was enquiring after his lordship’s state of health. He informed me that he had received a telegram stating that his lordship was suffering from German measles. It renders one suspicious of the bona fides of the gentleman now in residence at the castle.’

  ‘It certainly does!’

  ‘I must confess to finding the whole situation mystifying.’

  Lady Hermione was not mystified. Not, she might have said had she been capable of such vulgarity, by a jugful. As clearly as if the information had been written in letters of fire on the wall of the boudoir she saw behind this superfluity of Whipples the hand of her brother Galahad.

  ‘Oh!’ she said, and never had that monosyllable come closer to being the ‘Ho!’ of Constable Evans of the Market Blandings police force. Her eyes were gleaming balefully. She looked like a cook who has encountered an intrusive black beetle in her kitchen. ‘Will you find Mr Galahad and say I would like to see him. No, never mind, I will go and see him myself’

  II

  Gally was in the billiards room when she found him, practising cannons with an expert hand. He laid down his cue courteously as she entered. He was not glad to see her, for it was his experience that her presence, like that of her sisters Constance, Dora and Julia, nearly always spelt trouble, but he did his best to infuse a brotherly warmth into his greeting.

  ‘Hullo, Hermione. So you’re back? Rotten day for travelling. You must have stifled in that train.’

  There was nothing in Lady Hermione’s manner to suggest that her feelings towards him were not friendly, or as friendly as they ever were. It was her intention to lull him into a false security before unmasking him and bathing him in confusion.

  ‘It was rather stuffy,’ she agreed. ‘Do you think there’s a storm coming up?’

  ‘I shouldn’t be surprised. How was Veronica?’

  ‘She seemed very well.’

  ‘I miss her bonny face.

  ‘I’ll tell her. She’ll be flattered. And how are you, Galahad?’

  ‘Oh, ticking over much as usual.’

  ‘And Clarence?’

  ‘He’s fine.’

  Lady Hermione gave a little laugh.

  ‘I’m talking as if I had been away a month. I suppose nothing has been happening since I left?’

  ‘Nothing sensational. We have another guest.’

  ‘Really? Who is that?’

  ‘Fellow of the name of Whipple.’

  ‘You don’t mean Clarence’s Whipple, the man who wrote that pig book he’s always reading?’

  ‘That’s the chap. Clarence had a letter from him asking if he could come and take some photographs of the Empress, so of course he invited him to stay.’

  ‘Of course. Clarence must be delighted.’

  ‘Seventh heaven.’

  ‘I don’t wonder. There can’t be many men like Mr Whipple.’

  ‘Very few so pigminded.’

  ‘I was not thinking of that so much as of his extraordinary gift for being in two places at the same time. I always think that makes a man so interesting.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Well, you can’t say it’s not remarkable that he should be at Blandings Castle and still able to ring up on the telephone from London. I wonder how he does it. With mirrors, do you think?’

  Gally was not easily disconcerted and only the fact that he removed his monocle and began to polish it showed that her words had stirred him to any extent. Replacing the monocle, he said:

  ‘Odd, that. Very curious.

  ‘So I thought when Beach told me. He took the call.’

  ‘From Whipple?’

  ‘Speaking from his London branch, not the Shropshire one.’

  ‘He must have got the name wrong. One often catches names incorrectly on the telephone. What did this fellow say?’

  ‘That he was Augustus Whipple and that he was calling to ask how Clarence was, as he had had a telegram saying that he was in bed with German measles. Quite a mystery, isn’t it?’

  Gally pondered for a moment. Then his face brightened.

  ‘I think I see the solution. Simple when you give your mind to it. It was Visitors’ Day yesterday and Beach had to work like a beaver all the afternoon showing the mob around the joint. He’s not so young as he was and it took it out of him a lot. When it was over, he was at a low ebb and in need of a restorative. So what happens? He limps off to his pantry, reaches for the port bottle, incautiously overdoes it and becomes as soused as a herring, totally incapable of understanding a word said to him on the phone. The name he mistook for Whipple was probably Wilson or Wiggins or Williams, and what Wilson or Wiggins or Williams was saying was that he had got German measles. It’s the only explanation.’

  Many years previously in their mutual nursery Lady Hermione, even then a force to be reckoned with, had once struck her brother Galahad on the head with her favourite doll Belinda, laying him out as flat as a Dover sole. She was wishing she could put her hands on a doll now. Or she would have been prepared to settle for a hatchet.

  ‘I can think of another,’ she said, ‘and that is that for some reason at which I cannot attempt to guess you have sneaked one of your impossible friends into the castle. I should say one more of your impossible friends, because this is not the first time it has happened. Who is this man?’

  ‘You want me to come clean?’

  ‘If you will be so good.’

  ‘He’s a chap called Sam Bagshott.’

  ‘Wanted by the police, no doubt?’

  ‘Oddly enough, yes,’ said Gally with a touch of admiration in his voice. This exhibition of woman’s intuition had impressed him. ‘But that was due to an absurd misunderstanding. He’s a most respectable fellow really. Son of my old pal Boko Bagshott. And he’s here because he’s jolly well got to be here. It’s imperative that he confers with the Callender girl, whom he loves but by whom he has been given the air, and she’s away and nobody knows when she’ll be back. Obviously he must stay put and await her arrival.’

  ‘Oh, must he? I disagree with you. If you think he is going to remain here another day, you are very much mistaken. I shall tell Beach to see that his things are packed and that he is out of the place in the next half-hour.

  Gally continued tranquil.

  ‘I wouldn’t.’

  ‘And if I were not a very tolerant and easygoing woman, he would not be given time to pack.’

  ‘I still maintain that you would be making a mistake.’

  ‘I suppose that remark has some sort of meaning, but I cannot imagine what.’

  ‘It will flash on you in a moment. I must begin by mentioning that I had a chat with Egbert before he left.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He said you had gone to London to get Veronica to write to Tipton breaking the engagement.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It bewildered me. I should have thought an up-and-coming young multi-millionaire would have been the son-in-law of your dreams. Aren’t you fond of multi-millionaires?’

  ‘Tipton is not a multi-millionaire. He has lost all his money speculating on the Stock Exchange.’

  ‘You astound me. Who told you that?’

  ‘Clarence.’

  ‘And you really look on Clare
nce as a reliable source?’

  ‘In the present case, yes. He had the information from Tipton himself’

  ‘It didn’t occur to you that Clarence, acting true to the form of a lifetime, might have got everything muddled up? Let me brief you as to the real position of affairs. Tipton hasn’t lost a penny, but like many a better man before him he was in chokey and needed bail. He hadn’t the price on him, somebody in the course of the evening having pinched his wallet, so he rang Clarence up at his hotel, said he had lost all his money and could Clarence oblige him with a loan of twenty dollars. That’s the whole story. If you have any lingering doubt in your mind as to Tipton’s solvency, let me tell you that when he blew in the day before yesterday he was at the wheel of a Rolls Royce and waving an eight—thousand-pound necklace, a little gift for Vee which he had picked up in London. I was not privileged to see his underclothing, but I should imagine it consisted of thousand-dollar bills. Fellows like Tipton always wear them next the skin.’

  Some people on receiving a shock turn pale, others purple. Lady Hermione did both. The colour faded from her cheeks, then rushed back. There was a settee near where she stood. She sank on to it bonelessly, staring as if she were seeing some horrible sight — some sight, that is to say, even more horrible than a brother with a black—rimmed monocle in his right eye. Her breath came in short gasps, and Gally hastened to supply aid and comfort. He was a humane man and had no wish to see a blood relation keeling over in an apoplectic fit.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You can stop swooning. Egbert asked me to intercept Veronica’s letter before it could reach Tipton, so I got up at the crack of dawn and did.’

  The relief that flooded over Lady Hermione was so stupendous that she could not speak. The whole world, even Gally, seemed beautiful to her. Having gurgled for a while, she said:

  ‘Oh, Galahad!’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘Where is it? Give it to me.

  ‘I haven’t got it.’

  Lady Hermione, who had been lying back, sat up with a jerk. ‘You’ve lost it?’ she cried, the apoplectic fit threatening to return.

  ‘No, I’ve not lost it. I’ve given it to Sam. Whether or not he hands it on to Tipton depends on you. Accept him as an honoured guest and give him that sunny smile of yours from time to time, and you’ll be as right as rain. But the slightest relaxation of old—world hospitality on your part and Tipton’s mail will be augmented by a communication from the girl he loves. You had better begin practising being the ideal hostess without delay, for both Sam and I have high standards and you mustn’t fall short of them,’ said Gally, and feeling that this was about as telling an exit line as could be found on the spur of the moment he replaced his cue in the rack and left the room.

  It was only when he reached the smoking-room which was his objective and saw Sam sitting there, on his face the dazed look of one who has recently concluded a long conversation on pigs with Lord Emsworth, that a sudden thought struck him. His sister Hermione was a woman for whom as an antagonist he had a great respect, and he knew that she was not one meekly to accept defeat. She might be down, but she was never out. It was highly probable that Sam, all unused as he was to the methods of jungle warfare prevailing in Blandings Castle and little thinking that that was the first place his hostess would search, would have put that letter somewhere in his bedroom. Precautions, he saw, must be taken immediately, for he knew the search would not be long delayed.

  ‘Sam,’ he said, ‘what did you do with that letter I gave you?’

  ‘It’s in my room.’

  As I thought. Just as I had suspected. Go and get it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Never mind why. I want it, and let us hope it’s still there. Ah,’ he said, when Sam returned, ‘all is well. Prompt action has saved the day. Give it to me.

  ‘What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘I am going to enclose it in a stout manila envelope and tuck it away in a drawer of Clarence’s desk. Even Hermione,’ said Gally with pardonable complacency, ‘won’t think of looking there.’

  III

  In predicting that Lady Hermione would shortly be instituting a search of Sam’s room Gally had not erred. Even as he was speaking she had registered a resolve to explore its every nook and cranny. Her first move after Gally had left her had been to telephone her daughter Veronica and explain the facts relating to Tipton’s financial status, and when Veronica had uttered a squeal similar in volume to that of George Cyril Wellbeloved’s niece Marlene and stammered, ‘But, Mum-mee, what about my letter?’ she had assured her that she must not feel uneasy about that because Mother had everything under control and Tipton would never see it. She then set out in quest of her nephew Wilfred Allsop, whom she proposed to enrol as an assistant in her investigations. She found him in the hall, meditatively tapping the barometer that hung there, and brusquely commanded him to stop tapping and accompany her to her boudoir.

  Except for observing that according to the barometer, which had been very frank on the point, there was going to be the dickens of a thunderstorm any minute now, Wilfred had nothing to say as they went up the stairs. From childhood days the society of his Aunt Hermione had always occasioned him the gravest discomfort, making him speculate as to which of his sins of commission or omission she was about to drag into the light of day and comment on in that forthright manner of hers. Even though his conscience at the moment was reasonably clear, he could not help a twinge of apprehension as they reached the boudoir and she curtly bade him take a seat. He did not like her looks. It was plain to him that she was on the boil. If ever he had seen a fermenting aunt, this fermenting aunt was that fermenting aunt.

  To his relief he found that it was not he who had caused her blood pressure to rise. When she spoke, she was, as aunts go, quite civil, not actually cooing to him like a turtle dove accosting its loved one but with nothing in her manner reminiscent of the bucko mate of an old-fashioned hell ship addressing an able— bodied seaman whose activities had dissatisfied him.

  ‘Wilfred,’ she said, ‘I want your help.’

  ‘My what?’ said Wilfred, amazed. He could imagine no situation to which this masterful woman would not be equal without outside support. Unless, of course, she was doing a crossword puzzle and had got stumped by a word of three letters beginning with E and meaning large Australian bird, in which event his brain was at her disposal.

  ‘You must treat what I say as absolutely confidential.’

  ‘Oh rather. Not a word to a soul. But what’s all this about?’

  ‘If you will be good enough to listen, I will tell you. A serious situation has arisen. Have you met this Augustus Whipple who came here yesterday?’

  ‘Seen him at meals. Why?’

  ‘He is not Augustus Whipple.’

  ‘The story that’s going the rounds is that he is. Uncle Clarence keeps calling him Mr Whipple.’

  ‘I dare say, but he is an impostor.’

  ‘Good Lord! Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.

  ‘Then why don’t you boot him out?’

  ‘That is what I am about to tell you. I am helpless. He has got a letter from Veronica.’

  ‘She knows him?’

  ‘Of course she does not.

  ‘Then why the correspondence?’

  ‘Oh, Wilfred!’

  ‘It’s all very well to say “Oh, Wilfred!” in that soupy tone of voice, but you’re making my head go round. If Vee doesn’t know him, how do they come to be pen pals? I don’t get it.’

  ‘The letter was written to Tipton. ‘‘To Tippy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s get this straight. You say the letter was written to Tippy?’

  ‘Yes, yes, YES!’

  With a wide despairing gesture Wilfred knocked over a small table containing a vase of roses and a photograph of Colonel Wedge in the uniform of the Shropshire Light Infantry.

  ‘Well, if you think that makes it all cle
ar, you’re very much in error. I fail absolutely to understand where Tippy comes into the thing. I simply can’t see—’

  ‘Wilfred!’

  ‘Hullo?’

  ‘Stop talking! How can I explain if you persist in interrupting me?’

  ‘Sorry. Carry on. You have the floor. But I still say you’re making my head go round.’

  ‘It is all quite simple.’

  ‘Says you!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I didn’t speak.’

  ‘You said something.’

  ‘Just a hiccup.’

  ‘Oh? Well, as I said, the whole thing is quite simple. Veronica happened to be feeling depressed and nervous for some reason, and in this mood of depression she felt that she was making a mistake in marrying Tipton. So she wrote him a letter breaking off the engagement. She now of course bitterly regrets it, but the letter was posted.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Two days ago.

  ‘Then Tippy must have had it by now.

  ‘I keep telling you this man has got it. He intercepted it and is—”

  ‘Holding you up?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What does he want? Money?’

  ‘No, not money. But he will give the letter to Tipton if I do not allow him to stay on at the castle.’

  ‘And you don’t want him?’

  ‘Of course I do not want him.’

  ‘Well,’ said Wilfred, breaking the bad news, ‘it looks to me from where I sit as if you’d jolly well got him. He has you by the short hairs. You can’t afford to let Tippy see that letter. Once let his eye rest on it and bim go your hopes and dreams of a millionaire son-in—law.’

  An uneasy silence followed. It was broken by Wilfred saying that in his opinion his cousin Veronica ought to lose no time in putting in an application for a padded cell in some not too choosy lunatic asylum. The remark roused all the mother in Lady Hermione.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded hotly.

  ‘Writing a letter like that! She must have been cuckoo.’

  ‘I told you she was depressed.’