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  ‘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 l 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 1912.1 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 tonight.’

  ‘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 scarecrow.’

  ‘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 feeli
ngs 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 flowerpot-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 – 1 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.

  9 ENTER SUE ‘Leave the door open, Beach,’ said Lady Constance. ‘Very good, your ladyship/

  ‘I think the smell of the wet earth and the flowers is so refreshing, dont you?’

  The butler did not. He was not one of your fresh-air men. Rightly conjecturing, however, that the question had been addressed not to him but to the girl in the beige suit who had accompanied the speaker up the steps, he forbore to reply He cast an appraising bulging-eyed look at this girl and decided that she met with his approval. Smaller and slighter than the type of woman he usually admired, he found her, nevertheless, even by his own exacting standards of criticism, noticeably attractive. He liked her face and he liked the way she was dressed. Her frock was right, her shoes were right, her stockings were right, and her hat was right. As far as Beach was concerned, Sue had passed the Censor.

  Her demeanour pleased him, too. From the flush on her face and the sparkle in her eyes, she seemed to be taking her first entry into Blandings Castle in quite the proper spirit of reverential excitement. To be at Blandings plainly meant something to her, was an event in her life: and Beach, who after many years of residence within its walls had come to look on the Castle as a piece of personal property, felt flattered and gratified.

  ‘I dont think this shower will last long/ said Lady Constance.

  ‘No,’ said Sue, smiling brightly.

  ‘And now you must be wanting some tea after your journey.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sue, smiling brightly.

  It seemed as if she had been smiling brightly for centuries. The moment she had alighted from the train and found her formidable hostess and this strangely sinister Mr Baxter waiting to meet her on the platform, she had begun to smile brightly and had been doing it ever since.

  ‘Usually we have tea on the lawn. It is so nice there.’

  It must be.’

  ‘When the rain is over, Mr Baxter, you must show Miss Schoonmaker the rose-garden.’

  ‘I shall be delighted,’ said the Efficient Baxter.

  He flashed gleaming spectacles in her direction, and a momentary panic gripped Sue. She feared that already this man had probed her secret. In his glance, it seemed to her, there shone suspicion.

  Such, however, was not the case. It was only the combination of large spectacles and heavy eyebrows that had created the illusion. Although Rupert Baxter was a man who generally suspected everybody on principle, it so happened that he had accepted Sue without question. The glance was an admiring, almost a loving glance. It would be too much to say that Baxter had already fallen a victim to Sue’s charms, but the good looks which he saw and the wealth which he had been told about were undeniably beginning to fan the hidden fire.

  ‘My brother is a great rose-grower.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t he? I mean, I think roses are so lovely.’ The spectacles were beginning to sap Sue’s morale. They seemed to be eating into her soul like some sort of corrosive acid.

  ‘How nice and old everything is here,’ she went on hurriedly. ‘What is that funny-looking gargoyle thing over there?’

  What she actually referred to was a Japanese mask which hung from the wall, and it was unfortunate that the Hon. Galahad should have chosen this moment to come out of the smoking-room. It made the question seem personal.

  ‘My brother Galahad,’ said Lady Constance. Her voice lost some of the kindly warmth of the hostess putting the guest at her ease and took on the cold disapproval which the author of the Reminiscences always induced in her. ‘Galahad, this is Miss Schoonmaker.’

  ‘Really?’ The Hon. Galahad trotted briskly up. ‘Is it? Bless my soul! Well, well, well!’

  ‘How
do you do?’ said Sue, smiling brightly.

  ‘How are you, my dear? I know your father intimately.’

  The bright smile faded. Sue had tried to plan this venture of hers carefully, looking ahead for all possible pitfalls, but that she would encounter people who knew Mr Schoonmaker intimately she had not foreseen.

  ‘Haven’t seen him lately, of course. Let me see . . . Must be twenty-five years since we met. Yes, quite twenty-five years.’

  A warm and lasting friendship was destined to spring up between Sue and the Hon.

  Galahad Threepwood, but never in the whole course of it did she experience again quite the gush of whole-hearted affection which surged over her at these words.

  ‘I wasn’t born then,’ she said.

  The Hon. Galahad was babbling on happily.

  ‘A great fellow, old Johnny. You’ll find some stories about him in my book. I’m writing my Reminiscences, you know. Fine sportsman, old Johnny. Great grief to him, I remember, when he broke his leg and had to go into a nursing-home in the middle of the racing season. However, he made the best of it. Got the nurses interested in current form, and used to make a book with them in fruit and cigarettes and things. I recollect coming to see him one day and finding him quite worried. He was a most conscientious man, with a horror of not settling up when he lost, and apparently one of the girls had had a suet dumpling on the winner of the three o’clock race at fifteen to eight, and he couldn’t figure out what he had got to pay her.’

  Sue, laughing gratefully, was aware of a drooping presence at her side.

  ‘My niece Millicent,’ said Lady Constance. ‘Millicent, my dear, this is Miss Schoonmaker.’

  ‘How do you do?’ said Sue, smiling brightly.

  ‘How do you do?’ said Millicent, like the silent tomb breaking its silence.

  Sue regarded her with interest. So this was Hugo’s Millicent. The sight of her caused Sue to wonder at the ardent nature of that young man’s devotion. Millicent was pretty, but she would have thought that one of Hugo’s exuberant disposition would have preferred something a little livelier.

  She was startled to observe in the girl’s eye a look of surprise. In a situation as delicate as hers was, Sue had no wish to occasion surprise to anyone.