Blotto, Twinks and the Ex-King's Daughter

by Simon Brett

  Zoltan Grittelhoff chuckled. ‘You do not appear to have learned the lesson of Realpolitik. Right, you should know, only exists when it is allied to might. Vlatislav controls the armed forces of Mitteleuropia – for that reason he is the country’s rightful king.’

  ‘Nonsense! No rightful king would employ traitors in the way that the Usurping King Vlatislav does.’

  ‘Which traitors has he employed?’

  ‘Many!’ riposted Blotto. ‘You yourself are a traitor!’

  ‘No,’ said Zoltan Grittelhoff. ‘I have always been faithful to King Vlatislav. I have never been a traitor.’

  ‘Then you were a traitor when you pretended to be faithful to ex-King Sigismund.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ the former bodyguard conceded. ‘You might have a point there.’

  ‘And you were a traitor to my father when you abducted me,’ asserted ex-Princess Ethelinde, eager to throw in another accusation.

  ‘Never mind that. Which traitor was it to whom you referred, the Right Honourable Devereux Lyminster?’

  ‘I referred to the traitor who’s still in that dungeon over there. The one who you or another of Vlatislav’s vile lackeys infiltrated into my personal circle as a manservant. The traitor who calls himself Klaus Schiffleich, and who does a very passable impression of my sister’s voice.’

  ‘Where is this person?’ asked Grittelhoff.

  ‘I’m in here!’ shouted Klaus Schiffleich from behind the iron door of his dungeon. But he had returned speaking with his Mitteleuropian accent.

  ‘And are you, as the Englishman suggests, a traitor?’

  ‘No. I have always been loyal to the cause of King Vlatislav.’

  ‘See?’ said Blotto. ‘I told you he was a bounder.’

  ‘Very well.’ Zoltan Grittelhoff gave instructions to his phalanx of guards. ‘Lock these three in that cell over there! And release the man called Klaus Schiffleich from this cell here!’

  The guards did as they were told. Resistance was useless, and they herded Blotto, ex-Princess Ethelinde and Crown Prince Fritz-Ludwig back into the Crown Prince’s cell. The heavy door clanged shut so hard that the shutter dropped down to reveal its peephole.

  Blotto heard rather than saw the release of his perfidious manservant. Klaus Schiffleich spoke to his rescuers in fluent Mitteleuropian, but, as he left, presumably for the benefit of the three prisoners, shouted in English, ‘Now you will discover what happens to the enemies of King Vlatislav! Whereas for me, he will I know reward me richly for what I have done!’

  Blotto was going to say something cutting, but then decided not to bother wasting wit on a stencher like that. Just as Zoltan Grittelhoff stepped forward to slam the shutter and leave them in solid darkness, he did however ask, ‘And are we to know what plans the Usurping King Vlatislav has for us?’

  ‘Indeed you are,’ said a new voice. Through the narrow aperture, Blotto witnessed the appearance of the Usurping King himself. The guardsmen all presented arms at the royal arrival.

  ‘Well done, Grittelhoff,’ Vlatislav continued. ‘You have caught this supposed arms dealer?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty. I found him doing what he really came to Zling to do. He was rescuing ex-Princess Ethelinde and Crown Prince Fritz-Ludwig.’

  ‘Exactly as I expected him to do.’ The usurper brought his face close to the grille of the cell. ‘Hardly the behaviour of an English gentleman, was it, the Right Honourable Devereux Lyminster? Abusing my hospitality in that way.’

  ‘An English gentleman doesn’t deal with traitors. The hospitality you speak of is rightly that of your brother Sigismund.’

  ‘Nonsense! Sigismund is an ineffectual dilettante. I am the one who commands the loyalty of the people of Mitteleuropia.’

  ‘Only because you have threatened them with violence.’

  ‘Maybe I have. And let me tell you, as a system of government it works. You’d be surprised how amenable my people are, when they know the alternative is the kind of fate I am planning for your little party.’

  ‘Since the subject’s come up,’ said Blotto coolly, ‘you may as well say what you had in mind for us.’

  ‘Yes, what an excellent idea. Your anticipation will, in that way, become part of your punishment. Tomorrow morning, in the Square of the Butcher there will be a demonstration of the Accrington-Murphy machine gun, which you so generously provided for –’

  ‘All right, no need to tell me any more. I might have known you wouldn’t have been capable of thinking up more than one plan. All I hope is that you manage to find someone who can use the Accrington-Murphy properly. They’re tricky little beasts.’

  ‘On that account have no fear, the Right Honourable Devereux Lyminster. Your own chauffeur will be operating the gun.’

  ‘Corky Froggett? No chance. He’d never turn a weapon against his master. It isn’t in his nature.’

  ‘I can assure you that it is in his nature now.’

  ‘What do you mean, you vile usurper?’

  ‘Have you never heard of mesmerism?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I have,’ replied Blotto. ‘Is it some form of political belief?’

  ‘No, you fool! It is a system that works on the brain, so that it can change the personality of any human being.’

  ‘Not Corky Froggett! Nothing could change Corky Froggett!’

  ‘Don’t you believe it.’ Vlatislav let out an evil laugh. ‘In the morning you will have the proof of the efficacy of mesmerism . . . you will see how it can change the human brain . . . when in the Square of the Butcher Corky Froggett and his Accrington-Murphy will mow you all down like summer corn!’

  With that parting shot, Usurping King Vlatislav slammed down the shutter on the grille and marched off with Zoltan Grittelhoff and his men.

  Blotto turned to his fellow prisoners. He couldn’t see them in the blackness, but he knew where they were. ‘Bit of a sticky wicket we’ve got to bat on,’ he said. ‘Wish they’d tried to use that mesmerwhateveritis on me, rather than poor old Corky.’

  ‘Why?’ asked ex-Princess Ethelinde. ‘Do you think you’d have been able to resist them better than he would?’

  ‘No, but we might have gained some time.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘In my case,’ replied Blotto with estimable self-knowledge, ‘it would have taken them quite a while finding the brain, before they even started on the mesmerwhatnot process.’

  21

  An Unexpected Saviour

  ‘Dying’s not such a bad thing,’ said Blotto, ‘so long as you’re dying in a good cause.’

  ‘And what would you regard as a good cause?’ asked Crown Prince Fritz-Ludwig.

  ‘Preserving the family honour,’ Blotto replied automatically.

  ‘And would you say,’ asked ex-Princess Ethelinde softly, ‘that losing your life to a mechanical firing squad in the Square of the Butcher tomorrow morning will preserve your family’s honour?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Again the response was instinctive, but as he thought about it, Blotto was aware of a potential drawback. His mission to Mitteleuropia had been to rescue the abducted Princess, and the Dowager Duchess had clearly entertained the possibility that he might die in the attempt. But if that were the outcome, where would it place her obligation as a hostess to ex-King Sigismund, ex-Queen Klara and their obnoxious retinue? Would the Mitteleuropians then have squatters’ rights to stay at Tawcester Towers for ever? That ghastly prospect brought Blotto firmly round to the view that if he could in some way avoid being mown down by the Accrington-Murphy the next morning, it would be, generally speaking, a good thing.

  Mind you, at that moment escaping their pre-ordained fate didn’t look to the prisoners a very likely prospect. And Crown Prince Fritz-Ludwig was demonstrating that rather maudlin tendency that comes over Continentals in death cells. ‘If I perish tomorrow,’ he said mournfully, ‘it will be with one great regret . . .’

  ‘Me too,’ said Blotto, trying to stem the downward flow of the conversation. ‘My regre
t will be that I’d really have liked to have scored a double century at Lords . . . but that looks less likely with every passing minute. Is that the kind of thing you had in mind?’

  ‘No, it is something different,’ replied the Crown Prince. ‘There is one thing I have always wished to do before I die.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said ex-Princess Ethelinde tartly. ‘And I’ve told you before that you can’t. Even if I did consent to the idea – which, by the way, I’m never going to – I would certainly not wish to do it in a filthy place like this.’

  The Crown Prince let out a long deflated sigh of disappointment.

  ‘And what about you, ex-Princess – I mean, er, Princess?’ asked Blotto, trying to jolly things along. ‘Is there something you’ll regret not doing?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  ‘Until a few weeks ago my regret would be that I have not met the love of my life . . .’

  ‘Ah,’ said Blotto, fearful that the conversation might be sailing into choppy waters.

  ‘But since being at Tawcester Towers –’ the ex-Princess swelled operatically to her theme – ‘I know who is the right one for me. I may regret that that love cannot attain fulfilment, but at least I can die in the knowledge that I have experienced the love of my life.’

  There was a silence, and Blotto rather hoped the topic had gone away, but then the Crown Prince Fritz-Ludwig demanded, ‘And you’re not talking about me as the love of your life, are you, Ethelinde?’

  ‘No,’ she replied defiantly. ‘There is only one man for me – and that is Blotto.’

  Oh, broken biscuits, thought the subject of her adoration. We’re in a gluey enough spot down here already, without that kind of complication.

  ‘In that case, the Right Honourable Devereux Lyminster,’ announced Crown Prince Fritz-Ludwig boldly, ‘I will challenge you to a duel for the love of Ethelinde!’

  Blotto heard a swish, which he reckoned must be the trajectory of a glove missing his face in the darkness. ‘I really don’t think that’s necessary,’ he said in his best conciliatory tone.

  ‘Why not? Are you not a man of honour?’

  ‘Yes, of course I’m a man of honour.’

  ‘As am I. I represent the honour of the whole kingdom of Transcarpathia. And I can see no other solution. We are both in love with the same woman – we must have a duel!’

  ‘Well, yes, if that were the case, I can see that a duel might fit the pigeon-hole. But there’s something wrong with your premise.’

  ‘Oh?’ queried the ex-Princess. ‘What’s wrong with his premise?’

  Blotto was about to point out the obvious flaw in the argument – that, though the Crown Prince may well have been in love with Ethelinde, he himself certainly wasn’t. But before the words could form on his lips, he was suddenly aware that they might represent a lapse of gallantry on his part. To say to her face that he didn’t love the girl could be a breach of the Tawcester family’s long-nurtured tradition of chivalry. Oh dear, what a gluepot. He rather wished the night was over and he was being escorted out to the Square of the Butcher. That would be preferable to his current dilemma.

  ‘Well, erm . . .’ he prevaricated. ‘This isn’t really the ideal venue for a duel. The fact is, it’s pitch dark, we can’t see each other, and we haven’t got any weapons.’

  ‘We have our fists,’ countered the voice of Crown Prince Fritz-Ludwig.

  ‘Yes. Do you do Queensberry’s rules in Transcarpathia?’

  ‘I do Queensberry’s rules.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Because part of my education took place at an English public school.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Maybe Fritz-Ludwig wasn’t such a bad tomato after all. ‘Which one?’

  But before the Crown Prince could reveal this important piece of information, they were silenced by a ‘Ssh’ from ex-Princess Ethelinde. There was a sound audible from the other side of their cell door. A metallic scraping. No, they could identify it more accurately than that – it was the turning of a key in the lock!

  They all froze, wondering what new tortures or humiliations the Usurping King Vlatislav was about to visit on them. When the door was flung open, for a moment they could see nothing in the unfamiliar light.

  Then they made out, standing in the doorway, the slight figure of Klaus Schiffleich.

  ‘You traitor!’ cried Blotto. ‘Have you come here to gloat at our misfortune?’

  ‘No, Blotto my old gumdrop, I’ve come to set you free.’

  ‘Oh, very clever – putting on my sister’s voice again. Don’t worry, I’ve seen through that little trick.’

  ‘Blotto, I am Twinks!’

  ‘No, you’re not. Twinks is back at Tawcester Towers.’

  ‘Look, will this convince you?’ Klaus Schiffleich removed his cap to reveal a head of ash-blonde hair spun as fine as the filigree of a spider’s web.

  ‘Lady Honoria!’ said ex-Princess Ethelinde in amazement.

  ‘Now do you believe who I am, Blotto?’

  He felt rather sheepish. Faced with the direct question, he mumbled, ‘Yes, I do.’ And then he added, to keep his self-esteem moderately intact, but untruthfully, ‘I knew it was you all along, Twinks.’

  22

  A Sticky Wicket

  ‘Right, first thing we must do . . .’ said Twinks. Oh, how comforting were those words to Blotto. He realized how much he’d missed his sister since he’d left Tawcester Towers. He hadn’t been aware at the time, but he’d been under considerable strain for the past few days, the strain of having to think for himself. It was such a relief to have Twinks back, taking over decision-making and all that rombooley.

  ‘First thing we must do is get Princess Ethelinde out of this castle and into the Lagonda on the way back to England!’

  ‘No, actually, Twinks me old muffin, there’s something else we need to do first.’

  ‘But rescuing the Princess was the aim of the mission.’

  ‘I know that, but if we can also achieve the overthrow of Usurping King Vlatislav, then that’d be a pretty good Centre Stalls ticket, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but how can that be done?’

  Quickly, Blotto and Crown Prince Fritz-Ludwig explained about the Transcarpathian troops massing on the Mitteleuropian border, and the need for them to be given the signal to invade.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Twinks. ‘That beacon must be lit as soon as possible! We’ll only be secure when we hear the cannons of the Transcarpathians!’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said the Crown Prince nobly. ‘My country, my squabble.’

  ‘Won’t hear of it,’ countered Blotto. ‘We’re in this together!’

  ‘Very well,’ said Fritz-Ludwig. ‘And we’ll pick up and have the duel when we’ve got the rightful King back on the throne – that suit you?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Blotto, determined that by the time the counter-coup had achieved its end, he’d be safely back at Tawcester Towers, away from the clutches of both ex-Princess Ethelinde and her amorous swain.

  ‘Then – to the beacon!’ cried the Crown Prince, gathering up one of the guards’ sabres from the table. ‘You’d better take one too.’

  Blotto thought about it. He had been Captain of Fencing at school and even represented England at the sport, but somehow swordplay didn’t feel right for the current situation. ‘No, thanks. I’ll feel happier with this,’ he said, hefting the weight of his cricket bat in one hand and snatching a flaming torch from its sconce with the other. ‘To the beacon!’

  It was a lot harder going up more than eleven flights of spiral staircases than it had been going down. But the two young men were fit and, besides, they knew the urgency of their mission. Their reimprisonment had wasted precious minutes, the dawn could not be far away. And the signal beacon, however well lit, would be invisible to the waiting Transcarpathian forces in daylight. If they couldn’t see it, there would be no acknowledging cannonade and no invasion.

  At least
Blotto was with someone who knew his way round Korpzenschloss. As they panted up the stairs, Crown Prince Fritz-Ludwig explained how in happier times he had been a frequent visitor to the castle and knew every last corridor of its massive interior. He had as a child, he said, played with Princess Ethelinde, and it was then he had felt the first glimmerings of the grand passion that . . . Fortunately, before he could complete this soppy avowal of his love, he ran out of breath.

  ‘Top of this next flight,’ he managed to gasp out, ‘and we’ll be on the battlements! Then it’s only a matter of yards to the beacon tower!’

  ‘Hoopee-doopee!’ cried Blotto, as the two men burst through a small door on to the highest part of Korpzenschloss.

  But as soon as they stepped through, they could see that they were expected. They could see the beacon, a wood and kindling-filled brazier atop a pointed spire, but between them and their goal watery moonlight glinted on the helmets and bayonets of at least twenty of Usurping King Vlatislav’s guards. As the two young men came into sight, one of them shouted something in Mitteleuropian.

  ‘That’s good,’ murmured the Crown Prince to his comrade-in-arms.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said Vlatislav’s orders are that we should be taken alive.’

  ‘Toad-in-the-hole!’ said Blotto. ‘Come on, let’s show them what Englishmen are made of!’

  ‘Erm . . .’

  ‘What? Oh, sorry – let’s show them what an Englishman and a Transcarpathian are made of!’

  Moonlight shone on the Crown Prince’s teeth as he grinned with sheer devilment. ‘We have the advantage of them! If they have to take us alive, they can’t shoot at us. That means they’ll just have to use their bayonets. And a sabre’s always been a match for a bayonet!’ And he stepped forward, slashing at the guards with his huge blade.

  ‘So’s a cricket bat,’ said Blotto, as he too advanced into the horde, swinging the willow doughtily.

  As he rather supected it might, the bat proved a mightier weapon than the sword. Usurping King Vlatislav’s troops were trained to deal with Mitteleuropian sabres, but they had never felt the force of an English leg sweep, pull shot or cover drive.