Blotto, Twinks and Riddle of the Sphinx

by Simon Brett

  ‘I’m afraid loyalty very rarely survives bankruptcy, Your Grace.’

  ‘Bankruptcy?’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

  And with the same relish he had demonstrated at an earlier meeting in the Blue Morning Room, Mr Crouptickle proceeded to itemise the full extent of Tawcester Towers’ debts. Mr Snidely’s inventory had found not a single object of value that was not already mortgaged. The same was true of all the family estates. Most of the staff were on the verge of departure, and no local businesses would extend further credit to anyone with the name of Lyminster.

  When he had finished this litany of disaster, Mr Crouptickle was surprised to see a thin smile creep like a fissure across the rocky promontories of the Dowager Duchess’s face. ‘What you appear not to have realised,’ she said with some complacency, ‘is that all of these debts will be settled as soon as the sarcophagus found in our attics is sold. Mr McGloam, the expert from the British Museum, is arriving tomorrow morning to collect the artefact.’

  ‘Ah, how sad.’ Mr Crouptickle steepled together his long thin hands.

  ‘Sad?’

  ‘That you should believe the sarcophagus is still here on the premises.’

  ‘But of course it is. It was moved down from the attic a couple of nights ago and taken to the garages.’

  ‘Where it was loaded into your son’s Lagonda, in which he, his sister and the chauffeur known as Mr Froggett then set off to return the sarcophagus to Egypt.’

  ‘But they can’t have done that!’ spluttered the Dowager Duchess.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I expressly forbade them to do so.’

  Mr Crouptickle smiled pityingly. ‘You would not be the first parent, Your Grace, who has been disobeyed by their children.’

  ‘But my case is different. I am the Dowager Duchess of Tawcester.’

  The pitying smile transmuted into a less pitying snigger. ‘I fear, Your Grace, that in the current circumstances that counts for nothing.’

  She looked stunned. ‘So if I can’t sell the sarcophagus, what else can I do?’

  Mr Crouptickle had clearly been waiting for this cue. His response was instantaneous. ‘I have had an approach recently from a consortium of businessmen . . .’

  ‘What kind of businessmen?’

  ‘They are involved in the hotel trade, Your Grace.’

  ‘Hotels?’ The way the Dowager Duchess reacted to the word, he might as well have said ‘sewerage’.

  ‘And they would be prepared to offer a very reasonable price for Tawcester Towers, with all its estates and all its debts, thus enabling you and your family to move somewhere smaller, with no worries about the maintenance costs of such a large—’

  ‘Crouptickle!’ the Dowager Duchess thundered. ‘If there is one thing of which I am certain in this life, it is that Tawcester Towers WILL NEVER BECOME AN HOTEL!’

  ‘But, Your Grace—’

  ‘NEVER! How dare you make such a suggestion? How dare anyone in my employ display such impertinence!’

  ‘I dare to do it, Your Grace,’ said Mr Crouptickle unctuously, ‘because I am about to leave your employ.’

  ‘But you can’t do that, Crouptickle. You’re my man of business.’

  ‘No longer, Your Grace. As of this moment I am severing all links with Tawcester Towers.’

  ‘But—’

  He rode over her. There was no longer any ambiguity about the insolence of his manner. ‘And I will await the announcement in my daily newspaper of Your Grace’s bankruptcy – with some pleasure!’

  The door to the Blue Morning Room slammed shut behind Mr Crouptickle, but his effrontery still lingered in the air.

  The Dowager Duchess was in a state of shock. Suddenly she looked as old as her family history. She breathed shallowly and with difficulty as if she had just received a physical blow. And indeed the blows she had experienced were more hurtful than mere bodily buffeting. Tawcester Towers was on the verge of bankruptcy. The sarcophagus whose sale was to restore the Lyminster family fortunes had been stolen away.

  And the perpetrators of that theft were her younger son and her daughter. Who – and this hurt most of all – had set out for Egypt expressly against their mother’s orders.

  A long injured silence obtained in the Blue Morning Room. The Dowager Duchess’s face seemed to be fighting some strange unwonted agitation. Could it be possible that a tear was about to trickle down those craggy features?

  But no. Breeding will out. The blood of Lyminsters who had fought at Crécy was not so easily diluted. With a snort of contempt, the Dowager Duchess of Tawcester picked herself up out of her thronelike chair and went off to murder some more partridge.

  19

  On the Open Road

  The Lagonda’s handling didn’t feel as sharp as it usually did. Hardly surprising, considering the weight of Pharaoh Sinus Nefertop’s sarcophagus. But Blotto, who did most of the driving, was used, from his American experience, to controlling the car with its secret compartment loaded. So they made pretty good time on their travels through Europe.

  One of the many things that annoyed him about ‘abroad’ was the fact that its residents drove on the wrong side of the road. Blotto had encountered a similar illogicality when he’d been in the United States of America. Still, nothing to be done about it. He made a compromise, characteristic of his nationality and breeding, by powering the Lagonda straight down the middle of every road. This did lead to a few bicycles and laden oxcarts being forced into roadside ditches, but Blotto didn’t worry about that. The people on the bicycles and oxcarts (who wore berets or lederhosen, according to which country the Lagonda was driving through) seemed mostly to be of plebeian stock. Besides, they were foreign, so one couldn’t really get too concerned about them.

  The atmosphere inside the Lagonda was decidedly jolly. Twinks sat beside her brother, constantly shouting out ‘Larksissimo!’ as some new splendour of European landscape was revealed, while in the back of the car Corky Froggett mentally catalogued the kind of dirty postcards he planned to acquire when they got to Egypt. He also, as they entered each new country on their route, gleefully related how many of its nationals he had killed during his time in the military.

  Nor did they stint on the way, eating lavish lunches at quaint hostelries and booking in to the best hotels available. Some people of a nit-picking nature might question how, given the parlous state of the Tawcester Towers finances, they could afford these indulgences. The answer was that Twinks always kept a stash of gold sovereigns in her sequinned reticule, ready for just such emergencies. And, anyway, in most parts of Europe everything was a lot cheaper than in England.

  As they had found on a previous European trip to Mitteleuropia, crossing borders between countries offered no problems. There was still an appropriate deference among foreigners to the sight of a British passport. And so complex were the dynastic entanglements amongst the aristocracies of Europe that, in whichever country they entered, the Lyminsters usually had influential relatives in place somewhere.

  So no pleb of a border guard had the temerity to suggest examining the contents of the Lagonda. And the sarcophagus of Pharaoh Sinus Nefertop passed serenely on its course towards its homeland.

  Twinks and her brother had agreed still not to tell Corky Froggett about the Plagues of Egypt, from whose manifestations he had suffered so much. Better that he should not be anxious in anticipation of the next affliction. (Blotto, of all people, knew the truth of the adage that ‘ignorance is bliss’ – he had lived in bliss for most of his life.) But Twinks did keep asking Corky if he’d still got boils. Receiving on each occasion a reassuring ‘Yes, thank you, milady,’ she every now and then looked warily up at the sky, anticipating a sudden attack of hail.

  Needless to say it was Twinks who had decided the route by which they would travel to Egypt. As well as the other invaluable contents of her sequinned reticule, she kept in there a complete set of the latest road maps of Europe and Baedeker guides to the
countries they might travel through. From Calais, where they’d arrived on the ferry from Dover with the Lagonda strapped down on the deck, they had driven through northern France into Germany (where Corky Froggett claimed his highest number of victims). Then into Austria (quite a few) and the Kingdom of Yugoslavia (twelve), on the way to Greece (only two), where they planned to get a ferry from Piraeus to Alexandria.

  It was early evening when they booked into the best hotel in Athens. Eschewing the delights of its restaurant, Twinks (who had of course done her homework with the relevant Baedeker guidebook) suggested they should ‘go native’ and dine in one of the traditional tavernas in the Plaka area of the city. Blotto, who was as hungry as Mephistopheles, thought this was ‘a beezer notion’, but Corky Froggett, pleading tiredness from their long journey, said he’d have an early night.

  Though the evening was temperate and some of the locals were sitting outside, smoking rough cigarettes as they clouded their glasses of ouzo with water, Blotto and Twinks opted to eat inside the taverna for which she had read a recommendation. They were shown to a table with a perfect view of the Acropolis. The moon was nearly full and they could see every detail of the splendid structure.

  To Blotto, however, it didn’t seem that splendid. ‘Do you think we should ask the waiter boddo for another table, Twinks me old boot button?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, we don’t want a view of a building site, do we?’

  ‘That, Blotters, is one of the most famous buildings in the world.’

  ‘Toad-in-the-hole, is it?’

  ‘Have you never heard of the Parthenon?’ The question was out of her lips before she realised the folly of asking it.

  ‘No,’ said Blotto.

  ‘Athens was one of the greatest cities of the ancient world. It was here that Greek civilisation reached its apogee.’

  ‘Did it, by Denzil?’

  The waiter brought a flask of retsina and poured it for them. Blotto took a healthy swallow. As the taste hit him, he said, ‘Great galumphing goatherds, what’s in that?’

  ‘Resin,’ said his sister.

  ‘The boddos out here drink resin?’

  ‘Yes, it’s an acquired taste.’

  ‘And not one that I think I wish to acquire.’

  ‘You’ll come round to it, Blotters. It grows on you.’

  ‘So does athlete’s foot.’

  ‘Try a bit more.’

  Wincing, Blotto drained his glass. ‘What’s the stuff called when it’s got its jim-jams on?’

  ‘Retsina. The name’s supposed to come from the resin with which the ancient Greeks sealed their amphorae.’

  ‘Four-eye? Who’s got four eyes?’

  ‘No, Blotters. An amphora is a distinctively shaped Greek vessel. Made of clay.’

  ‘Well, it can’t have been much good.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Any vessel made of clay’s going to sink, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not that kind of vessel, Blotters, not a boat. It’s a container, usually for wine.’

  ‘Ah.’ Her brother was silent for a moment. ‘And it’s called an “apogee”?’

  ‘No, it’s called an “amphora”. An “apogee” is something else.’

  ‘A boat made of wood, that floats?’ Blotto hazarded hopefully.

  ‘No. An “apogee” is the highest point of something.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘No,’ said Blotto, refilling his glass with retsina and downing it in one. ‘I’ll tell you what seems a bit of a wonky donkey to me . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, the old beaks at Eton who used to teach us classics kept going on about the greatness of Greek civilisation and I must say . . . passing my peepers over this place, you know, here in Athens, well, it doesn’t seem so spoffing great. More of a run-down shanty town, I’d say.’

  ‘Ah, but the high point of Greek civilisation, Blotters . . .’

  ‘When it reached its amphora, you mean?’ asked Blotto, pleased to show off his new word.

  ‘Apogee,’ said Twinks. ‘And that apogee – or high point – occurred more than two thousand years ago.’

  ‘Did it, by Denzil? What went wrong? How did the poor pineapples end up in such a gluepot?’

  Twinks smiled. ‘There are as many theories about that, Blotters, as I’ve got pink camisoles. If you like, I could give you a reading list as long as cricket match of books you could read on the subject.’

  ‘Better not, perhaps, old greengage,’ said Blotto, aware that he still had to get to the end of The Hand of Fu Manchu. And then he was struck by an extremely rare moment of philosophy. ‘It’s a bit of a rum baba, isn’t it,’ he said, his noble brow wrinkling in puzzlement, ‘that these ancient Greek boddos should have cranked up their civilisation until it was in absolutely zing-zing form a couple of thousand years ago and then let the whole flipmadoodle go banana-shaped?’

  ‘If you think that’s a rum baba,’ said Twinks, ‘you wait till you get to Egypt.’

  ‘Not on the same page, Twinks me old sock suspender?’

  ‘The Egyptians have an even longer history as a great civilisation. And yet modern Egypt is pretty much of a stretcher case. Same thing happened with Rome. Once the most powerful empire in the world, then it declined and fell. I don’t suppose you know Gibbon?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Blotto self-righteously.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I saw one in a zoo once.’

  ‘That was . . . oh, never mind.’ Twinks knew there were some conversations just not worth pursuing with her brother. ‘Anyway, Blotters, it seems an inescapable fact of history that all great empires decline and fall.’

  ‘Not all of them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh come on, Twinks, tune up the brainbox.’ It was very unusual for Blotto’s sister to be slower of perception than he was and he couldn’t help himself from slightly glorying in such moments. ‘Think of the map.’

  ‘What map?’

  ‘Why, the map of whole spoffing world. Think how much of it is painted pink.’ Blotto’s noble heart swelled with patriotic pride as he went on, ‘You say all empires decline and fall, Twinks me old tub of shoe polish, but that’s never going to happen to the jolly old British Empire, is it?’

  * * *

  Corky Froggett, when he had said he was going to have an early night, had been guilty of a minor untruth. The reason that he didn’t want to join the young master and the young mistress for dinner was not tiredness, but a desire to explore an unfamiliar city with the satisfaction of another desire in mind. Still feeling slightly cheated of the encounter with his kitchen maid that he had been anticipating before their summary departure from Tawcester Towers, he quickly found an area of the city of Athens where there were plenty of young ladies more than willing to accommodate his requirements.

  In the same area he also found a purveyor of dirty postcards. Disappointed by their lack of photographic sophistication and clarity, he only bought a few. His recollections from comparative assessments amongst his fellow soldiers in the trenches assured him that the quality of the product in Egypt would be superior. He looked forward to sampling them.

  It was as he was returning, in a benign state, towards the hotel that Corky Froggett saw something which rather surprised him. Outside a taverna, sipping ouzo and deep in conversation with a tall man wearing dusty brown clothes and a broad-brimmed leather hat, sat someone he recognised. The man’s skeletal frame and black suit left Corky in no doubt about his identity.

  It was Mr Snidely, Mr Crouptickle’s underling, who only a few days previously had completed his abortive inventory of the contents of Tawcester Towers. Corky Froggett could not for the life of him imagine why the accountant should be in Athens. Or indeed who his companion might be. In his brief awareness of the man’s presence at Tawcester Towers, the chauffeur had not regarded Mr Snidely as the kind of person to boast an international range of cli
ents or acquaintances.

  It was odd, but then in the course of his long and active life Corky had encountered many things that were odd. Confident that in the shadows of the street he had not been spotted by Mr Snidely, he continued on his way. And as he did, he made a decision.

  The young master and the young mistress wouldn’t want to know about the doings of oikish characters like Mr Snidely. Besides, if Corky were to raise the matter, they might ask rather too searching questions about how he happened to be out on the streets of the city when he had told them he was going to have an early night.

  So he kept the sighting of Mr Snidely to himself.

  20

  The Land of the Pharaohs

  The Lagonda was lashed on to the deck of a ferry in Piraeus and transported painlessly to Alexandria. The journey was not, however, so painless for those who had been travelling in it. Athens had been fairly temperate for early November, but the further south they went, the hotter the weather became. And because of the precipitate way in which they had left Tawcester Towers, only Twinks had thought to pack a summer wardrobe.

  So, as they drove from Alexandria to Cairo in the Lagonda with its top down, she sat comfortably in a cotton shift, cooled by the air rushing past. While her brother in his three-piece tweed suit and Corky Froggett in his dark blue chauffeur’s uniform both sweated like pigs. People with a less rigid sense of decorum might have taken their jackets off, but neither Blotto nor Corky would have done that in the presence of a lady.

  And the chauffeur had the additional discomfort of his unseen boils. Twinks, still hoping that her solving the Riddle of the Sphinx might make the Plagues abate, kept verbally checking with Corky that the boils were still in place. And each time she asked, they were.

  ‘I think,’ she announced, ‘as soon as we get to Cairo, we must fit you chaps out with some new togs.’

  ‘Yes, I’d feel a lot more cushly in a blazer and flannels,’ Blotto admitted. ‘And the Old Etonian tie.’