Mulliner Nights

by P. G. Wodehouse

  ‘Er — why?’ asked Cyril.

  ‘He was not behaving like a gentleman,’ said Lady Bassett primly.

  After taking your treatment,’ said Cyril, awed, ‘I’ll bet he could have written a Book of Etiquette.’

  ‘I believe he did,’ said Lady Bassett carelessly. ‘You must come and call on us some afternoon, Mr Mulliner. I am in the telephone book. If you are interested in man-eating pumas, I can show you some nice heads.’

  The curtain rose on act two, and Cyril returned to his thoughts. Love, he felt joyously, had come into his life at last. But then so, he had to admit, had Lady Bassett. There is, he reflected, always something.

  I will pass lightly over the period of Cyril’s wooing. Suffice it to say that his progress was rapid. From the moment he told Amelia that he had once met Dorothy Sayers, he never looked back. And one afternoon, calling and finding that Lady Bassett was away in the country, he took the girl’s hand in his and told his love.

  For a while all was well. Amelia’s reactions proved satisfactory to a degree. She checked up enthusiastically on his proposition. Falling into his arms, she admitted specifically that he was her Dream Man.

  Then came the jarring note.

  ‘But it’s no use,’ she said, her lovely eyes filling with tears. ‘Mother will never give her consent.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Cyril, stunned. ‘What is it she objects to about me?’

  ‘I don’t know. But she generally alludes to you as “that pip-squeak”.’

  ‘Pipsqueak?’ said Cyril. ‘What is a pipsqueak?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure, but it’s something mother doesn’t like very much. It’s a pity she ever found out that you are an interior decorator.’

  ‘An honourable profession,’ said Cyril, a little stiffly.

  ‘I know; but what she admires are men who have to do with the great open spaces.’

  ‘Well, I also design ornamental gardens.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the girl doubtfully, ‘but still—’

  ‘And, dash it,’ said Cyril indignantly, ‘this isn’t the Victorian age. All that business of Mother’s Consent went out twenty years ago.

  ‘Yes, but no one told mother.’

  ‘It’s preposterous!’ cried Cyril. ‘I never heard such rot. Let’s just slip off and get married quietly and send her a picture postcard from Venice or somewhere, with a cross and a “This is our room. Wish you were with us” on it.’

  The girl shuddered.

  ‘She would be with us,’ she said. ‘You don’t know mother. The moment she got that picture postcard, she would come over to wherever we were and put you across her knee and spank you with a hair-brush. I don’t think I could ever feel the same towards you if I saw you lying across mother’s knee, being spanked with a hair-brush. It would spoil the honeymoon.’

  Cyril frowned. But a man who has spent most of his life trying out a series of patent medicines is always an optimist.

  ‘There is only one thing to be done,’ he said. ‘I shall see your mother and try to make her listen to reason. Where is she now?’

  ‘She left this morning for a visit to the Winghams in Sussex.’

  ‘Excellent! I know the Winghams. In fact, I have a standing invitation to go and stay with them whenever I like. I’ll send them a wire and push down this evening. I will oil up to your mother sedulously and try to correct her present unfavourable impression of me. Then, choosing my moment, I will shoot her the news. It may work. It may not work. But at any rate I consider it a fair sporting venture.’

  ‘But you are so diffident, Cyril. So shrinking. So retiring and shy. How can you carry through such a task?’

  ‘Love will nerve me.’

  ‘Enough, do you think? Remember what mother is. Wouldn’t a good, strong drink be more help?’

  Cyril looked doubtful.

  ‘My doctor has always forbidden me alcoholic stimulants. He says they increase the blood pressure.’

  ‘Well, when you meet mother, you will need all the blood pressure you can get. I really do advise you to fuel up a little before you see her.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Cyril, nodding thoughtfully. ‘I think you’re right. It shall be as you say. Good-bye, my angel one.’

  ‘Good-bye, Cyril, darling. You will think of me every minute while you’re gone?’

  ‘Every single minute. Well, practically every single minute. You see, I have just got Horatio Slingsby’s latest book, “Strychnine in the Soup”, and I shall be dipping into that from time to time. But all the rest of the while… Have you read it, by the way?’

  ‘Not yet. I had a copy, but mother took it with her.’

  ‘Ah? Well, if I am to catch a train that will get me to Barkley for dinner, I must be going. Good-bye, sweetheart, and never forget that Gilbert Glendale in “The Missing Toe” won the girl he loved in spite of being up against two mysterious stranglers and the entire Black Moustache gang.

  He kissed her fondly, and went off to pack.

  Barkley Towers, the country seat of Sir Mortimer and Lady Wingham, was two hours from London by rail. Thinking of Amelia and reading the opening chapters of Horatio Slingsby’s powerful story, Cyril found the journey pass rapidly. In fact, so preoccupied was he that it was only as the train started to draw out of Barkley Regis station that he realized where he was. He managed to hurl himself on to the platform just in time.

  As he had taken the five-seven express, stopping only at Gluebury Peveril, he arrived at Barkley Towers at an hour which enabled him not only to be on hand for dinner but also to take part in the life-giving distribution of cocktails which preceded the meal.

  The house-party, he perceived on entering the drawing-room, was a small one. Besides Lady Bassett and himself, the only visitors were a nondescript couple of the name of Simpson, and a tall, bronzed, handsome man with flashing eyes who, his hostess informed him in a whispered aside, was Lester Maple Durham (pronounced Mum), the explorer and big-game hunter.

  Perhaps it was the oppressive sensation of being in the same room with two explorers and big-game hunters that brought home to Cyril the need for following Amelia’s advice as quickly as possible. But probably the mere sight of Lady Bassett alone would have been enough to make him break a lifelong abstinence. To her normal resemblance to Wallace Beery she appeared now to have added a distinct suggestion of Victor McLaglen, and the spectacle was sufficient to send Cyril leaping toward the cocktail tray.

  After three rapid glasses he felt a better and a braver man. And so lavishly did he irrigate the ensuing dinner with hock, sherry, champagne, old brandy and port, that at the conclusion of the meal he was pleased to find that his diffidence had completely vanished. He rose from the table feeling equal to asking a dozen Lady Bassetts for their consent to marry a dozen daughters.

  In fact, as he confided to the butler, prodding him genially in the ribs as the spoke, if Lady Bassett attempted to put on any dog with him, he would know what to do about it. He made no threats, he explained to the butler, he simply stated that he would know what to do about it. The butler said ‘Very good, sir. Thank you, sir,’ and the incident closed.

  It had been Cyril’s intention — feeling, as he did, in this singularly uplifted and dominant frame of mind — to get hold of Amelia’s mother and start oiling up to her immediately after dinner. But, what with falling into a doze in the smoking-room and then getting into an argument on theology with one of the under-footmen whom he met in the hall, he did not reach the drawing-room until nearly half-past ten. And he was annoyed, on walking in with a merry cry of ‘Lady Bassett! Call for Lady Bassett!’ on his lips, to discover that she had retired to her room.

  Had Cyril’s mood been even slightly less elevated, this news might have acted as a check on his enthusiasm. So generous, however, had been Sir Mortimer’s hospitality that he merely nodded eleven times, to indicate comprehension, and then, having ascertained that his quarry was roosting in the Blue Room, sped thither with a brief ‘Tally-ho!’

  Ar
riving at the Blue Room, he banged heartily on the door and breezed in. He found Lady Bassett propped up with pillows. She was smoking a cigar and reading a book. And that book, Cyril saw with intense surprise and resentment, was none other than Horatio Slingsby’s ‘Strychnine in the Soup’.’

  The spectacle brought him to an abrupt halt.

  ‘Well, I’m dashed!’ he cried. ‘Well, I’m blowed! What do you mean by pinching my book?’

  Lady Bassett had lowered her cigar. She now raised her eyebrows.

  ‘What are you doing in my room, Mr Mulliner?’

  ‘It’s a little hard,’ said Cyril, trembling with self-pity. ‘I go to enormous expense to buy detective stories, and no sooner is my back turned than people rush about the place sneaking them.’

  ‘This book belongs to my daughter Amelia.’

  ‘Good old Amelia!’ said Cyril cordially. ‘One of the best.’

  ‘I borrowed it to read in the train. Now will you kindly tell me what you are doing in my room, Mr Mulliner?’

  Cyril smote his forehead.

  ‘Of course. I remember now. It all comes back to me. She told me you had taken it. And, what’s more, I’ve suddenly recollected something which clears you completely. I was hustled and bustled at the end of the-journey. I sprang to my feet, hurled bags on to the platform — in a word, lost my head. And, like a chump, I went and left my copy of “Strychnine in the Soup” in the train. Well, I can only apologize.’

  ‘You can not only apologize. You can also tell me what you are doing in my room?’

  ‘What I am doing in your room?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Cyril, sitting down on the bed. ‘You may well ask.’

  ‘I have asked. Three times.’

  Cyril closed his eyes. For some reason, his mind seemed cloudy and not at its best.

  ‘If you are proposing to go to sleep here, Mr Mulliner,’ said Lady Bassett, ‘tell me, and I shall know what to do about it.’

  The phrase touched a chord in Cyril’s memory. He recollected now his reasons for being where he was. Opening his eyes, he fixed them on her.

  ‘Lady Bassett,’ he said, ‘you are, I believe, an explorer?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘In the course of your explorations, you have wandered through many a jungle in many a distant land?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Tell me, Lady Bassett,’ said Cyril keenly, ‘while making a pest of yourself to the denizens of those jungles, did you notice one thing? I allude to the fact that Love is everywhere — aye, even in the jungle. Love, independent of bounds and frontiers, of nationality and species, works its spell on every living thing. So that, no matter whether an individual be a Congo native, an American song-writer, a jaguar, an armadillo, a bespoke tailor, or a tsetse-tsetse fly, he will infallibly seek his mate. So why shouldn’t an interior decorator and designer of ornamental gardens? I put this to you, Lady Bassett.’

  ‘Mr Mulliner,’ said his room-mate, ‘you are blotto!’

  Cyril waved his hand in a spacious gesture, and fell off the bed.

  ‘Blotto I may be,’ he. said, resuming his seat, ‘but, none the less, argue as you will, you can’t get away from the fact that I love your daughter Amelia.’

  There was a tense pause.

  ‘What did you say?’ cried Lady Bassett.

  ‘When?’ said Cyril absently, for he had fallen into a daydream and, as far as the intervening blankets, would permit, was playing ‘This little pig went to market’ with his companion’s toes.

  ‘Did I hear you say… my daughter Amelia?’

  ‘Grey-eyed girl, medium height, sort of browny-red hair,’ said Cyril, to assist her memory. ‘Dash it, you must know Amelia. She goes everywhere. And let me tell you something, Mrs — I’ve forgotten your name. We’re going to be married, if I can obtain her foul mother’s consent. Speaking as an old friend, what would you say the chances were?’

  ‘Extremely slight.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Seeing that I am Amelia’s mother….’

  Cyril blinked, genuinely surprised.

  ‘Why, so you are! I didn’t recognize you. Have you been there all the time?’

  ‘I have.’

  Suddenly Cyril’s gaze hardened. He drew himself up stiffly.

  ‘What are you doing in my bed?’ he demanded.

  ‘This is not your bed.’

  ‘Then whose is it?’

  ‘Mine.’

  Cyril shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

  ‘Well, it all looks very funny to me,’ he said. ‘I suppose I must believe your story, but, I repeat, I consider the whole thing odd, and I propose to institute very strict enquiries. I may tell you that I happen to know the ringleaders. I wish you a very hearty good night.’

  It was perhaps an hour later that Cyril, who had been walking on the terrace in deep thought, repaired once more to the Blue Room in quest of information. Running over the details of the recent interview in his head, he had suddenly discovered that there was a point which had not been satisfactorily cleared up.

  ‘I say,’ he said.

  Lady Bassett looked up from her book, plainly annoyed.

  ‘Have you no bedroom of your own, Mr Mulliner?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Cyril. ‘They’ve bedded me out in the Moat Room. But there was something I wanted you to tell me.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Did you say I might or mightn’t?’

  ‘Might or mightn’t what?’

  ‘Marry Amelia?’

  ‘No. You may not.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Oh!’ said Cyril. ‘Well, pip-pip once more.

  It was a moody Cyril Mulliner who withdrew to the Moat Room. He now realized the position of affairs. The mother of the girl he loved refused to accept him as an eligible suitor. A dickens of a situation to be in, felt Cyril, sombrely unshoeing himself.

  Then he brightened a little. His life, he reflected, might be wrecked, but he still had two-thirds of ‘Strychnine in the Soup’ to read.

  At the moment when the train reached Barkley Regis station, Cyril had just got to the bit where Detective Inspector Mould looks through the half-open cellar door and, drawing in his breath with a sharp, hissing sound, recoils in horror. It was obviously going to be good. He was just about to proceed to the dressing-table where, he presumed, the footman had placed the book on unpacking his bag, when an icy stream seemed to flow down the centre of his spine and the room and its contents danced before him.

  Once more he had remembered that he had left the volume in the train.

  He uttered an animal cry and tottered to a chair.

  The subject of bereavement is one that has often been treated powerfully by poets, who have run the whole gamut of the emotions while laying bare for us the agony of those who have lost parents, wives, children, gazelles, money, fame, dogs, cats, doves, sweethearts, horses, and even collar-studs. But no poet has yet treated of the most poignant bereavement of all — that of the man half-way through a detective story who finds himself at bedtime without the book.

  Cyril did not care to think of the night that lay before him. Already his brain was lashing itself from side to side like a wounded snake as it sought for some explanation of Inspector Mould’s strange behaviour. Horatio Slingsby was an author who could be relied on to keep faith with his public. He was not the sort of man to fob the reader off in the next chapter with the statement that what had made Inspector Mould look horrified was the fact that he had suddenly remembered that he had forgotten all about the letter his wife had given him to post. If looking through cellar doors disturbed a Slingsby detective, it was because a dismembered corpse lay there, or at least a severed hand.

  A soft moan, as of some thing in torment, escaped Cyril. What to do? What to do? Even a makeshift substitute for ‘Strychnine in the Soup’ was beyond his reach. He knew so well what he would find if he went to the library in search of something to read. Sir Mor
timer Wingham was heavy and country-squire-ish. His wife affected strange religions. Their literature was in keeping with their tastes. In the library there would be books on Ba-ha-ism, volumes in old leather of the Rural Encyclopædia, ‘My Two Years in Sunny Ceylon’, by the Rev. Orlo Waterbury… but of anything that would interest Scotland Yard, of anything with a bit of blood in it and a corpse or two into which a fellow could get his teeth, not a trace.

  What, then, coming right back to it, to do?

  And suddenly, as if in answer to the question, came the solution. Electrified, he saw the way out.

  The hour was now well advanced. By this time Lady Bassett must surely be asleep. ‘Strychnine in the Soup’ would be lying on the table beside her bed. All he had to do was to creep in and grab it.

  The more he considered the idea, the better it looked. It was not as if he did not know the way to Lady Bassett’s room or the topography of it when he got there. It seemed to him as if most of his later life had been spent in Lady Bassett’s room. He could find his way about it with his eyes shut.

  He hesitated no longer. Donning a dressing-gown, he left his room and hurried along the passage.

  Pushing open the door of the Blue Room and closing it softly behind him, Cyril stood for a moment full of all those emotions which come to man revisiting some long-familiar spot. There the dear old room was, just the same as ever. How it all came back to him! The place was in darkness, but that did not deter him. He knew where the bed-table was, and he made for it with stealthy steps.

  In the manner in which Cyril Mulliner advanced towards the bed-table there was much which would have reminded Lady Bassett, had she been an eye-witness, of the furtive prowl of the Lesser Iguanodon tracking its prey. In only one respect did Cyril and this creature of the wild differ in their technique.

  Iguanodons — and this applies not only to the Lesser but to the Larger Iguanodon — seldom, if ever, trip over cords on the floor and bring the lamps to which they are attached crashing to the ground like a ton of bricks.