Mulliner Nights

by P. G. Wodehouse

  Cyril did. Scarcely had he snatched up the book and placed it in the pocket of his dressing-gown, when his foot became entangled in the trailing cord and the lamp on the table leaped nimbly into the air and, to the accompaniment of a sound not unlike that made by a hundred plates coming apart simultaneously in the hands of a hundred scullery-maids, nose-dived to the floor and became a total loss.

  At the same moment, Lady Bassett, who had been chasing a bat out of the window, stepped in from the balcony and switched on the lights.

  To say that Cyril Mulliner was taken aback would be to understate the facts. Nothing like his recent misadventure had happened to him since his eleventh year, when, going surreptitiously to his mother’s cupboard for jam, he had jerked three shelves down on his head, containing milk, butter, home-made preserves, pickles, cheese, eggs, cakes, and potted-meat. His feelings on the present occasion closely paralleled that boyhood thrill.

  Lady Bassett also appeared somewhat discomposed.

  ‘You!’ she said.

  Cyril nodded, endeavouring the while to smile in a reassuring manner.

  ‘Hullo!’ he said.

  His hostess’s manner was now one of unmistakable displeasure.

  ‘Am I not to have a moment of privacy, Mr Mulliner?’ she asked severely. ‘I am, I trust, a broad-minded woman, but I cannot approve of this idea of communal bedrooms.’

  Cyril made an effort to be conciliatory.

  ‘I do keep coming in, don’t I?’ he said.

  ‘You do,’ agreed Lady Bassett. ‘Sir Mortimer informed me, on learning that I had been given this room, that it was supposed to be haunted. Had I known that it was haunted by you, Mr Mulliner, I should have packed up and gone to the local inn.’

  Cyril bowed his head. The censure, he could not but feel, was deserved.

  ‘I admit,’ he said, ‘that my conduct has been open to criticism. In extenuation, I can but plead my great love. This is no idle social call, Lady Bassett. I looked in because I wished to take up again this matter of my marrying your daughter Amelia. You say I can’t. Why can’t I? Answer me that, Lady Bassett.’

  ‘I have other views for Amelia,’ said Lady Bassett stiffly. ‘When my daughter gets married it will not be to a spineless, invertebrate product of our modern hot-house civilization, but to a strong, upstanding, keen-eyed, two-fisted he-man of the open spaces. I have no wish to hurt your feelings, Mr Mulliner,’ she continued, more kindly, ‘but you must admit that you are, when all is said and done, a pipsqueak.’

  ‘I deny it,’ cried Cyril warmly. ‘I don’t even know what a pipsqueak is.

  A pipsqueak is a main who has never seen the sun rise beyond the reaches of the Lower Zambezi; who would not know what to do if faced by a charging rhinoceros. What, pray, would you do if faced by a charging rhinoceros, Mr Mulliner?’

  ‘I am not likely,’ said Cyril, ‘to move in the same social circles as charging rhinoceri.’

  ‘Or take another simple case, such as happens every day. Suppose you are crossing a rude bridge over a stream in Equatorial Africa. You have been thinking of a hundred trifles and are in a reverie. From this you wake to discover that in the branches overhead a python is extending its fangs towards you. At the same time, you observe that at one end of the bridge is a crouching puma; at the other are two head hunters — call them Pat and Mike — with poisoned blow-pipes to their lips. Below, half hidden in the stream, is an alligator. What would you do in such a case, Mr Mulliner?’

  Cyril weighed the point.

  ‘I should feel embarrassed,’ he had to admit. ‘I shouldn’t know where to look.’

  Lady Bassett laughed an amused, scornful little laugh.

  ‘Precisely. Such a situation would not, however, disturb Lester Maple Durham.’

  ‘Lester Maple Durham!’

  ‘The man who is to marry my daughter Amelia. He asked me for her hand shortly after dinner.’

  Cyril reeled. The blow, falling so suddenly and unexpectedly, had made him feel boneless. And yet, he felt, he might have expected this. These explorers and big-game hunters stick together.

  ‘In a situation such as I have outlined, Lester Maple Durham would simply drop from the bridge, wait till the alligator made its rush, insert a stout stick between its jaws, and then hit it in the eye with a spear, being careful to avoid its lashing tail. He would then drift down-stream and land at some safer spot. That is the type of man I wish for as a son-in-law.’

  Cyril left the room without a word. Not even the fact that he now had ‘Strychnine in the Soup’ in his possession could cheer his mood of unrelieved blackness. Back in his room, he tossed the book moodily onto the bed and began to pace the floor. And he had scarcely completed two laps when the door opened.

  For an instant, when he heard the click of the latch, Cyril supposed that his visitor must be Lady Bassett, who, having put two and two together on discovering her loss, had come to demand her property back. And he cursed the rashness which had led him to fling it so carelessly upon the bed, in full view.

  But it was not Lady Bassett. The intruder was Lester Maple Durham. Clad in a suit of pyjamas which in their general colour scheme reminded Cyril of a boudoir he had recently decorated for a Society poetess, he stood with folded arms, his keen eyes fixed menacingly on the young man.

  ‘Give me those jewels!’ said Lester Maple Durham. Cyril was at a loss.

  ‘Jewels?’

  ‘Jewels!’

  ‘What jewels?’

  Lester Maple Durham tossed his head impatiently.

  ‘I don’t know what jewels. They may be the Wingham Pearls or the Bassett Diamonds or the Simpson Sapphires. I’m not sure which room it was I saw you coming out of.’

  Cyril began to understand.

  ‘Oh, did you see me coming out of a room?’

  ‘I did. I heard a crash and, when I looked out, you were hurrying along the corridor.’

  ‘I can explain everything,’ said Cyril. ‘I had just been having a chat with Lady Bassett on a personal matter. Nothing to do with diamonds.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ said Maple Durham.

  ‘Oh, rather,’ said Cyril. ‘We talked about rhinoceri and pythons and her daughter Amelia and alligators and all that sort of thing, and then I came away.

  Lester Maple Durham seemed only half convinced.

  ‘H’m!’ he said. ‘Well, if anything is missing in the morning, I shall know what to do about it.’ His eye fell on the bed. ‘Hullo!’ he went on, with sudden animation. ‘Slingsby’s latest? Well, well! I’ve been wanting to get hold of this. I hear it’s good. The Leeds Mercury says: “These gripping pages …”.’

  He turned to the door, and with a hideous pang of agony Cyril perceived that it was plainly his intention to take the book with him. It was swinging lightly from a bronzed hand about the size of a medium ham.

  ‘Here!’ he cried, vehemently. ‘Lester Maple Durham turned.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ said Cyril. Just good night.’

  He flung himself face downwards on the bed as the door closed, cursing himself for the craven cowardice which had kept him from snatching the book from the explorer. There had been a moment when he had almost nerved himself to the deed, but it was followed by another moment in which he had caught the other’s eye. And it was as if he had found himself exchanging glances with Lady Bassett’s charging rhinoceros.

  And now, thanks to this pusillanimity, he was once more ‘Strychnine in the Soup’-less.

  How long Cyril lay there, a prey to the gloomiest thoughts, he could not have said. He was aroused from his meditations by the sound of the door opening again.

  Lady Bassett stood before him. It was plain that she was deeply moved. In addition to resembling Wallace Beery and Victor McLaglen, she now had a distinct look of George Bancroft.

  She pointed a quivering finger at Cyril.

  ‘You hound!’ she cried. ‘Give me that book!’

  Cyril maintained his poise with a strong eff
ort.

  ‘What book?’

  ‘The book you sneaked out of my room?’

  ‘Has someone sneaked a book out of your room?’ Cyril struck his forehead. ‘Great heavens!’ he cried.

  ‘Mr Mulliner,’ said Lady Bassett coldly, ‘more book and less gibbering!’

  Cyril raised a hand.

  ‘I know who’s got your book. Lester Maple Durham!’

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’

  ‘He has, I tell you. As I was on ‘my way to your room just now,

  I saw him coming out, carrying something in a furtive manner.

  I remember wondering a bit at the time. He’s in the Clock Room.

  If we pop along there now, we shall just catch him red-handed.’ Lady Bassett reflected.

  ‘It is impossible,’ she said at length. ‘He is incapable of such an act. Lester Maple Durham is a man who once killed a lion with a sardine—opener.’

  ‘The very worst sort,’ said Cyril. Ask anyone.

  And he is engaged to my daughter.’ Lady Bassett paused. ‘Well, he won’t belong, if I find that what you say is true. Come, Mr Mulliner!’

  Together the two passed down the silent passage. At the door of the Clock Room they paused. A light streamed from beneath it. Cyril pointed silently to this sinister evidence of reading in bed, and noted that his companion stiffened and said something to herself in an undertone in what appeared to be some sort of native dialect.

  The next moment she had flung the door open and, with a spring like that of a crouching zebu, had leaped to the bed and wrenched the book from Lester Mapledurham’s hands.

  ‘So!’ said Lady Bassett.’

  ‘So!’ said Cyril, feeling that he could not do better than follow ‘the lead of such a woman.

  ‘Hullo!’ said Lester Maple Durham, surprised. ‘Something the matter?’

  ‘So it was you who stole my book!’

  ‘Your book?’ said Lester Maple Durham. ‘I borrowed this from Mr Mulliner there.’

  A likely story!’ said Cyril. ‘Lady Bassett is aware that I left my copy of “Strychnine in the Soup” in the train.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Lady Bassett. ‘It’s no use talking, young man, I have caught you with the goods. And let me tell ‘you one thing that may be of interest. If you think that, after a dastardly act like this, you are going to marry Amelia, forget it!’

  ‘Wipe it right out of your mind,’ said Cyril.

  ‘But listen—!’

  ‘I will not listen. Come, Mr Mulliner.’

  She left the room, followed by Cyril. For some moments they walked in silence.

  A merciful escape,’ said Cyril.

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘For Amelia. My gosh, think of her tied to a man like that. Must be a relief to you to feel that she’s going to marry a respectable interior decorator.’

  Lady Bassett halted. They were standing outside the Moat Room now. She looked at Cyril, her eyebrows raised.

  ‘Are you under the impression, Mr Mulliner,’ she said, ‘that, on the strength of what has happened, I intend to accept you as a son-in-law?’

  Cyril reeled.

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Certainly not:

  Something inside Cyril seemed to snap. Recklessness descended upon him. He became for a space a thing of courage and fire, like the African leopard in the mating season.

  ‘Oh!’ he said.

  And, deftly whisking ‘Strychnine in the Soup’ from his companion’s hand, he darted into his room, banged the door, and bolted it.

  ‘Mr Mulliner!’

  It was Lady Bassett’s voice, coming pleadingly through the woodwork. It was plain that she was shaken to the core, and Cyril smiled sardonically. He was in a position to dictate terms.

  ‘Give me that book, Mr Mulliner!’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Cyril. ‘I intend to read it myself. I hear good reports of it on every side. The Peebles Intelligencer says:

  “Vigorous and absorbing”.’

  A low wail from the other side of the door answered him.

  ‘Of course,’ said Cyril, suggestively, ‘if it were my future mother-in-law who was speaking, her word would naturally be law.’

  There was a silence outside.

  ‘Very well,’ said Lady Bassett.

  ‘I may marry Amelia?’

  ‘You may.

  Cyril unbolted the door.

  ‘Come — Mother,’ he said, in a soft, kindly voice. ‘We will read it together, down in the library.’

  Lady Bassett was still shaken.

  ‘I hope I have acted for the best,’ she said.

  ‘You have,’ said Cyril.

  ‘You will make Amelia a good husband?’

  ‘Grade A,’ Cyril assured her.

  ‘Well, even if you don’t,’ said Lady Bassett resignedly, ‘I can’t go to bed without that book. I had just got to the bit where Inspector Mould is trapped in the underground den of the Faceless Fiend.’

  Cyril quivered.

  ‘Is there a Faceless Fiend?’ he cried.

  ‘There are two Faceless Fiends,’ said Lady Bassett.

  ‘My gosh!’ said Cyril. ‘Let’s hurry.’

  9 GALA NIGHT

  The bar-parlour of the Angler’s Rest was fuller than usual. Our local race meeting had been held during the afternoon, and this always means a rush of custom. In addition to the habitués, that faithful little band of listeners which sits nightly at the feet of Mr Mulliner, there were present some half a dozen strangers. One of these, a fair-haired young Stout and Mild, wore the unmistakable air of a main who has not been fortunate in his selections. He sat staring before him with dull eyes and a drooping jaw, and nothing that his companions could do seemed able to cheer him up.

  A genial Sherry and Bitters, one of the regular patrons, eyed the sufferer with bluff sympathy.

  ‘What your friend appears to need, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘is a dose of Mulliner’s Buck-U-Uppo.’

  ‘What’s Mulliner’s Buck-U-Uppo?’ asked one of the strangers, a Whisky Sour, interested. ‘Never heard of it myself.’

  Mr Mulliner smiled indulgently.

  ‘He is referring,’ he explained, ‘to a tonic invented by my brother Wilfred, the well-known analytical chemist. It is not often administered to human beings, having been designed primarily to encourage elephants in India to conduct themselves with an easy nonchalance during the tiger-hunts which are so popular in that country. But occasionally human beings do partake of it, with impressive results. I was telling the company here not long ago of the remarkable effect it had on my nephew Augustine, the curate.’

  ‘It bucked him up?’

  ‘It bucked him up very considerably. It acted on his bishop, too, when he tried it, in a similar manner. It is undoubtedly a most efficient tonic, strong and invigorating.’

  ‘How is Augustine, by the way?’ asked the Sherry and Bitters.’

  ‘Extremely well. I received a letter from him only this morning. I am not sure if I told you, but he is a vicar now, at Walsingford-below-Chiveney-on-Thames. A delightful resort, mostly honeysuckle and apple-cheeked villagers.’

  Anything been happening to him lately?’

  ‘It is strange that you should ask that,’ said Mr Mulliner, finishing his hot Scotch and lemon and rapping gently on the table. ‘In this letter to which I allude he has quite an interesting story to relate. It deals with the loves of Ronald Bracy-Gascoigne and Hypatia Wace. Hypatia is a school-friend of my nephew’s wife. She has been staying at the vicarage, nursing her through a sharp attack of mumps. She is also the niece and ward of Augustine’s superior of the Cloth, the Bishop of Stortford.’

  ‘Was that the bishop who took the Buck-U-Uppo?’

  ‘The same,’ said Mr Mulliner. ‘As for Ronald Bracy-Gascoigne, he is a young man of independent means who resides in the neighbourhood. He is, of course, one of the Berkshire Bracy-Gascoignes.’

  ‘Ronald,’ said a Lemonade and Angostura thoughtfully. ‘Now, there�
��s a name I never cared for.’

  ‘In that respect,’ said Mr Mulliner, ‘you differ from Hypatia Wace. She thought it swell. She loved Ronald Bracy-Gascoigne with all the fervour of a young girl’s heart, and they were provisionally engaged to be married. Provisionally, I say, because, before the firing-squad could actually be assembled, it was necessary for the young couple to obtain the consent of the Bishop of Stortford. Mark that, gentlemen. Their engagement was subject to the Bishop of Stortford’s consent. This was the snag that protruded jaggedly from the middle of the primrose path of their happiness, and for quite a while it seemed as if Cupid must inevitably stub his toe on it.’

  I will select as the point at which to begin my tale (said Mr Mulliner), a lovely evening in June, when all Nature seemed to smile and the rays of the setting sun fell like molten gold upon the picturesque garden of the vicarage at Walsingford-below-Chiveney-on-Thames. On a rustic bench beneath a spreading elm, Hypatia Wace and Ronald Bracy-Gascoigne watched the shadows lengthening across the smooth lawn: and to the girl there appeared something symbolical and ominous about this creeping blackness. She shivered. To her, it was as if the sunbathed lawn represented her happiness and the shadows the doom that was creeping upon it.

  ‘Are you doing anything at the moment, Ronnie?’ she asked.

  ‘Eh?’ said Ronald Bracy-Gascoigne. ‘What? Doing anything? Oh, you mean doing anything? No, I’m not doing anything.’

  ‘Then kiss me,’ cried Hypatia.

  ‘Right-ho,’ said the young man. ‘I see what you mean. Rather a scheme. I will.’

  He did so: and for some moments they clung together in a close embrace. Then Ronald, releasing her gently, began to slap himself between the shoulder-blades.

  ‘Beetle or something down my back,’ he explained. ‘Probably fell off the tree.’

  ‘Kiss me again,’ whispered Hypatia.

  ‘In one second, old girl,’ said Ronald. ‘The instant I’ve dealt with this beetle or something. Would you mind just fetching me a whack on about the fourth knob of the spine, reading from the top downwards. I fancy that would make it think a bit.’