Blotto, Twinks and the Intimate Revue

by Simon Brett

  ‘Right, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘Time we left this fumacious swamphole and rescued our country from the ravages of Socialism!’

  ‘Toad-in-the-hole!’ said her brother, lost in admiration. ‘You really are quite a girl.’

  ‘Don’t talk such toffee,’ said Twinks, as she led them out of the room.

  The three men attached to the radiator were still too dazed to offer anything by way of riposte.

  20

  Saviours of the Aristocracy

  When the escapees emerged, Twinks recognised that the street they were on was near the Church Institute in Fulham, where she had recently expended so much effort rehearsing. But it wasn’t the moment to philosophise about how close she had been all that time to the imprisoned Whiffler. There were more urgent priorities.

  ‘We need to get to Little Tickling zappity-ping,’ Twinks announced. ‘According to his plans, that’s Barmy Evans’s first priority. Once his blunderthugs have captured the Earl of Hartlepool, the order will go out to attack all the other stately homes.’

  ‘Pardon my poke-in, Twinks me old collar stud,’ said Blotto. ‘Shouldn’t we be shifting our shimmies for Tawcester Towers first?’

  ‘No, Blotters. This is a case of FHB.’

  ‘“Family Hold Back”? But why?’

  ‘Because the Earl at Little Tickling is less well protected. Oliver Cromwell emptied the place in short order during the Civil War, whereas he couldn’t shift a single Lyminster from Tawcester Towers. Anyway, you forget who they’ll encounter when they reach the old homestead. Can you really see Barmy Evans’s mercenaries making the Mater budge an inch?’

  ‘Good ticket, Twinks. Little Tickling it is. How’re we going to get there? The Lag’s at the Savvers. Can we get a cab there?’

  ‘Not round here, we can’t,’ said Whiffler. ‘No self-respecting taxi driver would venture out somewhere as squalid and dangerous as Fulham.’

  ‘No,’ Blotto agreed, with a sigh. ‘So, we’re as stumped as a pirate with two wooden legs.’

  ‘Puddledash!’ said Twinks. ‘When we Lyminsters see a problem, we don’t skirt round it – we dig our heels into our charger’s flanks, and we gallop straight through!’ She pointed to a black saloon parked directly outside the house. It had tinted windows and the engine was running. ‘What was that thing Dolly Diller said to you, Blotters . . . about having a “special taxi service”?’

  Twinks stepped forward and tapped on the driver’s window. Though he was initially unwilling to take the fare, having three revolver barrels pointed at the back of his neck brought him round to his passengers’ point of view.

  He agreed to drive them to the Savoy.

  Once there, Blotto tried to locate Corky Froggett, but the hotel staff said they had not seen him, and nor had they received any message as to his whereabouts. The Lagonda was, however, still in the Savoy car park.

  Blotto looked to his sister for advice.

  ‘Don’t don your worry-boots about Corky,’ she said crisply. ‘You and Whiffler get in the Lag, and drive to Little Tickling like there’s a forest fire behind you! Save the Aged P from whatever murdy gluepot Barmy’s army are trying to jam him into!’

  ‘Aren’t you coming with us, Twinks me old carpet underlay?’

  ‘No, I’ll join you there. I’ve got another little problemette to resolve.’

  Blotto did as he was told (which he almost always did when it was his sister issuing the instructions). Grabbing Whiffler by the arm, he rushed down to the garage. Within minutes, the Lagonda was wolfing down the miles on its way to Little Tickling.

  Twinks got a cab to Madame Clothilde of Mayfair. As on her previous visit, the proprietress was not in the salon and had to be summoned from upstairs by one of her elegant acolytes. Again, when she arrived, she displayed a small part of a percentage point less than her customary perfection.

  And, once more, she was followed downstairs by a very sheepish-looking Corky Froggett, buttoning up his uniform.

  ‘Twinks,’ said Clothilde, ‘what is the matter? You look inquiète.’

  It was true. There was an unaccustomed sheen of perspiration on the fine patrician brow. A very fetching sheen, it goes without saying.

  ‘The fact is, we’re neck-deep in a quagmire! The forces of evil are striking at the roots of every family tree in the country!’

  ‘Sacrebleu!’ said Clothilde.

  ‘Where is the young master?’ asked Corky Froggett. ‘I need to be at his side in the Lagonda!’

  ‘Afraid you missed the starting pistol on that one. Blotto’s already on his way, zappity-ping, to Little Tickling.’

  ‘You mean I have let him down?’ asked the chauffeur, pulling his service revolver from a jacket pocket. ‘I cannot live with the shame!’ And he raised the barrel of the gun to his temple.

  ‘Corkee . . . non!’ shrieked Clothilde.

  ‘Don’t be such a pot-brained pineapple,’ said Twinks, firmly removing the revolver from his hand. ‘You’ll be far more use alive than you will coffinated.’

  ‘Anything I can do, milady . . . for you and the young master. And if it happens to involve laying down my life for—’

  ‘Stick a toffee up your trombone, Corky! You need to find a car and drive like a galvanised torpedo!’

  ‘To Little Tickling, milady?’

  ‘No, to Tawcester Towers! The stenchers are planning an attack there too!’

  ‘I’m on my way!’ said Corky Froggett, racing for the door.

  ‘I will see you soon, chéri . . . ?’ asked Madame Clothilde.

  But the chauffeur made no reply. He was not aware, as he left Madame Clothilde of Mayfair, how many plots of novels, plays and operas concern the conflict between love and duty, but that did not prevent him from feeling somewhat lower than an earthworm for the situation into which he had got himself.

  Twinks turned to the couturier and, before the woman had had time to react to her lover’s abrupt departure, said, ‘And now, Clothilde, there is a very special service I require from you.’

  It was more than an hour later that Twinks re-emerged from Madame Clothilde of Mayfair. She took a cab to Warren Street near Euston Square, which was the centre for London’s used-car dealers. She told the least shifty salesman she encountered there that she needed the fastest sports car he had. He instantly offered her an Alvis 12/50 TG beetleback, which she accepted with alacrity. And when she offered money, he refused to take it.

  Twinks did not put up the hood, and the wind screamed around her head as she challenged the Lagonda for the fastest recorded time from London to Little Tickling.

  What she did not know – could not know – was that a black saloon with tinted windows set off from London shortly after her.

  21

  Confrontation at Little Tickling

  For the Earl of Hartlepool, being back in his workshop at Little Tickling engendered a kind of ecstasy. He’d achieved most of what he needed to in the previous few days. His constitutional duty had been performed on the EGGS committee, and having sorted out his wedding plans gave him a great sense of satisfaction. True, he hadn’t returned with his new supply of matchsticks, but he still had enough in reserve to keep going for a few weeks (he always over-catered). Above all, he was no longer in London. He was back where he belonged.

  He had lit the brazier to melt his pot of hoof glue, and started with his scalpel, removing the heads of matchsticks. When a small pile had accumulated, he swept them with his hand to join the thousands of others in the crate beside his table.

  As he worked, the Earl felt the stresses of London slip away from the tense muscles of his bony shoulders. He was where he should be, doing what he should be doing. Soon he would have his tweezers in hand, adding another component to the vaulted roof of his model Winter Ballroom.

  So serene was his mood that he was not a little irritated to hear the discreet cough of the butler at his shoulder.

  ‘What is it, Pentecost,’ the Earl demanded testily. ‘Can’t you see I’m b
usy?’

  ‘I thought it would be appropriate, milord, to mention to you that Little Tickling is under attack.’

  ‘What do you mean – “under attack”? From whom?’

  ‘I had a telephonic communication, milord, from the porter’s lodge at the main entrance, to announce that six armoured police vehicles – commonly known, I believe, as Black Marias – have entered the drive.’

  ‘Well, if they’re the police, where’s the problem? It’s probably the usual thing – one of the under-gardeners being drunk and disorderly in the local pub.’

  ‘No, milord. I have reason to believe that the Black Marias have been stolen from the constabulary by criminals, and they are coming to Little Tickling with malicious intent. Fortunately, milord, because the drive is two miles long, I have had time to arrange for the staff to seal off the original castle unit of the building and raise the drawbridge. I need hardly remind you, milord, that during the Wars of the Roses, Little Tickling survived a siege of two hundred and seventeen days.’

  ‘Yes, Pentecost, but we didn’t come up to the mark during the Civil War. And, if my recollection of family history is correct, the army besieging Little Tickling during the Wars of the Roses used ladders to try to ascend the castle walls, and were only repulsed by having boiling oil poured over them.’

  ‘That is true, milord.’

  ‘Well, do we have any boiling oil? Or, come to that, cold oil that we could boil?’

  ‘No, milord. But we do have a more modern means of repelling invaders, which was not available during the fifteenth century.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Pentecost?’

  ‘I am talking about guns, milord. I have sent staff to the cellar to collect all of the shotguns that have been in storage there since Your Lordship last gave a shooting party, and distributed them among all the staff, even down to the newest housemaid.’

  ‘I can’t allow guns to be used,’ said the Earl. ‘I’m on the committee of EGGS.’

  ‘But I would have thought, milord, in extremis, as we are now—’

  ‘No guns.’

  ‘But if we do not use guns, the criminals will soon gain access.’

  ‘No guns!’ the Earl confirmed in a thunderous voice. ‘And let down the drawbridge. Let us find out what it is they want. It’s probably something completely innocuous.’

  It should be said that, in some areas of life, the Earl of Hartlepool was as trusting as a child.

  ‘I was just thinking,’ said Blotto, as the Lagonda roared on its way, ‘that the last time I pongled along this way, it was to turn out for your team on the Little Tickling cricket pitch. Tickle the old memory buds?’

  ‘Vaguely,’ said Whiffler.

  ‘Which reminds me, actually, me old muffin-toaster, I haven’t yet had an invitation to play for you this year.’

  ‘No,’ Whiffler agreed. ‘The fact is, Blotto . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Since I’ve met Frou-Frou, I’ve rather lost interest in cricket.’

  ‘Toad-in-the-hole!’ Blotto knew his friend was in a bad way, but he hadn’t begun to realise it was that bad.

  The Earl of Hartlepool and his butler stood at the castle end of the lowered drawbridge, as the fleet of six Black Marias came to a halt on the Little Tickling drive. Behind them, inside the castle, stood many very frustrated Little Tickling staff. History, among other things, told them that they could easily see off this invasion, but the Earl had ordered them to lay down their arms. And at Little Tickling, everyone did what the Earl said.

  The leading Black Maria looked different from the other five, chiefly because a large network of aerials was poking out of its roof. It was from this vehicle that a small figure stepped out and walked slowly towards the entrance.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Craig Dewar of Scotland Yard.’

  The Earl looked triumphantly at his butler. ‘See, Pentecost, I told you they’d be legitimate police officers.’

  Twinks had to stop the Alvis 12/50 at an out-of-town garage for petrol. The man who handled the pump and filled her up did not ask her for any payment.

  In the gateway of Little Tickling, the Earl, Pentecost and Detective Inspector Craig Dewar all heard the sound of more approaching vehicles. The Inspector knew what was coming, but the other two looked with puzzlement down the long drive.

  There were six in this convoy, as there had been with the Black Marias, but they were much more battered and dirty and covered in coal dust. In the open backs of the lorries stood dozens of men, equally battered and dirty and covered in coal dust. Waving picks and shovels in the air, they shouted incomprehensible slogans in Welsh.

  ‘Ah. Good,’ said Detective Inspector Craig Dewar. ‘Your new tenants have arrived.’

  A fusillade of gravel erupted, as the Lagonda turned sharply in through the main gates of Little Tickling. ‘Does it set a cockle of your heart simmering to see the old place?’ asked Blotto.

  ‘No,’ said Whiffler. ‘It means nothing to me. I’m still going to renounce the title and marry Frou-Frou!’

  Blotto recognised that further conversation on this matter might be required at some point. He also recognised that this wasn’t the moment.

  Showing the Welsh miners round the interior was not the kind of job that Pentecost favoured, but the men in black all carried revolvers, so he didn’t have much choice in the matter. He winced at the footprints of coal dust on the original Axminster carpets of the main reception rooms, and the mucky fingerprints left on the armorial displays. He couldn’t understand the comments made in Welsh about the house, but he doubted that they were respectful.

  Eventually, all of the men in black and the miners ended up in the former ballroom, which was now the Earl of Hartlepool’s workshop. Detective Inspector Craig Dewar looked contemptuously at the matchstick model.

  ‘I had heard rumours that you were building this,’ he said, ‘but only now do I see that they are actually true. What further proof do we need’ – he addressed the assembled throng of miners – ‘of the truth of Barmy Evans’s arguments. All of you work hard in the pit for a pittance . . . while the aristocracy have nothing better to do than build matchstick models of their own houses! Is that justice?’

  The miners must have been bilingual, because they all shouted, ‘No!’

  ‘But, fortunately, things are about to change. Justice will be done! You will live here in luxury – ’ the miners cheered – ‘while the bloated gluttons of inherited wealth . . .’

  The Earl looked puzzled rather than upset. He had no idea that the Inspector was referring to him.

  ‘. . . will get their just deserts. By this time tomorrow, the Earl of Hartlepool – and all of those like him – will have started working down the mines!’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that.’

  They all looked towards the sound of the voice. With Whiffler Tortington by his side, Blotto had entered the room. And, triumphantly, he was wielding his cricket bat.

  Twinks was relieved to see the Lagonda parked in front of Little Tickling and slid the Alvis 12/50 into place beside it. She was less pleased to see the six Black Marias and the six coal lorries, though she had predicted that they would be there.

  The positive that she noticed, though, was that all of the enemy vehicles were empty. Whatever was happening was happening inside the building.

  Knowing exactly what she was doing, Twinks walked towards the Black Maria that was festooned with aerials, and got into the driver’s seat.

  Meanwhile, in the Earl of Hartlepool’s workshop, Blotto faced about thirty Welsh miners armed with picks and shovels, and about thirty men in black, armed with revolvers. Once again, he was up against the kinds of odds he relished. And this time he had his cricket bat with him.

  ‘Come on, you lumps of toadspawn!’ he cried. ‘In spite of all the fumacious things you’ve been saying, I’ll show that the British aristocracy still have their uses!’

  Two of the men in b
lack crept towards him, revolver barrels homing in on his heart. With one slightly unorthodox sweep to leg, Blotto’s cricket bat sent the guns flying in the air, as the two assailants clutched at their broken wrists.

  ‘Shall we just shoot him, sir?’ another man in black asked the false Inspector Dewar.

  ‘No,’ came the reply. ‘We want him alive. Barmy Evans has a special, personal revenge lined up for those two.’

  The small man moved much more quickly than anyone expected him to and was suddenly holding his revolver at the Earl of Hartlepool’s temple. ‘On the other hand, Barmy doesn’t care what happens to this one.’ He looked directly at Blotto. ‘Put that cricket bat down, or there’ll be an empty seat in the House of Lords!’

  Blotto looked at his old muffin-toaster for guidance. Though perhaps not as close to his father as some sons, Whiffler still didn’t want to see the old man put down like a superannuated carthorse. Reading this in his friend’s expression, Blotto dropped his cricket bat. It was immediately picked up by a man in black.

  The Little Tickling staff looked pleadingly at the butler and then down at their abandoned shotguns, desperate for his permission to let them defend their heritage. But after a quick glance at the Earl, Pentecost shook his head.

  ‘Right,’ said Detective Inspector Craig Dewar, ‘let’s get the prisoners out of the house. We’ve got to pick up a few more useless toffs at a few more stately homes on our way to Wales.’ He turned to the miners. ‘So soon, boys, you’ll have free run of this place! And I happen to have heard that this place has one of the best wine cellars in the country.’

  Again, though they were largely beer drinkers, the miners cheered, waving picks and shovels in the air, and uttering more incomprehensible bits of Welsh. The men in black closed in on Blotto and Whiffler, two to each, immobilising their arms.

  ‘But, first,’ said the Inspector, with sudden malevolence, ‘let’s get rid of this self-indulgence!’ And, lifting a hammer from the workshop table, he brought it down with great force on the model of Little Tickling. Matchsticks flew in every direction.