A Pelican at Blandings (3 page)

'Why not?'

'Dunstable never bought a picture in his life. A comic
seaside postcard would be more his form.'

'Perhaps he mistook it for a comic seaside postcard.
Anyway, he bought it. You can ask Joe.'

'Amazing. Was he tight?'

'Not having been there when the deal went through, I
couldn't tell you. I'll enquire if you like.'

'Don't bother. We'll just take it as read that he must have
been. There's a boom, you say, in this Robichaux chap's work?'

'Price going up all the time, I believe.'

Gally shook his head.

'It still doesn't explain Dunstable's departure from the form
book. With any ordinary man one would assume that he
bought the thing on spec, hoping to sell at a profit, but not
your Uncle Alaric. He wouldn't risk a bob on the deadest of
certs. No, we fall back on our original theory, that he must
have been stewed to the gills. Now who would that be?' said
Gally, as the telephone rang. He went out into the hall, where
the instrument was, and John was at liberty to devote his
thoughts to the girl he loved.

His had been a long and cautious courtship, culminating
with unforeseen suddenness in an abruptly blurted out
proposal in the cab in which he was taking her home from a
cocktail party, and his elation at the happy outcome of that
proposal had been marred by the fact that there had been no
time for anything in the nature of extended conversation. He
was looking forward to going into the matter in what is called
depth at their next meeting.

He was just thinking how infinitely superior Linda Gilpin
was to any of the poor female fishes of whom in the last few
years he had mistakenly supposed himself to be enamoured,
and was thanking his guardian angel for his excellent staffwork
in not allowing him to become really involved with any of
them, when Gally returned.

He seemed amused.

'Odd coincidence,' he said, 'that we should have been
talking about Dunstable. That was my brother Clarence, and
he was talking about him, too. It seems that hell has broken
loose at Blandings. My sister Connie has blown in from
America with a female friend, which alone would have been
enough to shake Clarence to his foundations, and on top of
that Dunstable is arriving with his niece on the early train
tomorrow. No wonder he's feeling like the Lady of Shalott
when the curse had come upon her. Connie and friend would
be bad enough. Add Dunstable and niece and he feels—rightly
—that the mixture is too rich. Niece,' said Gally. 'Would that
be your donah, or has he several?'

His words had stunned John. He knew that the Duke had
only one relative of that description. He said he could not
understand it.

'What puzzles you?'

'Linda didn't say anything about going to Blandings.'

'When would this be?'

'In the taxi, when I asked her to marry me.'

'She probably didn't know about it then. Dunstable must
have sprung it on her when she got home.'

'We were to have had lunch tomorrow.'

'You weren't going to see her earlier than that? A whole
morning wasted?'

'I have to be in court all the morning. Some damned motor
accident case.'

'Oh? Well, I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that lunch is off. And
so am I. A brother's call for help is not a thing to be ignored,'
said Gally. 'I leave for Blandings Castle in the morning.'

To get from London to Market Blandings, which is where
one alights for Blandings Castle, the traveller starts from
Paddington, and at 11.12 on the following morning Gally,
smoking a cigarette on the platform outside his compartment
and waiting for the 11.18 to begin its journey, looked about him
with the approval he always felt for this particular terminus.

He liked its refined calm, so different from the hustle and
bustle of such stations as Liverpool Street and Waterloo. Here
all was cloistral peace. The trains as they got up steam puffed
in a quiet undertone. The porters went about their duties with
the reserve of junior Cabinet ministers. Guards, when
compelled to whistle, whistled softly. And even the occasional
cocker spaniel, on its way back to its Worcestershire or
Shropshire home, postponed its barking to a more suitable
time, knowing instinctively that a raised voice in these
surroundings would be the worst of form.

But all too soon it was borne in upon him that snakes could
sometimes penetrate into this gentlemanly Garden of Eden.
One of them was coming along the platform at this moment,
a large, stout, walrus-moustached man with a brown paper
parcel under his arm. He was brushing aside like flies the little
groups of cultured men accustomed to mingling with basset
hounds and the women in tailored suits who looked like
horses, and at the sight of him Gally dived hastily into his
compartment and tried to lurk behind his morning journal.

It was a wasted effort. Not so easily as this was it possible to
evade Alaric, Duke of Dunstable.

'Thought it was you, Threepwood,' said the Duke, seating
himself. 'Must be two years since we met.'

'Two wonderful years.'

'Eh?'

'I was saying how wonderful it was seeing you again.'

'Ah.'

'Clarence tells me you've had a fire at your place.'

'Yes. Wires fused.'

'So you're coming to Blandings.'

'Never could stand London.'

'Bad fire, was it?'

'Made the place smell. I cleared out.'

'And Connie came to the rescue of the homeless waif.'

'Eh?'

'She invited you to Blandings.'

The Duke snorted a little. It was as though his pride had
been touched.

'Good God, she didn't invite me. I rang up last night and
said I was coming.'

'I see.'

'I was surprised to find she was over here. I was expecting
Emsworth to answer the telephone. What made her leave
America, do you know?'

'I've no idea.'

'Some sudden whim, I suppose. In a week or so she'll get
another and go dashing back. Women are all potty. Never
know their own minds from one day to another. What's taking
you to Blandings?'

'Clarence was anxious for my company.'

'Why?'

'Who can say? Some sudden whim, do you think?'

'Could be. Is he still mooning over that pig of his?'

'He courts its society a good deal, I believe.'

'Much too fat, that pig.'

'Clarence doesn't think so.'

'No, because he's as potty as Connie. Pottier. Fact of the
matter is, the whole world's potty these days. Look at Connie,
going off to live in America with a man with a head like a
Spanish onion. Look at those two nephews of mine, both
married to girls I wouldn't have let them so much as whistle at
if I'd been able to stop them. And look at my niece. Came back
to the hotel last night giggling and humming, and wouldn't
tell me what it was all about. Definitely potty.'

Gally could of course have shed light on the mystery of the
humming niece, but he felt that if she herself had been so
reticent, it was not for him to speak. He allowed the slur of
mental instability to continue to rest upon her.

'Where is this unbalanced niece? Clarence said she would be
coming with you. Not ill, I hope?'

'No, she's all right except for all that humming and giggling.
She's got to appear in court today; she's a witness in some case
that comes on this morning. She'll be coming later. Do you
know anything about pictures?' asked the Duke, wearying of
the subject of nieces and changing it with his customary
abruptness.

'Not much. I heard you had bought one.'

'Who told you that?'

'A usually reliable source.'

'Well, it's quite true. It's what they call a reclining nude.
You know the sort of thing. Girl with no clothes on, lying on
a mossy bank. By some French fellow. I bought it at one of
those art galleries.'

'I suppose they told you it was a monument to man's attainment
of the unattainable and the work of a Master with his
brush dipped in immortality?'

'Eh?'

'Let it go. I was only thinking that that's the way art galleries
generally talk when a mug walks into the shop.'

The Duke's moustache shot up. His manner showed
resentment.

'Think I'm a mug, do you? Well, you're wrong. I knew what
I was doing, all right. Shall I tell you why I bought that
reclining nude? Do you know a chap called Trout? Wilbur J.
Trout?'

'Not had that pleasure. What about him?'

'He's an American. What the Yanks call a playboy. He's in
London, and I ran into him at the club. He has a guest card.
We got into conversation, and he told me he loved his wife.
Blotto, of course.'

'What makes you say that?'

'Well, would a chap tell a chap he loved his wife, if he
wasn't?'

'He might if the other chap had your charm.'

'True. Yes, something in that.'

'Yours is a very winning manner. Invites confidences.'

'I suppose it does. Yes, I see what you mean. Well, anyway,
as I was saying, he told me he loved his wife. She was his third
wife. Or did he say fourth? Never mind, it's immaterial. The
point is that she recently divorced him, but he still loves her. He
said he was carrying the torch for her, which struck me as a
peculiar expression, but that's what he said. He was crying into
his cocktail as he spoke, and that seemed odd, too, because he
was a big, beefy chap who you'd have thought would have been
above that sort of thing. He told me he used to be a great
footballer, played for Harvard or Yale or one of those places.
Ginger-coloured hair, broken nose which I suppose he got at
football unless one of his wives gave it him, inherited millions
from his father, who was a big business man out in California.'

Gally stirred uneasily in his seat. He had always been a
better raconteur than listener, and it seemed to him that his
companion was a long time coming to the point, assuming that
there was a point to which he was coming.

'All this,' he said, 'would be of the greatest help if I were
planning to write a biography of Wilbur Trout or doing The
Trout Story for the films, but how does it link up with
reclining nudes and you as an art collector?'

'I'm coming to that.'

'Good. Come as quick as you can.'

'Where was I?'

'He told you he loved his wife.'

'That's right. And then he said something that held me
spell-bound.'

'Like me. I can hardly wait for the plot to unfold. I'll bet it
turns out that it was the butler who did it.'

'What do you mean, the butler? What butler? I never
mentioned any butler.'

'Don't give it another thought. What did he say that
interested you so much?'

'He said he saw this picture in the window of this picture
gallery, and blowed if it wasn't the living image of his third
wife, the one he was carrying the torch for. And when he told
me he was going to buy it because he had to have it just to
remind him of her, no matter what it cost, I naturally said to
myself "What ho!".'

'Why did you say that to yourself?'

'Because I saw that this was where I could make a bit. Ten
minutes later I was round at the gallery buying the thing,
confident that I would be able to sell it to him for double the
price I'd paid, which, let me tell you, was stiff. It's a crime what
these galleries charge you. Still, I'll get it all back and more.'

'You look on it as an investment?'

'Exactly. The profit should be substantial. So don't let me
hear any more of that talk of mugs walking into shops. Care to
see the ruddy object? I've got it in this parcel. On second
thoughts, no,' said the Duke, changing his mind. 'Too much
trouble untying the string and doing it up again, and I'm
feeling drowsy. Couldn't get a wink of sleep last night,
pondering over that niece of mine. Giggling she was and all
starry-eyed. I didn't like the look of her.'

Train journeys never bored Gally unless they involved
extended conversations with an uncongenial companion, and
he found the time pass very pleasantly with his thoughts.
Nevertheless he was glad when he was able to wake the Duke,
who had fallen into another coma after lunch, and inform him
that in five minutes they would be arriving at Market
Blandings.

The first person he saw on the platform was his brother
Clarence, the second his sister Constance. Her welcoming
smile as the Duke alighted vanished from her face as if wiped
off with a squeegee when she observed what was coming out
of the train behind him. Her attitude towards Gally had always
been austere. No matter how great his popularity in the circles
in which he moved, to her, as to her sisters, he was a blot on
the escutcheon of a proud family and something one preferred
to hush up and try to forget. For years she had been haunted
by the fear that he was going to write his Reminiscences, and
though this threat had blown over, she still had a tendency to
shudder when she saw him. She disliked his presence, his
conversation and his monocle. She sometimes thought that
she could almost have endured him if he had not worn an
eyeglass.

A certain chill, accordingly, marked this little gathering on
the platform of Market Blandings station, and it was a relief to
Lord Emsworth, who was in momentary fear lest his responsibility
for Gally's arrival might be revealed, when the Duke
went off with her to see about his luggage, which on these
visits was always considerable.

'It was very good of you to come so promptly, Galahad,' he
said. 'I was afraid you might have other engagements.'

'My dear Clarence! As if any engagement, however other,
could keep me from answering a cry for succour like yours. You
were very wise to send for me. It must have shaken even a
strong man like you when Connie suddenly popped up out of
a trap like the Demon King in a pantomime.'

'It did indeed.'

'And the shock of hearing that Dunstable was coming must
have been almost worse. Still we ought, standing shoulder to
shoulder, to be able to cope with Dunstable. It only needs a
firm hand. What about this friend of Connie's?'

'Oh, she is charming. I like her very much.'

'Well, that's something.'

'Very sound on pigs. Nothing she actually said, but I could
see that she had the right attitude when I was telling her about
the Empress's feeding schedule.'

'What's her name?'

'I've forgotten.'

'Well, no doubt I shall find out in God's good time. You
said something about some fellow young Freddie had sent to
you with a letter of introduction. What's
his
name?'

'I can't remember.'

'No need for you to join the Foreign Legion, where men go
to forget, Clarence. You can do it comfortably without stirring
a step from Blandings Castle. What's he like? Nice chap?'

'No, I wouldn't say that. He kept trying to sell me oil stock.
Just the American business drive, I suppose, but it was
embarrassing having to keep refusing, so I told Beach I would
have all my meals in the library, and of course avoiding him in
between meals was a simple task.'

'Child's play to one who has spent years avoiding Connie.'

'Beach tells me he left for London yesterday.'

'But he may be coming back.'

'I fear so.'

'In fact, I shouldn't be surprised if this were not he whom I
see approaching us. No, not there; the other direction; slightly
more to your left.'

'Yes, that is Mr. . . . Mr. . . . Mr. . . .'

'Call him X,' said Gally.

Howard Chesney was a slender young man of medium
height, distinctly ornamental in appearance, his flannel suit
well cut, his hat just as good as the one Lady Constance had
admired on the previous evening. The only criticism a purist
could have made of him was that his eyes were a little too wary
and a little too close together.

Knowing at what a disadvantage Lord Emsworth would be
if called upon to introduce him to a man whose name he had
forgotten, Gally took it on himself to start the conversation.

'Good afternoon,' he said. 'I am Lord Emsworth's brother.
Threepwood is the name. I hear you are a friend of my nephew
Freddie. How was he when you left him?'

'Oh, fine.'

'Selling lots of dog biscuits?'

'Oh, sure.'

'Splendid. That's the spirit one likes to see. My brother tells
me that you and he have been whooping it up together these
last days.'

It was not quite how Howard Chesney would have
described his association with Lord Emsworth, but he allowed
the phrase to pass and spoke appreciatively of Blandings Castle
and the many attractions it had to offer. He also had a good
word to say about the beauties of the Shropshire countryside.
He had walked to the station yesterday, he said, and was
preparing now to walk back.

'That,' said Gally approvingly, 'will be satisfactory to all
parties concerned, for with Clarence and me and my sister
Constance and the Duke . . . that is my sister over there and
the substantial object with her is the Duke of Dunstable . . . it
would be something of a squash if we all climbed into the car.
The Duke takes up quite a bit of room, and Clarence has a way
of spreading his legs about like an octopus's tentacles. You'll be
happier singing gypsy songs along the high road. How right
you were, Clarence,' said Gally as Howard moved away, 'not to
invest in oil stock sponsored by our young friend. I don't hold
it against him that his eyes are so close together . . . some of
my best friends are men with eyes close together . . . but if ever
I saw a con man, and in the course of a longish life I've seen
dozens, he's one. Where on earth do you think Freddie dug
him up?'