Heavy Weather (13 page)

He came droopingly to the paddock where the Empress resided. There was a sort of potting-shed place just inside the gate, and here he halted, using its surface to ignite the match which was to light the cigarette he so sorely needed.

Yes, he felt, as he stood smoking there, if he had any power of reading faces, any skill whatever in interpreting the language of the human eye, his latest employer was on the eve of administering the bum's rush. It seemed to him that even now he could hear his voice, crying' Get out! Get out!'

And then, as the sound persisted, he became aware that it was no dream voice that spoke, but an actual living voice; that it proceeded from the shed against which he was leaning; and that what it was saying was not' Get out!' but' Let me out!'

He was both startled and intrigued. For a moment, his mind toyed with the thought of spectres. Then he reflected, and very reasonably, that a ghost that had only to walk a quarter of a mile to find one of the oldest castles in England at its disposal would scarcely waste its time haunting potting-sheds. There was a small window close to where he stood. Emboldened, he put his face to it.

'Are you there ?' he asked.

It was a fair question, for the interior of the shed was of an Egyptian blackness. Nevertheless, it appeared to annoy the captive. An explosive 'Cor!' came hurtling through the air, and Monty leaped a full two inches. The thing seemed incredible, but if a fellow was to trust the evidence of his senses this unseen acquaintance was none other than-

‘I
say,' he gasped, 'that isn't Lord Tilbury, by any chance, is it ?'

'Who are you?'

'Bodkin speaking. Bodkin, M. Monty Bodkin. You remember old Monty?'

It was plain that Lord Tilbury did, for he spoke with a familiar vigour.

'Then let me out, you miserable imbecile. What are you wasting time for?'

Monty was groping at the door.

'Right-ho,' he said. 'In one mome
nt. There's a sort of wooden
gadget that needs a bit of shifting. All right. Done it. Out you pop. Upsy-daisy!'

And with these words of encouragement he removed the staple, and Lord Tilbury emerged, snorting.

' Yes, but I say - !' pleaded Monty, after a few moments, anxious, like Goethe, for more light. This was one of the weirdest and most mysterious things that he had encountered in his puff, and it was apparently his companion's intention merely to stand and snort about it.

Lord Tilbury found speech.

'It's an outrage!'

'What is?'

' I shall have the fellow severely punished.' 'What fellow?'

‘I
shall see Lord Emsworth about it immediately.' 'About what?'

Briefly and with emotion Lord Tilbury told his tale.

' I kept explaining to the man that if he had any doubts as to my social standing your uncle, Sir Gregory Parsloe, who I believe lives in this neighbourhood, would vouch for me...'

Monty, who had been listening with a growing understanding, checking up each point in the narrative with a sagacious nod, felt compelled at this juncture to interrupt.

'My sainted aunt!' he cried. 'You say you offered the porker a spud? And then this chap grabbed you? And then you told him you were a friend of my Uncle Gregory? and now you're going to the Castle to lodge a complaint with Old Man River ? Don't do
it!' said Monty urgently, 'don't do it. Don't go anywhere near the Castle, or they'll have you in irons before you can say " Eh, what?" You aren't on to the secret history of this place. There are wheels within wheels. Old Emsworth thinks Uncle Gregory is trying to assassinate his pig. You are caught in the act of giving it potatoes and announce that you are a pal of his. Why, dash it, they'll ship you off to Devil's Island without a trial.'

Lord Tilbury stared, thinking once again how much he disliked this young man.

'What are you drivelling about?'

'Not drivelling. It's quite reasonable. Look at it from their point of view. If this pig drops out of the betting, my uncle's entry will win the silver medal at the show in a canter. Can you blame this fellow Pirbright for looking a bit cross-eyed at a chap who comes creeping in and administering surreptitious potatoes and then gives Uncle Gregory as a reference? He probably thought that potato contained some little-known Asiatic poison.' 'I never heard of anything so absurd.'

'Well, that's Life,' argued Monty. 'And, in any case, you can't get away from it that you're trespassing. Isn't there some law about being allowed to shoot trespassers on sight ? Or is it burglars ? No, I'm a liar. It's stray dogs when you catch them worrying sheep. Still, coming back to it, you
are
trespassing.'

'I am doing nothing of the kind. I have been paying a call at the Castle.'

The conversation had reached just the point towards which Monty had been hoping to direct it.

'Why ? Now we're on to the thing that's been baffling me. What were you doing in these parts at all? Why have you come here? Always glad to see you, of course,' said Monty courteously.

Lord Tilbury appeared to resent this courtesy. And, indeed, it had smacked a little of the gracious seigneur making some uncouth intruder free of his estates.

' May I ask what you are doing here yourself?'

'Me?'

'If, as you say, Lord Emsworth is on such bad terms with Sir Gregory
Parsloe
, I should have thought that he would have objected to his nephew walking in his grounds.'

'Ah, but, you see, I'm his secretary.'

'Why should the fact you are
your uncle's secretary - ?'

'Not my uncle's. Old Emsworth's. Pronouns arc the devil, aren't they? You start saying "he" and "his" and are breezing
Gally
along, and you suddenly find you've got everything all mixed up. That's Life, too, if you look at it in the right way. No, I'm not my uncle's secretary. He hasn't got a secretary. I'm old Emsworth's. I secured the post within twenty-four hours of your slinging me out of
Tiny
Tots.
Oh, yes, indeed,' said Monty, with airy nonchalance, 'I very soon managed to get another job. Dear me, yes. A good man isn't long getting snapped up.'

'You are Lord Emsworth's secretary?' Lord Tilbury seemed to have difficulty in assimilating the information. 'You are living at the Castle? You mean that you are actually living - residing at Blandings Castle?'

Monty, thinking swiftly, decided that that airy nonchalance of his had been a mistake. Well meant, but a blunder. The sounder policy here would be manly frankness. He believed in taking at the flood that tide in the affairs of men which, when so taken, leads on to fortune. It was imperative that he secure another situation before Lord Emsworth should apply the boot; and he could scarcely hope to find a more propitious occasion for approaching this particular employer of labour than when he had just released him from a smelly potting-shed.

He replied, accordingly, that for the nonce such was indeed the case.

'But only,' he went on candidly, 'for the nonce. I don't mind telling you that I expect a shake-up shortly. I anticipate that before long I shall find myself once more at liberty. Nothing actually said, mind you, but all the signs pointing that way. So if by any chance you are feeling that we might make a fresh start together - if you are willing to let the dead past bury its dead - if, in a word, you would consider overlooking that little unpleasantness we had and taking me back into the fold, I, on my side, can guarantee quick delivery. I should be able to report for duty almost immediately, with a heart for any fate.'

Upon most men listening to this eloquent appeal there might have crept a certain impatience. Lord Tilbury, however, listened to it as though to some grand sweet song. Like Napoleon, he had had some lucky breaks in his time, but he could not recall one luckier than this - that he should have found in this young man before him a man who at one and the same time was living at Blandings Castle and wanted favours from him. There could have been no more ideal combination.

'So you wish to return to Tilbury House?'

'Definitely.'

'You shall.'

'Good egg!'

'Provided-'

'Oh, golly! Is there a catch ?'

Lord Tilbury had fallen into a frowning silence. Now that the moment had arrived for putting int
o words the lawless scheme that
was in his mind, he found a difficulty in selecting the words into which to put it.

'Provided what?'
said Monty. 'If you mean provided I exert the most watchful vigilance to prevent any more dubious matter creeping into the columns of
Tiny Tots,
have no uneasiness. Since the recent painful episode, I have become a changed man and am now thoroughly attuned to the aims and ideals of
Tiny Tots.
You can restore my hand to the tiller without a qualm.'

' It has nothing to do with
Tiny Tots'
Lord Tilbury paused again. 'There is something I wish you to do for me.'

'A pleasure. Give it a name. Even unto half of my kingdom, I mean to say.'

‘I
..
. That is . . . well, here is the position in a nutshell. Lord Emsworth's brother, Galahad Threepwood, has written his Reminiscences.'

'I know. I'll bet they're good, too. They would sell like hot cakes. Just the sort of book to fill a long-felt want. Grab it, is my advice.'

'That,' said Lord Tilbury, relieved at the swiftness with which the conversation had arrived at the vital issue, 'is precisely what I want to do.'

'Well, I'll tell you the procedure,' said Monty helpfully. 'You get a contract drawn up, and then you charge in on old
Gally
with your cheque-book. . .'

'The contract already exists. Mr Threepwood signed it some time ago, giving the Mammoth all rights to his book. He has now changed his mind and refuses to deliver the manuscript.'

'Good Lord! Why?'

'I do not know why.'

'But the silly ass will be losing a packet.'

'No doubt. His decision not to publish means also the loss of a considerable sum of money to myself. And so, I consider that, the contract having been signed, I am legally entitled to the possess
ion of the manuscript, I - er -I
intend - well, in short, I intend to take possession of it.'

'You don't mean pinch it?'

'That, crudely, is what I mean.'

‘I
say, you do live, don't you? But how?'

'Ah, there I would have to have the assistance of somebody who
was actually in the house.'

A bizarre idea occurred to Monty.

'You aren't suggesting that you want
me
to pinch it?'

'Precisely.'

'Well, lo
rd-love-a-duck!' said Monty. He s
tared in honest amazement.

'It would be the simplest of tasks,' went on Lord Tilbury insinuatingly. 'The manuscript is in the desk of a small room which I imagine is a sort of annexe to the library. The drawer in which it is placed is not, unless I am very much mistaken, locked - and even if locked it can readily be opened. You say you are anxious to return to my employment. So . . . well, think it over, my dear boy.'

Monty was plucking feebly at the lapel of his coat. This was new stuff to him. What with being invited to become a sort of Napoleon of Crime and hearing himself addressed as Lord Tilbury's dear boy, his head was swimming.

Lord Tilbury, a judge of men, was aware that there are minds which adjust themselves less readily than others to new ideas. He was well content to allow an interval of time for this to sink in.

'I can assure you that if you come to me with that manuscript, I shall only be too delighted to restore you to your old position at Tilbury House.'

Monty's aspect became a little less like that of a village idiot who has just been struck by a thunderbolt. A certain animation crept into his eye.

'You will?'

'I will.'

'For a year certain?' 'A
year?'

'It must be for a year, positively guaranteed. You may remember me speaking about those wheels.'

In spite of his anxiety to enrol this young man as his accomplice and set him to work as soon as possible, Lord Tilbury was conscious of a certain hesitation. Most employers of labour would have felt the same in
his position. A year is a long time to have a Monty Bodkin on one's hands, and Lord Tilbury had been consoling himself with the reflection that, once the manuscript was in his possession, he could get rid of him in about a week.