Heavy Weather (29 page)

He had placed the cheque on the desk before making the discovery of its lack of stationery. He now picked it up and stood looking at it lovingly.

He was well pleased with himself. It was a far, far better thing that he had done than he had ever done, felt Pilbeam. He wondered how many men there were who would have snatched victory out of defeat like that. He reached for his unpleasant moustache and gave it a complacent tug.

And, as he did so, over his shoulder there came groping a hand. The cheque was twitched from his grasp. And, turning, he perceived Monty Bodkin.

'Hell!' cried Pilbeam, aghast.

Monty did not reply. Actions speak louder than words. With a severe look, he tore the cheque in two pieces, then in four, then in eight, then in sixteen, then in thirty-two. Then, finding himself unable to bring the score up to sixty-four, he moved to the fireplace and, still with that austere expression on his face, dropped them in the grate like a shower of confetti.

After that first anguished cry Pilbeam had not spoken. He stood watching the tragedy with a frozen stare. It seemed to him that he had spent most of his later life looking at people tearing up cheques made out to himself. For one brief instant the battling spirit of the Pilbeams urged him to attack this man with tooth and claw, but the impulse faded. The Pilbeams might be brave, but they were not rash. Monty was some eight inches taller than himself, some twenty pounds heavier, and in addition to this had a nasty look in his eye.

He accepted the ruling of Destiny. In silence he watched Monty leave the room. The door closed. Percy Pilbeam was alone with his thoughts.

Monty strolled into the lounge of the Emsworth Arms. It was empty, but presently Lord Tilbury appeared, hatted, booted, and ready
for
the long trail. Monty eyed him sardonically. He proposed very shortly to put a stick of dynamite under this Lord Tilbury.

'Going out?' he said.

'I am taking a walk, yes.'

'God bless you!' said Monty.

He followed Lord Tilbury with his eye. Shortly he was going to follow him in actual fact. But that could wait. He knew that he could give that stout, stumpy man five minutes' start and still be at the tryst before him. And in the meantime there was grim work to be done.

He went to the telephone and rang up Blandings Castle.

‘I
want to speak to Lord Emsworth,' he said, in one of those gruff assumed voices that sound like a bull-frog with catarrh.

'I will put you through to his lordship,' replied the more melodious voice of Beach.

'Do so,' said Monty, sinking an octave. 'The matter is urgent.'

Chapter Sixteen

Lord Emsworth had taken his twisted ankle to the library and was lying with it on one of the leather-covered settees. The doctor had come and gone, leaving instructions for the application of hot fomentations and announcing that the patient was out of danger. And as the pain had now entirely disappeared it might have been supposed that the ninth Earl's mind would have been at rest.

This, however, was far from being the case. Not only was he anxiously awaiting the veterinary surgeon's report on the paper-filled Empress, which was enough to agitate any man ill accustomed to bear up calmly under suspense, but to add to his mental discomfort, his two sisters, the Lady Constance Keeble and the Lady Julia Fish, had gathered about his sick-bed and were driving him half mad with some nonsense about his nephew Ronald's money.

However, for some time he had been adopting the statesmanlike policy of saying 'Eh?' 'Yes?' 'Oh, ah?' and 'God bless my soul' at fairly regular intervals, and this had given him leisure to devote his mind to the things that really mattered.

Paper . . . Ink .. . Wasn't ink a highly corrosive acid or something? And could even the stoutest pig thrive on corrosive acids? Thus Lord Emsworth when his thoughts took a gloomy trend.

But there were optimistic gleams among the grey. He recalled the time when the Empress, mistaking his carelessly dropped cigar for something on the bill of fare, had swallowed it with every indication of enjoyment and had been none the worse next day. Also Pirbright's Sunday hat. There was another case that seemed to make for hopefulness. True, she had consumed only a mouthful or two of that, but to remain in excellent health and spirits after eating even a portion of the sort of hat that Pirbright wore on Sundays argued a constitution well above the average. Reviewing these alimentary feats of the past, Lord Emsworth was able to endure.But he wished that Beach would return and put an end to this awful suspense. The butler had been dispatched with the vet. to the sty to bring back his report, and should have been here long ago. Lord Emsworth found himself yearning for Beach's society as poets of a former age used to yearn for that of gazelles and Arab steeds.

It was at this tense moment in the affairs of the master of Blandings that Monty's telephone call came through.

'Lord Emsworth?' said a deep, odd voice.

'Lord Emsworth speaking.'

'I have reason to believe, Lord Emsworth ...'

'Wait!' cried the ninth Earl. 'Wait a moment. Hold the line.' He turned. 'Well, Beach, well?'

'The veterinary surgeon reports, m'lord, that there is no occasion for alarm.'

'She's all right?'

'Quite, m'lord. No occasion for anxiety whatsoever.'

A deep sigh of relief shook Lord Emsworth.

'Eh?' said the voice at the other end of the wire, not knowing quite what to make of it.

'Oh, excuse me. I was just speaking to my butler about my pig. Extremely sorry to have kept you waiting, but it was most urgent. You were saying - ?'

'I have reason to believe, Lord Emsworth, that an attack is to be made upon your pig tonight.'

Lord Emsworth uttered a sharp, gargling sound.

'What!'

'Yes.'

'You don't mean that?' 'Yes.'

'Oh, do hurry, Clarence,' said Lady Constance, who wished to get on with the business of the evening. 'Who is it? Tell him to ring up later.'

Lord Emsworth waved her down imperiously, and continued to bark into the telephone's mouthpiece like a sea-lion. 'Tonight?' 'Yes.'

'What ti
me tonight?' 'Any time now.'

'What!'

('Oh, Clarence, do stop saying "What" and ring off.') 'Yes, almost immediately.' 'Are you sure?' 'Yes.'

'God bless my soul! What a ghastly thing! Well, I am infinitely obliged to you, my dear fellow... By the way, who are you ?' 'A Well-wisher.' 'What?'

('Oh,
Clar-ence?
)
'A Well-wisher.' 'Fisher?' 'Wisher.'

'Disher ? Beach,' cried Lord Emsworth, as a click from afar told him that the man of mystery had hung up,
'a Mr A. L. Fisher or Disher -I
did not quite catch the name - says that an attack is to be made upon the Empress tonight.'

'Indeed, m'lord?'

'Almost immediately.'

'Indeed, m'lord?'

'Don't keep saying "Indeed, m'lord", as if I were telling you it was a fine day! Can't you realize the frightful - ? And you, Connie,' said Lord Emsworth, who was now in thoroughly berserk mood, turning on his sister like a stringy tiger, 'stop sniffing like that!'

'Really, Clarence!'

'Beach, go and bring Pirbright here.'

'He shall do nothing of the kind,' said Lady Constance sharply.

'The idea of bringing Pirbright into the library!'

It was not often that Beach found himself in agreement with the chatelaine of Blandings, but he could not but support her attitude now. Like all butlers, he held definite views on the sanctity of the home and frowned upon attempts on the part of the outside staff to enter it - especially when, like Pirbright, they smelt so very strongly of pigs. Five minutes of that richly scented man in the library, felt Beach, and you would have to send the place to the cleaner's.

'Perhaps if I were to convey a message to Pirbright from your lordship ?' he suggested tactfully. Lord Emsworth, though dangerously excited, could still listen to the voice of Reason. It was not the thought of the pig-man's aroma that made him change his mind - the library, in his opinion, would have been improved by a whiff of bouquet de Pirbright -but that deep, grave voice had said that the attack was to take place almost immediately, and in that case it would be madness to remove the garrison from its post even for an instant.

'Yes,' he said. 'A very good idea. Much better. Yes, capital. Excellent. Thank you, Beach.'

'Not at all, m'lord.'

'Go at once to Pirbright and tell him what I have told you, and say that he is to remain in hiding near the sty and spring out at the right moment and catch this fellow.'

'Very good, m'lord.'

'He had better strike him over the head with a stout stick.' 'Very good, m'lord.'

'So we shall wind up the evening with a nice murder,' said Lady Julia. 'Eh?'

'Don't pay any attention to me, of course. If you like to incite pig-men to brain people with sticks, it's none of my affair. But I should have thought you were taking a chance.'

Lord Emsworth seemed impressed.

'You think he might injure Parsloe fatally?'

'Parsloe!' Lady Constance's voice caused a statuette of the young David prophesying before Saul to quiver on its base. 'Are you off your head, Clarence?'

'No, I'm not,' replied Lord Emsworth manfully. 'What's the use of pretending that you don't know as well as I do that it's Parsloe who is making this attempt tonight? The way you let that fellow pull the wool over your eyes, Constance, amazes me. What do you think he wheedled you into inviting him to dinner for? So that he could be on the premises and have easy access to the Empress, of course. I'll bet you find he has sneaked off while you were not looking.'

'Clarence!'

'Well, where is he? Produce Parsloe! Show me Parsloe!' 'Sir Gregory left the house a few minutes ago. He wished to take a walk.'

'Take a walk!' This time it was Lord Emsworth's voice that rocked the young David. 'Beach, there isn't a moment to lose! Hurry, man, hurry! Run to Pirbright and say that the blow may fall at any moment.'

'Very good, m'lord. And in the matter of the stick - ?'

'Tell him to use his own judgement.'

Lord Emsworth sank back on his settee. His mental condition resembled that of a warrior who, crippled by wounds, must stay in his tent while the battle is joined without. He snorted restlessly. His place was by Pirbright's side, and he could not get there. He put his foot to the floor and tentatively leaned his weight upon it but a facial contortion and a sharp 'Ouch!' showed that there was no hope. Pirbright, that strong shield of defence, must be left to deal with this matter alone.

'I'm sure everything will be quite all right, Clarence,' said Lady Julia, who believed in the methods of diplomacy, silencing with a little gesture her sister Constance, who did not.

'You really feel that?' said Lord Emsworth eagerly.

'Of course. You can trust Pirbright to see that nothing happens.'

'Yes. A good fellow, Pirbright.'

'I expect that when Sir Gregory sees him,' said Lady Julia, with a steady, quelling glance at her sister, who was once more sniffing in rather a marked manner, 'he will run away.'

'Pirbright will?' said Lord Emsworth, starting.

'No, Sir Gregory will. There is nothing for you to worry about at all. Just lie back and relax.'

'Bless my soul, you're a great comfort, Julia.'

'I try to be,' said Lady Julia virtuously.

'You've made me feel easier in my mind.'

'Splendid,' said Lady Julia, and with another little gesture she indicated to Lady Constance that the subject was now calmed and that she could proceed.

Lady Constance gave her a masonic glance of understanding.

'Julia is quite right,' she said. 'There is no need for you to worry.'

"Well, if you think that, too. . .' said Lord Emsworth, beginning to achieve something like that delightful feeling of
bien-e
tre.

'I do, decidedly. You can dismiss the whole thing from your mind and give me your attention again.'

'My attention? What do you want my attention for?'
'We were speaking,' said Lady Constance, 'of this money of Ronald's and the criminal folly of allowing him to have it in order that he may make a marriage of which Julia and I both disapprove so very strongly.'