Uncle Fred in the Springtime (14 page)

‘Could
we get hold of him before he spills the beans, and explain things to him and
ask him to sit in?’

Lord
Ickenham shook his head.

‘I
think not. Horace is a nice boy, but he would be a total loss as a conspirator.’

‘Then
what are we going to do?’

‘Keep
cool.’

‘A fat
lot of help keeping cool will be.’

‘This
is the pessimist in you speaking again. What I was about to say was that we
must keep cool and level heads and deny our identity.’

‘And
you think he will swallow that? Ha!’

‘I wish
you wouldn’t say “Ha!” Why shouldn’t he swallow it? Who can say what limits, if
any, there are to what Horace Davenport will swallow? With an uncle like his,
if he is anything of a student of heredity, he must frequently have speculated
on the possibility of his little grey cells suddenly turning blue on him. I
imagine that he will think that it is this disaster that has happened. Still, I
feel that we would do well to separate, so that we steal upon him little by
little, as it were, instead of confronting him in a solid bunch. If the
distance is not too great, I shall walk to the castle, allowing you and Polly
to go on ahead in the car and pave the way.’

‘Or we
might all walk back to London.’

‘My
dear boy, do try to rid yourself of this horrible defeatist attitude. You have
seen for yourself how stout denial of identity affected our friend Bosham. All
you have to do, when you meet Horace, is to give him a cold stare and say that
your name is Basil. That in itself should carry conviction, for who would say
his name was Basil if he did not know that it could be proved against him? As
for Polly, I have no misgivings. She will hold her end up. She is Mustard’s
daughter and must have been taught to tell the tale as soon as her infant lips
could lisp. And if you don’t think it’s difficult to say “lips could lisp”, try
it yourself. You might step over and explain the situation to her. And now,’
said Lord Ickenham, with relish, ‘we come to another small difficulty.’

A sound
like the dying gurgle of a siphon of soda water proceeded from Pongo.

‘Oh,
golly! Don’t tell me there’s something else?’

A happy
smile was playing over Lord Ickenham’s handsome face.

‘Things
are certainly being made somewhat intricate for us on this little expedition of
ours,’ he said contentedly. ‘I had anticipated strolling in over the red carpet
and being accepted without demur at my face value, but apparently this is not
to be.’

‘What
the dickens has happened?’

‘It is
not so much what has happened as what is going to happen. If you glance along
the platform, you will note that Bosham is returning, accompanied not only by a
porter in a uniform much too tight for him but by our dark friend in the
spectacles. Does it not occur to you that when Bosham introduces me to him, he
may feel that Sir Roderick Glossop has changed a bit since he saw him last?’

‘Oh, my
aunt!’

‘Yes,
stimulating, isn’t it?’

‘Perhaps
Glossop didn’t tell him he was Glossop.’

‘If you
suppose that Glossop could be alone with anyone for two minutes without telling
him he was Glossop, you are a very indifferent reader of character.’

‘We
must clear out of here at once!’

Lord
Ickenham was shocked.

‘Clear
out? That is no way for a member of a proud family to talk. Did Twistletons
clear out at Agincourt and Crecy? At Malplaquet and Blenheim? When the Old
Guard made their last desperate charge up the blood-soaked slopes of Waterloo,
do you suppose that Wellington, glancing over his shoulder, saw a Twistleton
sneaking off with ill-assumed carelessness in the direction of Brussels? We
Twistletons do not clear out, my boy. We stick around, generally long after we
have outstayed our welcome. I feel sure that I shall be able to find some way
of dealing with the matter. All it needs is a little thought, and my brain is
at its brightest this evening. Run along and explain things to Polly, and I
will have everything comfortably adjusted by the time you return…. Ah,
Bosham, my dear fellow, I see that you have collected our impedimenta. Very
good of you to have bothered.’

‘Eh? Oh
no, not a bit.’

‘Tell
me, Bosham, is it far to the castle?’

‘About
a couple of miles.’

‘Then I
think, if you don’t mind, that I will walk. It would be pleasant to stretch my
legs.’

Lord
Bosham seemed relieved.

‘Well,
that’s fine, if you’d like to. Might have been a bit of a squash in the car. I
didn’t know Baxter was turning up. This is Mr Baxter the Duke’s secretary — Sir
Roderick Glossop.’

‘How do
you do? I am very glad you did turn up, Mr Baxter,’ said Lord Ickenham, beaming
upon the dark young man, who was eyeing him with silent intentness. ‘It gives
me the opportunity of discussing that poor fellow on the train. I saw him go
into your compartment, but I hesitated to intrude upon you and ask you what you
made of him. One of my patients,’ explained Lord Ickenham. ‘He suffers from
delusions — or did. I am hopeful that my treatment may have been effective.
Certainly he seemed normal enough while he was talking to me. But in these
cases a relapse often comes like a flash, and I know the presence of strangers
excites him. Did he by any chance tell you he was Mussolini?’

‘He did
not.’

‘Or
Shirley Temple?’

‘He
told me that he was Sir Roderick Glossop.’

‘Then I
am in distinguished company. Not that it is anything to joke about, of course.
The whole thing is terribly sad and disheartening. Evidently all my work has
gone for nothing. It almost makes one lose confidence in oneself.’

‘I
should not have thought that you were a man who easily lost his
self-confidence.’

‘Kind
of you to say so, my dear fellow. No, as a rule, I do not. But absolute failure
like this…. Ah, well, one must keep one’s flag flying, must one not? You
humoured him, I hope? It is always the best and safest plan. Well, here are my
daughter and my nephew Basil, who acts as my secretary. This is Lord Bosham, my
dear, Lord Emsworth’s son. And Mr Baxter. I was telling them that I thought I
would walk to the castle. I am feeling a little cramped after the journey. We
shall meet at Philippi.’

10

To reach Blandings Castle
from Market Blandings, you leave the latter, if you can bear to tear yourself
away from one of the most picturesque little towns in England, by way of the
High Street. This, ending in a flurry of old-world cottages, takes you to a
broad highway, running between leafy hedges that border pasture land and barley
fields, and you come eventually to the great stone gates by the main lodge and
through these to a drive which winds uphill for some three quarters of a mile.
A testing bit, this last, for the indifferent pedestrian. Beach, the butler,
who sometimes walked to Market Blandings and back to discipline his figure,
always felt a sinking feeling as he approached it.

Lord
Ickenham took it in his stride. The recent happenings on the station platform
had left him pleasantly exhilarated, and he was all eagerness to get to his
destination and see what further entertainment awaited him in the shape of
obstacles and problems. Breasting the slope with a song on his lips, he had
reached the last of the bends in the drive and was pausing to admire the grey
bulk of the castle as it stood out against the saffron sky, when he observed
coming towards him a man of his own age but much fatter and not half so
beautiful.

‘Hoy!’
cried this person.

‘Hoy!’
responded Lord Ickenham civilly.

The
fact that he had heard Horace Davenport speak of his uncle Alaric as a
bald-headed old coot with a walrus moustache had enabled him to identify the
newcomer without difficulty. Few coots could have had less hair than this man,
and any walrus would have been proud to possess the moustache at which he was
puffing.

‘You
the brain chap?’

Rightly
concluding that this was a crisper and neater way of saying “psychiatrist”,
Lord Ickenham replied that he was.

‘The
others are in the hall, having drinks and things. When I heard you were walking
up, I thought I’d come along and meet you. Dunstable’s my name. The Duke of
Dunstable.’

They
fell into step together. The Duke produced a bandanna handkerchief and mopped
his forehead with it. The evening was warm, and he was not in the best of
condition.

‘I
wanted a quiet talk —’ he began.

‘Speaking
of Dukes,’ said Lord Ickenham, ‘did you ever hear the one about the Duke and
the lady snake-charmer?’

It was
a jocund little tale, slightly blue in spots, and he told it well. But though
his companion was plainly amused, his chief emotion appeared to be perplexity.

‘Are
you really Sir Roderick Glossop?’

‘Why do
you ask?’

‘Man at
the club told me he was a pompous old ass. But you’re not a pompous old ass.’

‘Your
friend probably met me in my professional capacity. You know how it is. One puts
on a bit of dog in office hours, to impress the customers. I dare say you have
done the same thing yourself in the House of Lords.’

‘That’s
true.’

‘But
you were saying something about wanting a quiet talk.’

‘Exactly.
Before Connie could get hold of you and stuff you up with a lot of nonsense.
Emsworth’s sister, Lady Constance Keeble. She’s like all women — won’t face
facts. The first thing she’s going to do when she meets you is to try to pull
the wool over your eyes and persuade you that he’s as sane as I am. Quite
understandable, no doubt. Her brother, and all that.’

‘You
are speaking of Lord Emsworth?’

‘Yes.
What did you make of him?’

‘He
seemed clean and sober.’

Again
the Duke appeared a little puzzled.

‘Why
shouldn’t he be sober?’

‘Don’t
think I am complaining,’ Lord Ickenham hastened to assure him. ‘I was pleased.’

‘Oh?
Well, as I was saying, Connie will try to make you think that the whole thing
has been much exaggerated and that he’s simply dreamy and absent-minded. Don’t
let her fool you. The man’s potty.’

‘Indeed?’

‘No
question about it. The whole family’s potty. You saw Bosham at the station.
There’s a loony for you. Goes up to London and lets a chap play the confidence
trick on him. “Give me your wallet to show you trust me,” says the chap. “Right
ho,” says Bosham. Just like that. Ever meet the other boy — Freddie Threepwood?
Worse than Bosham. Sells dog biscuits. So you can get a rough idea what
Emsworth must be like. Man can’t have two sons like that and be sane himself, I
mean to say. You’ve got to start with the idea well in your head, or you’ll
never get anywhere. Shall I tell you about Emsworth?’

‘Do.’

‘Here
are the facts. He’s got a pig, and he’s crazy about it.’

‘The
good man loves his pig.’

‘Yes,
but he doesn’t want to run it in the Derby.’

‘Does
Emsworth?’

‘Told
me so himself.’

Lord
Ickenham looked dubious.

‘I
doubt if the Stewards would accept a pig. You might starch its ears and enter
it as a greyhound for the Waterloo Cup, but not the Derby.’

‘Exactly.
Well, that shows you.’

‘It
does, indeed.’

The
Duke puffed at his moustache approvingly, so that it flew before him like a
banner. It pleased him to find this expert in such complete agreement with his
views. The man, he could see, knew his business, and he decided to abandon
reserve and lay bare the skeleton in his own cupboard. He had not intended to
draw attention to the dark shadow which had fallen on the house of Dunstable,
but he saw now that it would be best to tell all. In the hall which he had just
left, strange and disconcerting things had been happening, and he wanted a
skilled opinion on them.

‘A nice
little place Emsworth has here,’ said Lord Ickenham, as they reached the broad
gravel sweep that flanked the terrace.

‘Not so
bad. Makes it all the sadder that he’ll probably end his days in Colney Hatch.
Unless you can cure him.’

‘I
seldom fail.’

‘Then I
wish,’ said the Duke, coming out with it, ‘that while you’re here you would
take a look at my nephew Horace.’

‘Is he
giving you cause for anxiety?’

‘Acute
anxiety.’

The
Duke, about to unveil the Dunstable skeleton, checked himself abruptly and blew
furiously at his moustache. From some spot hidden from them by thick shrubberies
there had come the sound of a pleasant tenor voice. It was rendering the ‘Bonny
Bonny Banks of Loch Lomond’, and putting a good deal of feeling into it.

‘Gah!
That whistling feller again!’