Galahad at Blandings (27 page)

‘She
does, does she? What did she expect me to be, coming in—’

‘Flouncing
in,’ said Gally.

‘Yes,
flouncing in and telling me I must have the Empress destroyed just because she
bit that beastly little boy——’

‘Who
started it,’ said Gally.

‘Exactly.
He was trying to let the Empress out of her sty, and goodness knows what might
have happened if he had succeeded. The meadow is full of holes and ditches. She
might have broken a leg.’

‘Two
legs,’ said Gally.

‘Yes,
two legs. Apart from the nervous strain. The least thing upsets her and makes
her refuse her food. It might have been days before she would have taken her
proper meals, and if she does not consume daily nourishment amounting to
fifty-seven hundred calories, these to consist of protein four pounds five
ounces, carbohydrates twenty-five pounds—”

For an
instant it might have seemed that the afternoon’s thunderstorm had broken out
again, but it was merely Lady Hermione banging the top of the desk. She had
absent-mindedly, as Gally would have said, possessed herself of a heavy ruler,
and she was using it with a lot of wrist work and follow through.

‘Will
you stop babbling about that insufferable pig of yours! I did not come here to
talk about pigs. You must apologise to Daphne.’

Flame
flashed from Lord Emsworth’s pince-nez. Just so had it done when he was
dismissing George Cyril Wellbeloved from his employment for the second time.

‘I’m
blowed if I apologise!’

‘Well
spoken, Clarence. The right spirit. It is men like you who have made England
what it is.’

It was
not Lady Hermione who said this, it was Gally, and she gave him a look which
would have shrivelled anyone but an ex-member of the old Pelican Club.

‘I don’t
want your opinion, Galahad.’

‘I can
applaud, can’t I?’

‘No.’

‘Well,
I shall. As I did, I remember, when I saw you being spanked by our mutual Nanny
with a hairbrush.’

Lady
Hermione winced, as if the old wound still troubled her. She was silent for a
moment, but it was not in her redoubtable character to let ancient memories
silence her for long. With another look of a kind which no sister should have
directed at a brother she resumed her observations.

‘Daphne
says that unless you apologise she will leave.’

‘She
must suit herself about that.’

‘If
Daphne leaves, I leave. For the last time, will you apologise to her and have
that pig destroyed?’

‘Of
course I won’t.’

‘Then I
shall take the first train to London tomorrow.

‘Voules
can drive you in the car.’

‘I do
not wish to be driven in the car. I shall go by train, and before I go I have
something to say which may interest you. Has Galahad told you of the amusing
practical joke he has been playing on you?’

‘Eh?
What? No.’

‘You
should have, Galahad. It spoils a joke to keep it up too long. This man he has
passed off on you as Augustus Whipple is not Augustus Whipple at all.’

‘What!’

‘He is
some loathsome friend of Galahad’s whom he has sneaked into the castle for some
purpose of his own.’

‘I
can’t believe it!’

‘Perhaps
you will when I tell you that almost immediately after he arrived Beach took a
telephone call from the real Augustus Whipple, speaking from the Athenaeum Club
in London. Goodbye, Clarence. I shall probably not be seeing you in the
morning.’

The
door closed behind her, and Lord Emsworth, after blinking some six times in
rapid succession, said:

‘Galahad—”

‘Clarence,’
said Gally, in his enthusiasm cutting him short, you were superb. A colossal
feat. We tip our hats respectfully to the man who can look Dame Daphne
Winkworth in the eye and make her wilt, but when immediately afterwards he
crushes Hermione and sends her, too, flouncing off, words fail us and we can
only bow before him in silence, recognising him as a hero and a daredevil the
like of whom one seldom sees. And you will reap your reward, Clarence. You have
won for yourself a full, happy life alone with your pig, a life entirely free
from sisters of every description. And you deserve every minute of it. But I
interrupted you. You were going to say something, I think? Was it about that
absurd charge of Hermione’s?’

‘Er —
yes.

‘I
thought so. You are wondering if there was any truth in it. My dear fellow, can
you ask?’

‘But
how very odd that Beach should have spoken on the telephone to someone claiming
to be Augustus Whipple.’

‘Not
really, when you come to think of it. I can explain that. I explained it to
Hermione, but she wouldn’t listen. You know how Visitors’ Day always takes it
out of Beach. Exhausting work showing people about the place. He was half
asleep when he answered the phone. Got the name wrong. That sort of thing’s
always happening. There was a girl I knew in the old days who was madly in love
with a man called Joe Brice. Telephone goes one morning, voice says, “Hullo,
Mabel or Jane or Kate or whatever her name was, this is Joe Brice. Will you
marry me?” Naturally she says he can bet his Old Etonian socks she will and she
asks where they can meet. He mentions a bar in the Haymarket, and she goes
there and a chap called Joe Price, whom she hardly knew, leaps at her and folds
her in a close embrace, and when she hauls off and socks him on the side of the
head with a crocodile bag apparently filled with samples of ore from a copper
mine, he gets as sore as a gumboil and reproaches her bitterly. “You told me
only an hour ago you would marry me,” he says. Took her quite a while to
straighten the thing out, I believe. Oh, hullo, Egbert. You back?’

The
words were addressed to Colonel Egbert Wedge, who had come into the room at
this moment looking travel-stained but less tired than might have been expected
after his long journey from Worcestershire.

‘Just
got here,’ he said. ‘I caught an early train. I stopped off for a quick one at
the Emsworth Arms. Oh, Gally, that letter I was telling you to expect. Did you
get it?’

‘I got
it.’

‘Good,’
said Colonel Wedge, greatly relieved. He might have known, he felt, that he
could rely on Gally. ‘What’s become of Hermione? Beach told me she was here.’

‘She
left a few minutes ago.

‘Then
I’ll catch her in our room. She’s probably gone to dress. Oh, Clarence,’ said
Colonel Wedge, pausing at the door, ‘this’ll interest you. While I was having
my quick one in the Emsworth Arms bar, a fellow came in whose face I thought I
knew, and he turned out to be Whipple, the chap who wrote that book you’re
always reading.’

‘What!’

‘Yes. I
asked him what he was doing in these parts, and he said you had invited him to
the castle but couldn’t have him at the moment as you were in bed with German
measles, so as he wanted badly to have a look at the Empress he had put up at
the Emsworth Arms. There must be some mistake somewhere, because you don’t look
as if you had German measles. You’d better give him a ring and find out what
it’s all about. Well, I think I’ll be going along and having a bath. I’m caked
with dust and cinders.’

Lord
Emsworth spoke in a low, quivering voice.

‘One
moment, Egbert. You say you are personally acquainted with Mr Whipple?’

‘I’ve
met him two or three times at the Athenaeum. Old General Willoughby takes me to
lunch there occasionally.’

‘Thank
you, Egbert.’

A long
silence followed the Colonel’s departure. Lord Emsworth broke it, and there was
infinite reproach in his voice.

‘Well,
really, Galahad!’

It had
often been said at the old Pelican Club that there was no situation, however
sticky, which would not find Galahad Threepwood as calm and cool as a halibut
on a fishmonger’s slab, and he proved now that this was no idle tribute. Where
a lesser man with an elder brother looking at him as Lord Emsworth was looking would
have blushed and twiddled his fingers, he preserved his customary poise and
prepared to tell the tale as he had seldom told it before.

‘I know
just how you’re feeling, Clarence,’ he said. ‘You’re as sore as a sunburned
neck, and I don’t blame you. I blame myself. I ought not to have been guilty of
this innocent deception, but it was a military necessity. This chap — his
name’s Sam Bagshott and he’s the son of the late Boko Bagshott, whom you
probably don’t remember though he was a bosom friend of mine — is in love with
young Sandy Callender and there had been a rift within the lute and it was
essential that he clock in at the castle and heal it. This I am glad to say he
has now done thanks to you extending your hospitality. And I wanted to tap you
for that thousand quid because he needs it in order to marry her. In fact, from
start to finish I acted from the best and soundest motives, but don’t think I
don’t see your point of view. You naturally jib at the idea of parting with a
thousand of the best and brightest — though it would only be a loan and you’d
get it back with interest — to someone you hardly know. And you are perfectly
justified in taking this attitude. Don’t dream of parting. I was wrong to ask
you. Keep the money in the old oak chest. It’s a pity, though, because if you
did feel like paying out, you would be sitting on top of the world. You’ve got
rid of the Winkworth, you’ve got rid of Hermione, and this way you’d be getting
rid of Sandy, too. I beg your pardon, Clarence? You spoke?’

Lord Emsworth
had not spoken. What had proceeded from his lips had been a strangled cry. His
pince-nez were gleaming with a strange light.

‘Galahad!’

‘Hullo?’

‘Do you
mean that if I lend this fellow Boko Bagshott—”

‘Sam
Bagshott. Boko’s the father.’

‘Do you
mean that if I lend this Sam Bagshott a thousand pounds, he will take Miss
Callender away from here?’

‘That’s
right. But, as you say, there’s no earthly reason why you should — except of
course that if you don’t she’ll be here as a fixture. No doubt you say to yourself
that you are quite competent to give her the sack, but are you? I doubt it. She
would cry buckets and your gentle heart would be melted. And as you could
hardly expect a young girl to stay here unchaperoned, that would mean begging
Hermione to return, and one presumes that Hermione would bring the Winkworth
with her and there you would be, back where you started.’

Lord
Emsworth drew a deep breath.

‘I will
give you that cheque, Galahad. I will write it immediately.’

Gally
was astounded.

‘You
will?’

‘Quite.’

‘Capital,
capital, capital,’ said Gally. ‘Thank you, Clarence, he added a few moments
later as he took the oblong strip of paper with its invigorating signature.

He
rose. He glanced at his watch. There would, he was glad to see, be just time
before the dressing-for-dinner gong sounded for a quick visit to Beach’s
pantry. He looked forward to it with bright anticipation. Not only would there
be port there but in all probability an added attraction in the person of
Constable Evans, with whom it was always a privilege and a pleasure to exchange
ideas.

THE END