Uncle Dynamite (31 page)

‘Well,
I don’t. So you had better get back to Mugsy’s and start packing, quick.
Because as soon as I’ve had some more of this excellent beer I’m coming up
there to expose you.’

‘Expose
me?’ Lord Ickenham’s eyebrows rose reproachfully. ‘Your old friend?’

‘Old
friend be damned.’

‘A
fellow you used to throw inked darts at?’

‘Inked
darts have nothing to do with the case. ‘‘And who once lent you two bob?’

‘Curse
the two bob.’

‘You’re
a hard man, Bimbo.’

‘No,
I’m not. I’ve a right to think of my reputation.’

‘I have
already assured you that it is in safe hands.’

‘God
knows what you may not have been up to. If I don’t act like lightning, my name
will be mud. Listen,’ said Major Plank, consulting his watch. ‘I shall start
exposing you at five sharp. That gives you twenty-three minutes. Better look
slippy.’

Lord
Ickenham did not look slippy. He stood regarding the friend of his youth with the
same gentle commiseration which he had displayed when dealing, in somewhat
similar circumstances, with Constable Potter. Essentially kind-hearted, he
disliked being compelled to thwart these eager spirits who spoke so hopefully
of exposing him. But it had to be done, so with a sigh he embarked on the
distasteful task.

‘Dismiss
all ideas of that sort from your mind, Bimbo. It is hopeless for you to dream
of exposing me. Bill Oakshott has told me all about you.’

‘What
do you mean?’

‘You
are a man with an Achilles heel, a man with a fatal chink in your armour. You
suffer from a strongly marked baby phobia. If anyone points a baby at you, Bill
tells me, you run like a rabbit. Well, if you betray my little secret to Mugsy,
you will immediately find yourself plunging into a foaming sea of them. A fete
is taking place here shortly, and among its numerous features is a contest for
bonny babies. And here is the point. In my capacity of Major Brabazon-Plank I
have undertaken to act as judge of it. You begin to see the hideous peril
confronting you? Eliminate me, and you automatically step into my place.’

‘Why?’

‘Because,
my dear fellow, some variety of Brabazon-Plank has got to judge those bonny
babies. This has been officially announced, and the whole village is agog. And
after my departure you will be the only Brabazon-Plank available. And if you
imagine that Mugsy, a determined man, and his wife, a still more determined
woman, will let you sneak away, you are living in a fool’s paradise. You haven’t
a hope, Bimbo. You will be for it.’

His
pitiless clarity had its effect. Major Plank’s tan was so deep that it was
impossible to say whether or not he paled beneath it, but he shuddered
violently and in his eyes was the look that comes into the eyes of men who peer
into frightful abysses.

‘Why
don’t they get the curate to do it?’ he cried, plainly struggling with a strong
sense of grievance. ‘When we had these damned baby competitions at Lower
Shagley, it was always the curate who judged them. It’s what curates are for.’

‘The
curate has got measles.’

‘Silly
ass.’

‘An
unsympathetic thing to say of a man who is lying on a bed of pain with pink
spots all over him, but I can make allowances for your feelings, appreciating
how bitter a moment this must be for you, my poor old Bimbo. I suppose there is
nothing much more sickening than wanting to expose a fellow and not being able
to, and I would love to help you out if I could. But I really don’t know what
to suggest. You might…. No, that’s no good. Or…. No, I doubt if that would
work, either. I’m afraid you will have to give up the idea. The only poor
consolation I can offer you is that it will be all the same in another hundred
years. Well, my dear chap, it’s been delightful running into you again after
all this time, and I wish I could stay and chat, but I fear I must be pushing
along. You know how busy we Brabazon-Planks always are. Look me up some time at
my residence, which is quite near here, and we will have a long talk about the
old school days and
Brazil
and,
of course,’ said Lord Ickenham indulgently, ‘any other subject you may wish to
discuss. If you can raise it by then, bring the two bob with you.’

With
another kindly pat on the shoulder he went out, and Major Plank, breathing
heavily, reached for the tankard and finished its contents.

The plot of Hermione’s
novel was coming out well. As so often happens when an author gets the central
idea for a story and starts to jot it down, all sorts of supplementary ideas had
come trooping along, demanding to be jotted down too. It was not many minutes
before the envelope proved quite inadequate to contain the golden thoughts
which were jostling one another in her brain, and she had just started to use
the back of her motor licence when, looking up, she perceived approaching an
elderly man of distinguished appearance, who raised his hat with an old-world
polish.

‘Good
afternoon,’ he said.

In this
lax age in which we live, it not infrequently happens to girls of challenging
beauty to find themselves approached by hat-raising strangers of the opposite
sex. When Hermione Bostock had this experience, her manner was apt to become a
little brusque, so much so that the party of the second part generally tottered
off feeling as if he had incurred the displeasure of a wild cat. It is a
tribute, therefore, to Lord Ickenham’s essential respectability that he gave
her pause. Her eyebrows quivered slightly, as if about to rise, but she made no
move to shoot the works.

‘Miss
Bostock, I believe? My name is Brabazon-Plank. I am a guest at your father’s
house.’

This,
of course, made it all quite different. One of the gang. Hermione became
cordial.

‘Oh,
how do you do?’

‘How do
you do? Could you spare me a moment?’

‘Why,
of course. How odd that you should have known who I was.’

‘Not at
all. Yours, if I may say so, are features which, once seen, cannot be
forgotten. I have had the privilege of studying a photograph of you.’

‘Oh,
yes, the one in the
Tatler.’

‘Not
the one in the
Tatler.
The one which your cousin, William Oakshott,
carries always next to his heart. I should explain,’ said Lord Ickenham, ‘that
I was the leader of the expedition up the Amazon of which Bill Oakshott was so
prominent a member, and every time he got a touch of fever he would pull your
photograph out and kiss it, murmuring in a faint voice “I love her, I love her,
I love her.” Very touching, I thought it, and so did all the rest of the
personnel of the expedition. It made us feel finer, better men.’

Hermione
was staring. Had she been a less beautiful girl, it might have been said that
she goggled. This revelation of a passion which she had never so much as
suspected had come as a complete surprise. Looking on Bill as a sort of
brother, she had always supposed that he looked on her as a sort of sister. It
was as if she had lived for years beside some gentle English hill and suddenly
discovered one morning that it was a volcano full to the brim of molten lava.

‘And
don’t get the idea,’ proceeded Lord Ickenham, ‘that he spoke thus only when
running a temperature. It was rare for half an hour to pass without him
whipping out your photograph and kissing it. So you see he did not forget you
while he was away, as so many young men are apt, once they are abroad, to
forget the girl to whom they are engaged. His heart was always true. For when
he said “I love her, I love her, I love her,” it seemed to me that there was
only one construction that could be placed on his remarks. He meant that he
loved you. And may I be allowed to say,’ went on Lord Ickenham with a paternal
smile, ‘how delighted I am to meet you at last and to see at a glance that you
are just the girl for him. This engagement makes me very happy.’

‘But —’

‘He
will be getting a prize. And so, my dear, will you. I know few men whom I
respect more than William Oakshott. Of all my circle he is the one I would
choose first to be at my side in the event of unpleasantness with an alligator.
And while it may be argued, and with perfect justice, that the part which
alligators play in the average normal married life is not a large one, it is no
bad thing for a girl to have a husband capable of putting them in their place.
The man who can prop an alligator’s jaws open with a stick and then, avoiding
its lashing tail, dispatch it with a meat axe is a man who can be trusted to
help fire the cook. So no one will rejoice more heartily than I when the bells
ring out in the little village church and you come tripping down the aisle on
Bill Oakshott’s sinewy arm. This will happen very shortly, I suppose, now that
he is back with you once more?’

He
paused, beaming benevolently, and Hermione, who had made several attempts to
speak, at last found herself able to do so.

‘But I
am not engaged to Bill.’

‘Nonsense.
You must be. How about all that “I love her, I love her, I love her” stuff?’

‘I am
engaged to someone else. If you are staying at the house, you will have met
him.’

Lord
Ickenham gasped.

‘Not
the pinhead Twistleton?’

Something
of the chill which hat-raising strangers usually induced crept into Hermione’s
manner.

‘His
name is Reginald Twistleton,’ she said, allowing her eyes to flash for a
moment. ‘I am sorry you consider him a pinhead.’

‘My
dear girl, it isn’t that
I
consider him a pinhead. Everyone considers
him a pinhead. Walk into any gathering where he is a familiar figure and say to
the first man you meet, “Do you know Reginald Twistleton?” and his reply, will
be, “Oh, you mean the pinhead?” Good heavens, child, you mustn’t dream of
marrying Reginald Twistleton. Even had you not a Bill Oakshott on your waiting
list, it would be madness. How could you be happy with a man who is always
getting arrested at Dog Races?’

‘What!’

‘Incessantly,
you might say.
And
giving a false name and address.’

‘You’re
talking nonsense.’

‘My
dear, these are well-documented facts. If you don’t believe me, creep up behind
this young Twistleton and shout “Yoo-hoo, Edwin Smith, 11,
Nasturtium Road, East
Dulwich!” in his ear
and watch him jump. Well, I don’t know what you think, but to my mind there is
something not very nice in going to Dog Races at all, for the people you meet
there must be very mixed. But if a young man does go to Dog Races, I maintain
that the least he can do is to keep from behaving in so disorderly a manner
that he gets scooped in by the constabulary. And if you are going to try to
excuse this Twistleton on the ground that he was intoxicated at the time, I
can only say that I am unable to share your broad-minded outlook. No doubt he
was intoxicated, but I can’t see that that makes it any better. You knew, by
the way, I suppose, that he is a dipsomaniac?’

‘A
what?’

‘So
your father tells me.’

‘But
Reginald is a teetotaller.’

‘While
your eye is on him, perhaps. But only then. At other times he shifts the stuff
like a vacuum cleaner. You should have been here last night. He stole down when
everyone was in bed and threw a regular orgy.’

Hermione
had been intending to put an end to this conversation by throwing in her clutch
and driving off with a stiff word of farewell, but now she saw that she would
have to start later. A girl who has been looking on the man of her choice as a
pure white soul and suddenly discovers that he is about as pure and white as a
stevedore’s undervest does not say ‘Oh, yes? Well, I must be off.’ She sits
rigid. She gasps. She waits for more.

‘Tell
me everything,’ she said.

As Lord
Ickenham proceeded to do so, the grim expression on Hermione Bostock’s lovely
face became intensified. If there is one thing a girl of ideals dislikes, it is
to learn that she has been nursing a viper in her bosom, and that Reginald Twistleton
was a Grade A viper, with all the run-of-the-mill viper’s lack of frankness and
square shooting, seemed more manifest with every word that was spoken.

‘Oh!’
she said.

‘
Well!’
she said.

‘Go
on,’ she said.

The
story wore to its conclusion. Lord Ickenham ceased to speak, and Hermione sat
gazing before her with eyes of stone. She was doing something odd with her
teeth which may have been that ‘grinding’ we read about.

‘Of
course,’ said Lord Ickenham, ever charitable, ‘he may simply be off his head. I
don’t know if you know anything of his family history, but he tells me he is
the nephew of Lord Ickenham; a fact, surely, that makes one purse the lips
dubiously. Do you know Lord Ickenham?’

‘Only
by reputation.’

‘And
what a reputation! There is a strong body of opinion which holds that he ought
to have been certified years ago. I understand he is always getting flattering
offers from Colney Hatch and similar establishments. And insanity so often runs
in families. When I first met this young man Twistleton, I received a distinct
impression that he was within a short jump of the loony bin, and that curious
incident this morning, of which Bill Oakshott was telling me, has strengthened
this view.’