Uncle Dynamite (9 page)

‘Most.
But characteristic of Otis.’

‘Poor
lamb, he’s dreamy.’

‘Poor
fish, he’s a nightmare. I suppose you put up money for his publishing firm?’

‘A
certain amount.’

‘Oh,
heavens. Well, I’m sorry to say it, my dear, but if what you tell me is
correct, any jury will give Bostock Otis’s head on a charger.’

‘I
know. If the thing ever comes into court. That’s why I need Pongo’s help. I
want him to use his influence with Sir Aylmer to get him to withdraw the suit.
He might persuade him to settle for some smallish amount which wouldn’t ruin
Otis.’

‘That
would be the happy ending, of course. But is Pongo
persona grata
with
him?’

‘Surely?’

‘I
wonder. It all depends on how he has come out with that bust. Strange that
Otis’s future as a publisher, which I don’t care a damn about, and your little
bit of money, which I do, should depend on Pongo’s ability to sneak a clay bust
into Ashenden Manor and get away with it. Odd. Bizarre, you might say. Life can
be very complicated at times.’

‘What
do you mean? What bust?’

‘That
is the story I am about to relate. Have you had enough to eat? Then let’s go
and have our coffee in the lounge. Yes,’ said Lord Ickenham, when they had
seated themselves in two of the luxurious armchairs which Barribault’s Hotel
provides for its patrons, ‘very complicated indeed. I told you Pongo came to my
place last night.’

‘Yes.’

‘Today,
after lunch, he started out for Ashenden, to fascinate the old folks. I waved him
a tender farewell, and thought that that was the last I should see of him for
at least a week. I was wrong. He was back again in under two hours. Deeply
agitated. More like a cat on hot bricks than anything human.’

‘But
why?’

‘Because,
in endeavouring to demonstrate to the Ashenden Manor housemaid how Brazilian
natives shoot birds with rude slings, he had happened to break that bust in the
hall, of which you were speaking just now.’

‘Oh,
golly.’

‘Hullo!
You agitated, too?’

‘Of
course I’m agitated. Don’t you see, Uncle Fred? Sir Aylmer adores that bust.
He’ll be furious with Pongo —‘

‘Thus
rendering Pongo in no position to plead for Otis? Yes, that seems to follow.
But calm yourself. All may yet be well. His motive in coming to me was to
borrow another bust to put on the bereaved pedestal, in the hope that the
substitution would not be noticed.’

‘That was
bright.’

‘Yes,
much too bright for Pongo. It must have been the housemaid who suggested it. He
isn’t what I would call a quick-witted chap. I remember so well his confusion
of mind when they were asking him his name that day at the Dog Races. He had
got as far as “Tw —“ when I was fortunately able to lean across and whisper to
him that he was Edwin Smith of
11 Nasturtium Road, East
Dulwich.’

‘And
what were you?’

‘George
Robinson, of number fourteen in the same thoroughfare. Yes, I think we may
safely attribute to the housemaid any swift intelligence that was displayed on
this occasion. Well, I gave him a bust and he drove off with it. We have no
means of knowing as yet, of course, if the simple ruse has proved effective,
but I think we may feel reasonably optimistic. He tells me it is darkish in the
corner of the hall where the original used to stand, and I don’t suppose Mugsy
is in the habit of scrutinizing it too carefully. Just a casual glance in
passing, and he toddles off to the garden to enjoy the sunshine.’

‘Why do
you call him Mugsy?’

‘We
always used to at school.’

‘Were
you and Sir Aylmer at school together?’

‘For
years.’

‘Then
couldn’t you plead with him?’

‘No, I
could not. I was telling his nephew, whom I met in the train yesterday, that I
once gave young Mugsy Bostock six with a fives bat, and no doubt the incident
still rankles. Pongo is the one who must plead.’

‘If
everything has gone well.’

‘I feel
convinced that it has. He says Mugsy is short-sighted and won’t wear
spectacles, and he described the housemaid as staunch and true and not at all
the sort to squeal to the big four.’

‘You’re
a great comfort, Uncle Fred.’

‘I try
to be, my dear. Sweetness and light, that is my slogan.’

‘It was
lucky you happened to have a bust handy.’

‘Extraordinarily
fortunate. For one reason and another Ickenham Hall has never been very well
provided with them. Statues, yes. If you came to me with a hurry call for a
nude Venus, I could fill the order without any trouble whatsoever. My
grandfather specialized in them. “Home isn’t home,” he used to say, running a
thoughtful hand through his whiskers, “without plenty of nude Venuses.” The
result being that in certain parts of the grounds you have the illusion of
having wandered into a Turkish bath on ladies’ night. But busts, no. We
Ickenhams have somehow never gone in for busts. So if it hadn’t been for you
providentially leaving one in my care —It is not easy to rise in a single bound
from a Barribault armchair, but Sally had done so. Her face was pale, and she
was staring with wide, horrified eyes.

‘Uncle
Fred! You didn’t give him that one?’

‘Yes.
Why, what’s wrong?’

Sally
dropped back into her chair.

‘It had
Alice
’s jewels in it,’ she said
in a toneless whisper.

‘What!’

‘Yes. I
slipped them in at the top of the plaster, and
Alice
was going to call for the bust next week and take it to
America
. That was the “way” I was telling
you I thought of.’

‘Well,
dash my wig and buttons!’ said Lord Ickenham.

There
followed a pregnant silence. Having dashed his wig and buttons, Lord Ickenham,
though nobody could have called him an unresourceful man, seemed at a loss. He
scratched his chin, he twirled his moustache, he drummed with his fingers on
the side of his chair, but without obtaining anything in the nature of an
inspiration.

Finally
he rose.

‘Well,
it’s no good saying I’m sorry, my dear. Nor is there much to be gained by
pointing out that I meant well. What you want is a policy, not remorseful
bleatings. I think I’ll take a turn up and down outside. The fresh air may
assist the flow of thought. And the flow of thought would certainly seem to
need all the assistance it can get.’

He went
out through the revolving door, his head bowed, his hands clasped behind his
back. When he returned some minutes later, it was with a message of hope. His
face had cleared and he was his old bright self again.

‘It’s
all right, my child. This little difficulty can be very simply adjusted. It
just needed concentration. You did tell me Mugsy had returned that bust you did
of him? You have it at the studio?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then
all is well. We will go down to Ashenden tomorrow in the car, taking it with
us, and I will substitute it for the one now in residence.’

‘But —’

‘Don’t
say “But.”‘

‘How
—?‘

‘And
don’t say “How.” It’s the sort of thing the boys in the back room used to say
to
Columbus
when he told them
he was going to discover
America
, and look how silly he made them feel. I’ll find a way. Don’t
bother your head about the trifling details, leave them to me. You go home and
pack a few necessaries and get a good night’s rest, while I remain and iron out
the one or two points I haven’t got quite straight yet. More coffee? No? Then
off you go. Bless my soul,’ said Lord Ickenham with boyish relish, as he
escorted her to the door, ‘what a providential thing that this should have
happened.

Something
on these lines was just what I was needing, to stimulate me and bring back the
flush of youth. I feel as I did when Pongo and I started out last spring for
Blandings
Castle
in the roles of Sir Roderick Glossop, the brain specialist, and his
nephew Basil. Did he ever tell you about that?’

‘No.’

‘Odd. I
should have thought it would have been one of his dearest memories. You shall
have the whole story tomorrow on the journey down. Well, good night, my dear,’
said Lord Ickenham, assisting Sally into her taxi. ‘Sleep well, and don’t
worry. You can trust me to look after everything. This is the sort of situation
that brings out the best in me. And when you get the best in Frederick Altamont
Cornwallis, fifth Earl of good old Ickenham, you’ve got something.’

5

It was the custom of Lady
Bostock, when the weather was fine, to sit in a garden chair on the terrace of
Ashenden Manor after luncheon, knitting socks for the deserving poor. A
believer, like Lord Ickenham, in spreading sweetness and light, she considered,
possibly correctly, that there is nothing that brings the sunshine into grey
lives like a sock or two.

On the
day following the events which have just been recorded the weather was
extremely fine. Soft white clouds floated across a sky of the purest blue, the
lake shone like molten silver, and from the adjacent flower-beds came the
murmur of bees and the fragrant scent of lavender and mignonette. It was an
afternoon to raise the spirits, lighten the heart and set a woman counting her
blessings one by one.

Nor did
Lady Bostock omit to do this. She recognized these blessings as considerable.
It was pleasant to be home again, though she had never really enjoyed life in
the country, preferring
Cheltenham
with its gay society. Mrs Gooch, the cook, had dished up an
inspired lunch. And ever since the assignment of judging the bonny babies at
the fete had been handed to his nephew William, Sir Aylmer had been in a mood
which could almost be called rollicking, a consummation always devoutly to be
wished by a wife whose life work it was to keep him in a good temper. She could
hear him singing in his study now. Something about his wealth being a burly
spear and brand and a right good shield of hides untanned which on his arm he buckled
— or, to be absolutely accurate, ber-huckled.

So far,
so good. And yet, despite the fineness of the day, the virtuosity of Mrs Gooch
and the joviality of her husband, Lady Bostock’s heart was heavy. In these days
in which we live, when existence has become a thing of infinite complexity and
fate, if it slips us a bit of goose with one hand, is pretty sure to give us
the sleeve across the windpipe with the other, it is rarely that we find a
human being who is unmixedly happy. Always the bitter will be blended with the
sweet, and in this
mélange
one can be reasonably certain that it is the
former that will predominate.

A
severe indictment of our modern civilization, but it can’t say it didn’t ask
for it.

As Lady
Bostock sat there, doing two plain, two purl, or whatever it is that women do
when knitting socks, a sigh escaped her from time to time. She was thinking of
Sally Painter.

Budge
Street
,
Chelsea
, brief though her visit had been, had made a deep impression on
this sensitive woman. She had merely driven up in a cab, rung the bell of
Sally’s studio, handed her parcel to the charwoman and driven swiftly off
again, but she had seen enough to recognize
Budge
Street
for the sort of place she read about in
novels, where impoverished artists eke out a miserable existence, supported
only by hope. How thankful, she thought, impoverished Miss Painter must have
been to get the commission to model that bust of Aylmer, and what anguish must
have been hers on having it thrown back on her hands.

She had
mentioned this to Sir Aylmer as they were returning from their conference with
the Vicar, and had been snubbed with a good deal of brusqueness. And now,
though she was too loyal a wife to criticize her husband even in thought, she
could not check a fleeting regret that he was always so splendidly firm.

Was
there nothing, she asked herself, as she remembered the admirable luncheon
which she had recently consumed and pictured Sally gnawing a dry crust and
washing it down with a cup of water, was there nothing that she could do?
Useless, of course, to make another attempt to persuade
Aylmer
to change his mind, but suppose she
were to send the girl a secret cheque ….

At this
point her musing was interrupted and her despondency increased by the arrival
of Bill Oakshott, who came heavily along the terrace smoking a sombre pipe. She
eyed him with a sad pity. Ever since she had given him the bad news, the sight
of him had made her feel like a soft-hearted Oriental executioner who, acting
on orders from the front office, has had to do unpleasant things to an
Odalisque with a bow string. It seemed to her sometimes that she would never be
able to forget the look of horror and despair which had leaped into his crimson
face. Traces of it still lingered on those haggard features.