A Pelican at Blandings (4 page)

Up at the castle Beach was in his pantry sipping his evening
glass of port, and seeing him one would have said that there sat
a butler with his soul at rest and not a disturbing thought on
his mind.

One would have been in error. His soul was not at rest. It
would perhaps be too much to put it that vultures were
gnawing at his ample bosom, but he was certainly far from
carefree. Sensitive to atmosphere, he found that which now
prevailed at Blandings trying to his nervous system. It seemed
to him that with the return of Lady Constance a shadow had
fallen on the home he loved. He had not failed to note his
lordship's reaction to his announcement of her arrival, and he
foresaw hard times ahead. If only, he was thinking, Mr.
Galahad could have been here to lend aid and comfort to his
stricken employer: and even as he framed the thought the door
opened and Gally came in.

To say that he leaped from his seat would be an overstatement.
Men of Beach's build do not leap from seats. He
did, however, rise slowly like a hippopotamus emerging from
a river bank, his emotions somewhat similar to those of a
beleaguered garrison when the United States Marines arrive.

'Mr. Galahad!'

'Why not? Someone has to be. Beach, you see before you a
bison making for the water hole with its blackened tongue
hanging out.'

'I shall be taking the tea into the drawing-room shortly, Mr.
Galahad.'

'Tea is no good to me. I want port. And in any case I
wouldn't go to the drawing-room. It will be full of Society's
lowest dregs. As a matter of fact, one of my motives in coming
to your pantry was to discuss those dregs with you and get your
opinion of them.'

Beach was pursing his lips a little as he produced a second
glass and prepared to play the host. His guest, he perceived,
was about to be frank about the castle's personnel, and he knew
that he ought to disapprove. But though his lips were pursed,
there was a gleam in his eyes. As a butler he deplored Mr.
Galahad's habit of gossiping with the domestic staff, but as a
man he simply loved it.

'What, to start with, do you make of this chap Chesney?'
said Gally.

It was a subject on which Beach held strong views. His reply
was austere.

'He is not what I have been accustomed to, Mr. Galahad.'

'And you've seen some pretty weird specimens in your time.'

'I have indeed, sir.'

'Remember the fellow who wanted to eat jam with his fish?'

'Very vividly, sir.'

'And the one who put water in his claret?'

'Please, Mr. Galahad. I have been trying to forget him.'

'I have yet to observe Chesney at the dinner table, but I
imagine he stops short of those awful extremes. Still, I know
what you mean when you say he's not what you've been
accustomed to. He's obviously a crook.'

'Indeed, Mr. Galahad?'

'No question about it. I can tell them a mile off.'

'It seems strange that he should be a friend of Mr.
Frederick.'

'I don't suppose he is. Probably just a casual acquaintance he
picked up in a bar. Freddie wouldn't see anything wrong with
him, and he would give a letter of introduction to anyone who
asked him.'

'But what—'

'—makes me think he's a crook? He tried to sell Clarence oil
stock. And though you may say that that's only what John D.
Rockefeller used to do when he met people, I find the fact
damning. Be very careful how you have dealings with
Chesney, Beach.'

'I will indeed, sir.'

'We now come to His Grace the Duke of Dunstable, and
this is where we really shudder. You will agree with me, I
think, that his presence at it would lower the tone of a silver
ring bookies' social and outing picnic?'

Though his words were music to Beach's ears, for the Duke
was no favourite of his, routine called for a mild protest.

'It is scarcely for me, Mr. Galahad, to express derogatory
opinions of the guests whom her ladyship sees fit to invite
to—'

'All right, I get your point. But however much you may wear
the mask, you know in your heart that he's utterly devoid of all
the finer instincts which raise Man above the level of the beasts
that perish. He's a twister to end all twisters.'

'Sir?'

'Well, look at the way he's doing down the unfortunate
Trout.'

'I am afraid I do not understand you, Mr. Galahad.'

'Only because you weren't there when he was telling me that
story on the train. It appears that there is a harmless innocent American
of the name of Wilbur Trout whose only fault is that he marries rather too
often, which is the sort of thing that might happen to anyone. King Solomon,
if you remember, had the same tendency. Well, Trout saw a picture in the window
of an art gallery which was the image of his latest wife. She divorced him
recently, but in spite of that he still loves her. He was planning to buy
the picture, to remind him of her, and was ass enough to tell Dunstable so,
with the result, of course, that Dunstable nipped in ahead of him and bought
it, so as to be able to sell it to him at an exorbitant price. He knows Trout
wants the thing so badly that he will cough up anything he's asked, even unto
half his kingdom. What do you think of that for chiselling and skulduggery,
Beach?'

'Tut, tut.'

'You may well say Tut, tut. I wouldn't blame you if you'd
said Gorblimey. So there you have His Grace of Dunstable in
a nutshell, and it's not a pleasant thought that he will be with
us for days and days, probably for weeks and weeks. One
wonders how Clarence will bear up, especially as her ladyship
will make him dress for dinner every night. She will, won't
she?'

'I fear so, Mr. Galahad.'

'And he hates it even more than having to wear a top hat at
the school treat. Ah well, we must just hope that his frail form
will not crack beneath the strain. And now, Beach, with many
thanks for your hospitality, I must be leaving you. The train
journey, as always, has left me feeling like a cinder track and an
immediate plunge into the waters of the bath tub is of the
essence. We shall meet at Philippi, if not sooner.'

Two days elapsed before Linda Gilpin arrived. She came in
her car late at night and went straight to bed, tired from
the long journey, and after breakfast next morning Gally,
naturally anxious to have a confidential talk with her, took her
to see the yew alley which was one of the features of the place
and often got flattering notices in books with titles like 'British
Gardens' and 'Olde Worlde England'. The brief glimpse he
had had of her had impressed him favourably. She was, as John
had said, slim, blue-eyed, just the right height, topped off with
chestnut-coloured hair, and so unlike her uncle the Duke of
Dunstable that it did him good to look at her. A girl, in short,
whom any godfather would be glad to think his godson would
at an early date be going off on honeymoons to Jamaica with.
He could hardly wait to make her better acquaintance.

The Duke and Lady Constance were up in the portrait
gallery. On the previous day the former's reclining nude had
been hung there, and Lady Constance was scrutinizing it
without pleasure. She was a woman who, while not knowing
much about Art, knew what she liked, and the kind of
paintings she liked were those whose subjects were more
liberally draped. A girl with nothing on except a quite
inadequate wisp of some filmy material, she told the Duke,
was out of place in the company of her ancestors, and the Duke
in rebuttal replied that her ancestors were such a collection of
ugly thugs that it was a charity to give the viewer something to
divert his attention from them. With a flight of imagery of
which few would have thought him capable he compared the
Blandings Castle portrait gallery to the Chamber of Horrors at
Madame Tussaud's.

The critique ruffled Lady Constance, though anyone less
prejudiced would have felt compelled to admit that some of
the Earls of Emsworth, notably the third, fifth and seventh,
had been rash to allow their portraits to be painted, but she
checked the sharp response she would have liked to make. The
Duke, when responded to sharply, was apt to take offence, and
she had that to say to him which called for amiability on his
part, or something as close to amiability as could be expected
of him.

She was about to take up once again the matter of his
marrying. For many years he had been a widower, and her own
happy union with James Schoonmaker had made her feel more
strongly than ever that this was a state of affairs that should be
adjusted. She was a firm believer in a wife's influence for good
over her husband, and she held the view that the Duke needed
all the influence for good that he could get. Someone who
would improve his manners and habits and general outlook on
life was, in her opinion, what he ought to be supplied with as
soon as possible.

She had often spoken to him on the subject before, but only
in a vague, general way. Now that Vanessa Polk had come into
her life and was actually here at Blandings with him, it seemed
to her that the time had come to be more specific; to get,
though she would never have used such an expression, down to
brass tacks and talk turkey. She edged gently into her theme.

'How charming American women are,' she said. 'So pretty,
so chic, so well dressed.'

The Duke saw that she was under a misapprehension. Only
to be expected of a female, of course. In the sex to which she
belonged one took muddleheadedness for granted.

'She isn't American. Chap who did the thing was French,
so she must have been French, too. Stands to reason a fellow
painting in France would have a French model. Probably her
name was Gaby or Brigitte or Mimi or something. And if you
think she's well dressed, you're potty. She hasn't got a ruddy
stitch on.'

Lady Constance bit her lip and had to pause for a moment
before speaking. The uncharitable thought floated into her
mind that there were times when Alaric was just like her
brother Clarence.

'I was not alluding to the woman in that picture,' she said
coldly. 'I was thinking of—'

'Does she remind you of anyone?' the Duke proceeded. It
was only inadvertently that he ever allowed anyone to finish a
sentence. 'I ask because a fellow I know, an American fellow
called Trout, says she's the image of his third wife, while
Emsworth insists that she has a distinct look of that pig of his.'

'I was thinking—'

'Something about the expression in her eyes, he said, and
the way she's lying. He said he had seen his pig lying like that
a hundred times. It does it after a heavy meal.'

'What I was going to say—'

'And oddly enough I notice quite a resemblance to our
vicar's wife down in Wiltshire. Only the face, of course, for I
never saw her lying in the nude on a mossy bank. I doubt if the
vicar would let her.'

'If you would just listen, Alaric—'

'By the way, meant to have told you before, I've invited
Trout here. I thought it was the decent thing to do. His wife
divorced him, and he's carrying the torch for her, so naturally
the more he sees of a picture that reminds him of her, the
better he'll like it. He's arriving this afternoon.'

Had Lady Constance been conversing with Lord
Emsworth and had he let fall the statement that he had invited
an American fellow called Trout to Blandings Castle without
her permission, something reminiscent of the San Francisco
earthquake must inevitably have resulted. But true to her
policy of keeping the Duke in the best mood of which he was
capable she allowed only the merest suggestion of annoyance
to creep into her words.

'I wish you would not invite people to my house, Alaric.'

The Duke, a clear-headed man, saw the objection to this
immediately, and once again the inability of females to reason
anything out impressed itself upon him. It was something, he
believed, to do with the bone structure of their heads.

'How the devil are they to get here, if they aren't invited?'

Lady Constance might have retorted that men who invited
themselves were not unknown to her, but she merely heaved a
weary sigh.

'Who is this Trout?'

'Aren't you listening? I told you. A Yank. I met him at the
club. We got talking, and he told me about his wife. Not a bad
chap. Potty, of course.'

'Why do you call him that?'

'Marrying all those women. As far as I can make out, he
does it every hour on the hour. Do you remember that song
"They call me Otto of roses" in one of those Gaiety shows? "If
you don't like what you've go-to, pick another from the grotto,
that's the motto of Otto of roses". That's Trout.'

'He sounds charming.'

'He's all right. Tight all the time, I imagine. At least he was
when I met him. He was crying into a cocktail, and he told me
about his wife. This was his third wife, or it may have been his
fourth. He marries at the drop of a hat. Odd hobby to have,
but everyone to his taste and I suppose he enjoys it.'

He had given Lady Constance the cue she needed. Pigeonholing
for the moment the rather disquieting thought that in
her capacity of chatelaine of Blandings Castle she was about to
entertain for an indeterminate visit a mentally unbalanced
alcoholic, she said:

'Don't you think it's time you married again, Alaric?'

An exasperated snort echoed through the portrait gallery
like a fog horn.

'That's what you say every blasted time I see you. Nag, nag,
nag. Who do you want me to marry now?'

'Vanessa Polk.'

'That American female you've brought along? Who is she?
One of your New York friends?'

'No, I met her on the boat. I had an attack of neuralgia, and
she was very good to me. I was obliged to spend two days in
bed, and she came and sat with me and looked after me.'

'Probably working up to a touch.'

'Don't be ridiculous.'

'Has she tried to borrow money?'

'Of course she has not. She's much richer than I am. At
least, her father is.'

'How do you know that?'

'She told me. She is J. B. Polk's daughter. You must have
heard of J. B. Polk.'

'I seem to know the name.'

'Of course you do. He's a financial emperor. Controls all
sorts of businesses . . . banks, railroads, mines, everything.'

'
Does
he?' said the Duke.

'Nobody could call James a pauper, but he feels like one
when he compares himself with J. B. Polk. And he has a very
high blood pressure.'

'James has?'

'Polk has. He might die of apoplexy at any moment, and
Vanessa would become one of the wealthiest women in
America.'

'Would she?' said the Duke thoughtfully. '
Would
she?'

The gleam which had come into his prominent eyes did not
escape Lady Constance's notice, nor did it surprise her. She
had expected her words to create a powerful reaction. Revolted
though she would have been had someone informed her that
her views on anything could coincide with those of her brother
Galahad, on the subject of the Duke's affection for money they
were identical. This partiality of his for coin of the realm had
been drawn to her attention twenty years ago, when he had
informed her that their engagement was at an end because her
father refused to meet his terms in the matter of dowry, and
she could never be sufficiently grateful to her late parent for his
parsimony. She was fond of Alaric in a sisterly way, but her
intelligence told her that for one of her impatient temperament
marriage with him would have been a disaster. Vanessa
was different. Her cheerful equable nature would enable her to
cope even with an Alaric.

'She would be ideal for you,' she said.

'Seems nice,' the Duke agreed.

'And of course it would be a wonderful match for her.'

'Of course.'

'She went to the library after breakfast. Why don't you go
there and talk to her?'

'I will.'

'She will be delighted to see you.'

'I suppose so. I'll go at once. And I don't want you coming
along, Connie, so buzz off.'

Gally had had to change his plans. He had not been able to
fulfil his intention of showing Linda Gilpin the beauties of the
yew alley, for after the briefest of conversations on the way
there they had parted, she to return to the house, he to go to
the Empress's sty, where he knew Lord Emsworth was to be
found. As the result of his talk with the moon of his godson's
delight he was feeling perplexed and bewildered, and he had a
faint hope that Clarence might have something constructive to
suggest. Such a miracle was not of course likely, for Clarence
in the course of a longish life had never suggested anything
constructive to anybody on any subject whatsoever, but it often
happens that talking something over with someone has the
effect of clarifying one's thoughts, even if that someone merely
gapes at one like a goldfish.

He found Lord Emsworth, as usual, draped like a wet sock
over the rail of the Empress's G.H.Q. with a large potato in his
hand, and came immediately to the point.

'Clarence,' he said, 'I'm worried.'

'I am sorry to hear that, Galahad,' said Lord Emsworth,
courteously transferring to him the attention monopolized till
then by the silver medallist, who was busying herself among
the proteins and carbohydrates with a gusto which would have
drawn a smile of approval from Wolff-Lehman. 'Is it Connie?'
he asked, seizing on what he thought the obvious explanation
for anyone's mental disturbance at Blandings Castle.

'No, not Connie. It's about a godson of mine.'

'I did not know you had a godson.'

'I have several. People ask you to officiate, and you can't
very well refuse. Not that I have any complaints to make
about my little lot. I'm very fond of them all, particularly this
one. I hope I am not interrupting you in an early lunch,
Clarence.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'That potato you're brandishing.'

'Oh, that is for the Empress. I was about to give it to her.'

'Do it now. Then you will be able to concentrate on my
story.'

'Quite. Yes, go on, Galahad. You were saying you were
thinking of adopting a godson.'

'I wasn't saying anything of the sort. You don't adopt
godsons, they just adhere to you like some sort of growth. This
one is the son of an old friend of mine, and he's in trouble.'

Lord Emsworth was concerned.

'Money? I should be glad to do anything in my power.'

'That's extremely kind of you, Clarence, but he's all right as
far as money is concerned. He's doing well at the bar and has
an interest in one of those Bond Street picture galleries. It's his
love life that has come a stinker. You remember that night you
phoned me about Connie breaking out again. He was with me
at the time, and he had just been telling me he had become
engaged to be married.'

'Indeed?'

'To the Gilpin girl.'

'Who is the Gilpin girl?'

'You've met her. She's staying here. Came last night.
Smallish, with blue eyes and chestnut hair.'

'Ah yes, I do seem to have some sort of recollection. Isn't
she something to do with Alaric?'

'His niece.'

'And she is going to marry your godson?'

'According to him it was all set. He babbled about how
much he loved her and distinctly gave me to understand that
she loved him with equal intensity.'

'They loved each other?' said Lord Emsworth, having
worked it out.

'Exactly. It seemed as if it was all over except buying the
licence and rounding up the parson.'

'When is the wedding to be? And will it mean,' said Lord
Emsworth in sudden panic, 'that I shall have to wear a top hat?'

'The way it looks, you need have no anxiety.'

'You don't think Connie will insist?'

'She won't be given the opportunity.'

'She makes me wear one for the school treat.'

'What I'm trying to tell you is that there probably won't be
a wedding.'