Summer Moonshine (23 page)

T
HE
emotions of a man who comes out of a bathroom, all pink and glowing, and with a song on his lips, to find that in his absence from the bedroom adjoining it, some hidden hand has removed his clothes may be compared roughly to those of one who, sauntering along a garden path in the dusk, steps on the teeth of a rake and has the handle shoot up and hit him in the face. There is the same sense of shock, the same fleeting illusion that Judgment Day had arrived without warning.

Mr Bulpitt, re-entering the Blue Room some ten minutes after Lady Abbott had left it, experienced all these emotions – all the more poignant because his recent happy reunion with his teeth had left him with the complacent feeling that he was now safe from the molestation of Fate. And he was just singing 'Pennies from Heaven' and saying to himself, And now to put on the good old pants!' when he saw that he had been mistaken and that Fate still had weapons in its armoury. The Blue Room was equipped with every convenience; there were in it a chaise-longue, an arm-chair, two other chairs, a chest of drawers, some attractive eighteenth-century prints, a small book-case and a writing-desk with plenty of notepaper and envelopes, but it contained no pants. Nor, for the matter of that, coat, waistcoat, underwear, cravat, socks and shoes. Even the hat, designed for
the use of Western American college students, had vanished. And Mr Bulpitt, though a man of infinite resource and sagacity, found himself unequal to the situation. Climbing into bed and modestly wrapping the sheet about his shoulders, he gave himself up to thought.

After some moments of meditation, he did what every visitor to a country house does when untoward things have been happening in his bedroom. He rang the bell, and presently Pollen appeared.

The interview that followed was not very satisfactory.

'Say, look,' said Mr Bulpitt. 'I don't seem to have any clothes.'

'No, sir.'

'Can you get me some more somewhere?'

'No, sir.'

'Sure you can,' urged Mr Bulpitt encouragingly. 'Hunt around.'

'No, sir,' said the butler. 'Sir Buckstone has issued instructions that you are not to be provided with clothes, sir. Thank you, sir.'

He left Mr Bulpitt perplexed in the extreme, and the latter was still between the sheets, trying to adjust his mind to these rather odd goings-on, when Sir Buckstone came bustling in, looking radiant. No more affable Baronet had ever bubbled over with geniality in a Blue Room.

'Why, hullo, Mr Bulpitt!' he cried. 'Where did you spring from? I thought you told me that you had gone to live on your houseboat. Get tired of camping out, did you, eh? Not so much of the gypsy in you as you fancied, eh, ha, what? Well, glad you changed your mind and decided to try my poor hospitality. Wasn't aware that I had invited you, but make yourself at home. This is Liberty Hall.'

Mr Bulpitt had a one-track mind.

'Say, look,' he said. 'I don't seem to have any clothes.'

'Gad, yes,' replied Sir Buckstone cheerily. 'That's right, isn't it? You haven't, have you?'

'That butler guy told me you told him I wasn't to have any.'

'That's right, too. My dear old chap, what do you want clothes for? You've gone to bed. Stay there and get a nice rest.'

'Have you got my clothes?'

'Toots has. It was her idea. Now, there's a girl with a brain, my dear Bulpitt. You must be proud that she is your sister. What she felt, you see, was that if you hadn't any clothes, you couldn't be up and about, serving young Vanringham with those papers. Thought it all out herself.'

'But I haven't any papers.'

'Oh, no?'

'I left them at the inn.'

'Oh, yes?'

His host's intonation was so sceptical that Mr Bulpitt bridled.

'Would you doubt my word?' he asked.

'I would,' replied Sir Buckstone.

There seemed to Mr Bulpitt little to be gained from further exploration of this avenue. He turned to another aspect of the situation – one which had been much in his thoughts:

'How long have I got to lie up in this darned room?'

'Till I've sold the house.'

Mr Bulpitt's jaw dropped. He had seen quite a good deal of Walsingford Hall in these last few days and a clear picture of it in all its forbidding hideousness was etched on his mental retina.

'But, gee, that may mean for years! You aren't going to keep me here for years?'

'No worse for you than for the Man in the Iron Mask, my dear chap. However, as a matter of fact,' said Sir Buckstone, relenting, 'I don't expect it will be as long as that. I hope to conclude the negotiations after dinner.'

'Who's buying it?'

'The Princess Dwornitzchek. Von und zu Dwornitzchek, to be absolutely accurate. She's young Vanringham's stepmother. She arrived this evening. That's why Toots felt – and I agreed with her – that you would be better – ha – in cold storage, as it were, than roaming about the house with those papers. No woman likes to see her stepson plastered for breach of promise. It annoys her, takes her mind off buying houses.'

'But I told you I hadn't got any papers.'

'Yes, I remember. You did, didn't you?'

Mr Bulpitt sighed resignedly.

'And when do I eat?' he asked.

'A tray will be sent up to you.'

'Oh, yeah? Raw beef, I suppose, and half-warmed brussels sprouts?'

Sir Buckstone seemed piqued.

'Nothing of the kind. There's a chicken casserole tonight,' he said proudly. And dashed good it will be, no doubt. I heard my daughter instructing the cook. She arranges our menus. It was Jane who brought you here, I understand?'

'Yes,' said Mr Bulpitt. A sweet girl.'

'One of the best,' agreed Sir Buckstone cordially.

Mr Bulpitt was in sore straits, but he was a man who could forget self when he saw an opportunity of saying a seasonable word on behalf of distressed damsels. He removed a bare arm from under the sheet and pointed his finger accusingly at his host.

'You're treating that little girl very badly, Lord Abbott.'

Sir Buckstone stared.

'Who, me? I've never treated Jane badly in my life. Apple of my eye, dash it. What do you mean?'

'Sundering two young hearts in springtime.'

'It isn't springtime. Middle of August.'

'It amounts to the same thing,' said Mr Bulpitt firmly. 'Chasing the man she loves with a horsewhip.'

There had been only one man in Sir Buckstone's past whom he had chased with a horsewhip. He gaped incredulouly.

'You aren't telling me Jane's gone and fallen in love with this blighter Peake?'

'She loves him devotedly. You know that.'

'I don't know anything of the sort. What you say has come as a stupefying shock to me. And I don't believe it, either. Sensible girl like Jane? Nonsense. She couldn't love Peake. Nobody could love Peake.'

'She does. And let me tell you one thing, Lord Abbott. You may boast of the pride of your ancient name, you may dwell in a marble hall, but there's something that's greater than riches and fame—'

'What are you talking about? Marble? Red brick; and glazed, at that.'

'Yeah, Love that conquers all,' concluded Mr Bulpitt. And I'm for her. Get that into your nut. I'm on her side, and when she marries, I intend to—'

He had got thus far when, from the regions below, there proceeded a loud booming noise, and Sir Buckstone started and ceased to listen. No Englishman, whatever the importance of the subject under discussion, will give it his attention when he hears the dinner gong.

'Ha!' cried Sir Buckstone, in much the same manner as the Biblical character who spoke that word among the trumpets, and made for the door more like Jesse Owens than a Baronet.

'Hey, wait!'

'I can't wait.'

'But I'm telling you sump'n.'

'Tell it me later,' said Sir Buckstone. 'Can't wait now. Dinner!'

He disappeared, and Mr Bulpitt was alone with his thoughts once more.

It is impossible for a man of Samuel Bulpitt's astuteness to be alone with his thoughts for long without something happening in the way of plans and schemes. Already, with his razor-like intelligence, he had perceived that, his own clothes having gone, he must somehow contrive to secure others, but it was only now that he saw whence these might be obtained. He might not be universally popular in this house, but he did have one friend at Walsingford Hall, though they had never actually met – Miss Prudence Whittaker, to wit, his exertions on whose behalf had led him into his present trouble. His first move, he decided, must be to get in touch with Miss Whittaker.

He had reached this conclusion, and was debating in his mind the best way of establishing the desired contact, when the door opened and there entered, in the order named, a savoury smell, a large tray and a very small under-housemaid. The smell was floating in front of the tray, and the under-housemaid was attached to the back of it. The procession halted at his bedside.

'Your dinner, sir,' said the midget, unnecessarily, for his inductive sense had already led him to this conclusion.

'Thank you, baby, thank you,' said Mr Bulpitt, releasing all his charm and starting to employ the technique which had made him so beloved throughout America's quick-lunch emporia, and
which we have seen winning the heart of Mr Attwater's niece at the Goose and Gander. 'What might your name be, girlie?'

'Millicent, sir. And Mr Pollen says he thought you would like beer.'

Tell Mr Pollen, Millicent, that he hit it in one. Beer is what I wouldn't like anything except. I want lots of beer and Miss Whittaker.'

'Sir?'

'How do I contact Miss Whittaker?'

'She's gorn out, sir,' replied the under-housemaid, charmed by his cordiality.

'What, at dinner-time?'

'She has high tea over at the vicarage Wednesdays. There's a lit'ry society there,' said the under-housemaid, as if she were naming some strange beast. 'Miss Whittaker goes to it Wednesdays and has high tea.'

'Stealing home when?'

'She won't be back before nine. Did you wish to see her, sir?'

'I can't see her. There's a reason. But if you would be a kind little girl and slip her a note—'

'Oh, yes, sir.'

'Atta baby! I'll have it ready for you when you come for the tray.'

It was not immediately that Mr Bulpitt addressed himself to literary composition, for he never allowed anything to come between himself and the fortifying of his inner man. The casserole finished, however, and the beer disposed of, he lost no time in hopping out of bed and going to the writing desk. When the under-housemaid returned, the note was ready for her.

It had not been an easy note to write. Its author, striving for a measured dignity of phrase, had begun by making the mistake of
trying to word it in the third person, only to discover an 'I' and a couple of 'me's' insinuating themselves into the third sentence. Switching to the more direct form, he had had happier results, and what was now in the under-housemaid's custody was something which would, in his opinion, drag home the gravy.

It wavered in style between the formal and the chummy, beginning 'Dear Madam' and ending 'So you see what a spot I'm in, ducky,' but it did present the facts. An intelligent girl, reading it, would be left in no doubt that Mr Bulpitt had been deprived of his clothes through the machinations of Sir Buck-stone Abbott and his minions and hoped that she would come and discuss the matter with him through the door of his bedroom.

A glance at the clock on the mantelpiece had just told him that the hour was a quarter to nine, when there was a knock on the door and a voice spoke his name in an undertone.

'Mr Bullpott?'

He was out of bed with his lips to the panel in an instant, and a moment later the Pyramus and Thisbe interview had begun.

'Hello?'

'Is that you, Mr Bullpott?'

'—pitt,' corrected Pyramus. 'Miss Whittaker?'

'Yay-ess. I got your note.'

'Can you get the clothes?' asked the practical-minded Mr Bulpitt.

'I will secure them immediatelah. What size?'

This baffled Mr Bulpitt for a moment. In the circumstances, he could scarcely invite the girl to come in and measure him. Then inspiration descended on him.

'Say, look – I mean listen. I'm just around Lord Abbott's build.'

'Sir Buckstone Abbott's?'

'Call him what you like. The point is, we're about the same shape. Go and scoff one of his nibs' reach-me-downs.'

'Sir Buckstone Abbott's?'

'That's right. Still talking about him. Fetch 'em quick and leave them outside on the mat and knock. Get me?'

'Quale.'

'Right,' said Mr Bulpitt, and went back to bed.

Although her voice had been audible through the woodwork, it had, of course, been impossible for Mr Bulpitt to watch the play of expression on the face of his visitor during this conversation. Had he been able to do so, he would have observed that his request that she purloin clothes belonging to Sir Buckstone Abbott had not been well received by Miss Whittaker. Her eyebrows had risen and she had pursed her lips. A well-trained secretary does not rifle her employer's wardrobe, and the suggestion had frankly shocked the girl.

It was for this reason that, leaving the door of the Blue Room, she did not proceed to the Baronet's quarters, but hastened instead to the modest apartment which had been assigned to Tubby Vanringham.

She would have preferred to go elsewhere, for even though she supposed that he was at the dinner table and, so, unlikely to interrupt her search, she disliked the idea of having any association with him, even the somewhat remote one of stealing his clothes. But she had no choice. Mr Bulpitt had specifically stated that in build he resembled Sir Buckstone Abbott, and Tubby was the only other man on the premises who shared this distinction. Colonel Tanner was long and stringy. So was Mr Waugh-Bonner. So was Mr Profitt. And so, oddly enough, was Mr Billing.
Only by calling on Tubby's resources could a reasonable fit be secured.

She crept into the room and switched on the light and made her way to the hanging cupboard. Her heart was beating quickly as she plucked a pair of trousers like fruit from the bough, but not so quickly as it was to beat a moment later, when a sudden exclamation from behind her caused her to turn, and she saw their owner standing in the doorway.