Uncle Fred in the Springtime (3 page)

Lady
Constance, on the other hand, was pleased. She was a devoted admirer of the
efficient Baxter, and there had been a time, when the world was young, when she
and the Duke of Dunstable had whispered together in dim conservatories and been
the last couple to straggle home from picnics. And though nothing had come of
it — it was long before he succeeded to the title, and they shipped him abroad
at about that time to allow an England which he had made too hot for him to
cool off a little — the memory lingered.

Lord
Emsworth lodged a protest, though realizing as he did so that it was purely
formal. He was, and always had been, a cipher in the home.

‘It’s
only about a week since he was here last.’

‘It is nearly
seven months.’

‘Can’t
you tell him we’re full up?’

‘Of
course I can’t.’

‘The
last time he was here,’ said Lord Emsworth broodingly, ‘he poked the Empress in
the ribs with an umbrella.’

‘Well,
I am certainly not going to offend one of my oldest friends just because he
poked your pig with an umbrella,’ said Lady Constance. ‘I shall write to Alaric
and tell him that we shall be delighted to have him for as long as he cares to
stay. I see that he says he must be on the ground floor, because he is nervous
of fire. He had better have the Garden Suite.’

And so
it was in that luxurious set of apartments that the Duke awoke on the morning
following his luncheon party at Bloxham Mansions. For some time he lay gazing
at the sunlight that filtered through the curtains which covered the french
windows opening on the lawn: then, ringing the bell, he instructed the footman
to bring him toast, marmalade, a pot of China tea, two lightly boiled eggs and
The
Times.
And it was perhaps twenty minutes later that Lady Constance, sunning
herself on the terrace, was informed by Beach, her butler, that His Grace would
be glad if she would step to his room for a moment.

Her
immediate sensation, on receiving this summons, was one of apprehension and
alarm. The story which the Duke had told at dinner on the previous night, at
great length and with a ghoulish relish, of the lesson which he had taught his
nephew Horace had made a deep impression on her, and she fully expected on
reaching the Blue Room to find it — possibly owing to some lapse from the
required standard in His Grace’s breakfast — a devastated area. It was with
profound relief that she saw that all was well. The ducal poker remained a
potential threat in the background, but it had not been brought into operation
as yet, and she looked at the mauve-pajamaed occupant of the bed with that
quiet affection which hostesses feel towards guests who have not smashed their
furniture — blended with the tenderness which a woman never quite loses for the
man who has once breathed words of love down the back of her neck.

‘Good
morning, Alaric.’

‘Morning,
Connie. I say, who the devil’s that whistling feller?’

‘What
do you mean?’

‘I mean
a whistling feller. A feller who whistles. There’s been a blighter outside my
window ever since I woke up, whistling the “Bonny Bonny Banks of Loch Lomond.”‘

‘One of
the gardeners, I expect.’

‘Ah!’
said the Duke quietly.

Pongo
Twistleton had been surprised that a private investigator could look like
Claude Pott, and he would have been equally surprised if he had been introduced
to the Duke of Dunstable and informed that this was the notorious sitting-room
wrecker of whom he had heard so much. The Duke did not look a killer. Except
for the Dunstable nose, always a little startling at first sight, there was nothing
obviously formidable and intimidating about Horace’s Uncle Alaric. A bald head …
A cascade of white moustache … Prominent blue eyes … A rather nice old
bird, you would have said.

‘Was
that what you wanted to see me about?’

‘No.
Have the car ready to take me to the station directly after lunch. I’ve got to
go to London.’

‘But
you only came last night.’

‘It
doesn’t matter what happened last night. It’s what has happened this morning. I
glance through my
Times,
and what do I see? My nephew Horace has gone
and got his engagement broken off.’

‘What!’

‘You
heard.’

‘But
why?’

‘How
the dickens should I know why? It’s just because I don’t know why that I’ve got
to go and find out. When an engagement has been broken off
The Times
doesn’t
print long reports from its special correspondent. It simply says “The marriage
arranged between George Tiddlypush and Amelia Stick-in-the-mud will not take,
place.”‘

‘The
girl was Lord Ickenham’s niece, wasn’t she?’ ‘Still is.’

‘I know
Lady Ickenham, but I have never met Lord Ickenham.’

‘Nor
have I. But she’s his niece, just the same.’

‘They
say he is very eccentric.’

‘He’s
potty. Everybody’s potty nowadays, except a few people like myself. It’s the
spirit of the age. Look at Clarence. Ought to have been certified years ago.’

‘Don’t
you think that it’s simply that he is dreamy and absent-minded?’

‘Absent-minded
be blowed. He’s potty. So’s Horace. So’s my other nephew, Ricky. You take my
advice, Connie. Never have nephews.’

Lady
Constance’s sigh seemed to say that he spoke too late.

‘I’ve
got dozens, Alaric.’

‘Potty?’

‘I
sometimes think so. They seem to do the most extraordinary things.’

‘I’ll
bet they don’t do such extraordinary things as mine.’

‘My
nephew Ronald married a chorus girl.’

‘My
nephew Ricky writes poetry.’

‘My nephew
Bosham once bought a gold brick from a man in the street.’

‘And
now he wants to sell soup.’

‘Bosham?’

‘Ricky.
He wants to sell soup.’

‘Sell
soup?’

‘Good
God, Connie, don’t repeat everything I say, as if you were an echo in the Swiss
mountains. I tell you he wants to sell soup. I go and see him yesterday, and he
has the impertinence, if you please, to ask me to give him five hundred pounds
to buy an onion soup bar. I refused to give him a penny, of course. He was as
sick as mud. Not so sick as Horace will be, though, when he’s finished with me.
I shall start by disembowelling him. Go and order that car.’

‘Well,
it does seem a shame that you should have to go to London on a lovely day like
this.’

‘You
don’t think I want to go, do you? I’ve got to go.’

‘Couldn’t
you tell Mr Baxter to go and see Horace? He is still in London, isn’t he?’

‘Yes,
he is, the shirking, skrimshanking, four-eyed young son of a what-not, and I’m
quite convinced that he stayed there because he was planning to go on a toot
the moment my back was turned. If I can bring it home to him, by George, I’ll
sack him as soon as he shows his ugly face here. No, I couldn’t tell Baxter to
go and see Horace. I’m not going to have my nephew, half-witted though he is,
subjected to the inquisition of a dashed underling.’

There
were several points in this speech, which, if it had not been for the thought
of that poker which hung over Blandings Castle like a sword of Damocles, Lady
Constance would have liked to criticize. She resented the suggestion that
Rupert Baxter was a man capable of going on toots. She did not consider his
face ugly. And it pained her to hear him described as a dashed underling. But
there are times when the tongue must be curbed. She maintained a discreet
silence, from which she emerged a few moments later with a suggestion.

‘I
know! Bosham is going to London this morning. Why couldn’t Horace drive him
back in his car? Then you could have your talk with him without any trouble or inconvenience.’

‘The
first sensible word you’ve spoken since you came into this room,’ said the Duke
approvingly. ‘Yes, tell Bosham to rout him out and bring him back alive or
dead. Well, I can’t stay here talking to you all day, Connie. Got to get up,
got to get up. Where’s Clarence?’

‘Down
at the pig sty, I suppose.’

‘Don’t
tell me he’s still mooning over that pig of his.’

‘He’s
quite absurd about it.’

‘Quite
crazy, you mean. If you want to know what I think, Connie, it’s that pig that’s
at the root of his whole trouble. It’s a very bad influence in his life, and if
something isn’t done soon to remove it you’ll find him suddenly sticking straws
in his hair and saying he’s a poached egg. Talking of eggs, send me up a dozen.’

‘Eggs?
But haven’t you had your breakfast?’

‘Of
course I’ve had my breakfast.’

‘I see.
But you want some more,’ said Lady Constance pacifically. ‘How would you like
them done?’

‘I don’t
want them done at all. I don’t want eating eggs. I want throwing eggs. I intend
to give that whistling feller a sharp lesson. Hark! There he is again. Singing
now.’

‘Alaric,’
said Lady Constance, a pleading note in her voice, ‘must you throw eggs at the
gardeners?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very
well,’ said Lady Constance resignedly, and went off to avert the threatened
horror by removing the vocalist from the danger zone.

Her
thoughts, as she went, were long, long thoughts.

Lord Emsworth, meanwhile,
unaware of the solicitude which he was causing, was down in the meadow by the
kitchen garden, drooping over the comfortable sty which housed his pre-eminent
sow, Empress of Blandings, twice in successive years silver medallist in the
Fat Pigs’ class at the Shropshire Agricultural Show. The noble animal, under
his adoring eyes, was finishing a late breakfast.

The
ninth Earl of Emsworth was a resilient man. It had not taken him long to get
over the first sharp agony of the discovery that Rupert Baxter was about to
re-enter his life. This morning, Baxter was forgotten, and he was experiencing
that perfect happiness which comes from a clear conscience, absence of loved
ones, congenial society and fine weather. For once in a way there was nothing
which he was trying to conceal from his sister Constance, no disrupting
influences had come to mar his communion with the Empress, and the weather, as
almost always in this favoured spot, was wonderful. We have seen spring being
whimsical and capricious in London, but it knew enough not to try anything of
that sort on Blandings Castle.

The
only concern Lord Emsworth had was a fear that this golden solitude could not
last, and the apprehension was well founded. A raucous cry shattered the drowsy
stillness and, turning, he perceived, as Claude Pott would have said, one male.
His guest, the Duke, was crossing the meadow towards him.

‘Morning,
Clarence.’

‘Good
morning, Alaric.’

Lord
Emsworth forced a welcoming smile to his lips. His breeding — and about fifteen
thousand words from Lady Constance from time to time — had taught him that a
host must wear the mask. He tried his hardest not to feel like a stag at bay.

‘Seen
Bosham anywhere?’

‘No.
No, I have not.’

‘I want
a word with him before he leaves. I’ll wait here and intercept him on his way
out. He’s going to London today, to bring Horace here. His engagement has been
broken off.’

This
puzzled Lord Emsworth. His son and heir, Lord Bosham, who was visiting the
castle for the Bridgeford races, had been, he felt pretty sure, for some years
a married man. He mentioned this.

‘Not
Bosham’s engagement. Horace’s. ‘Again Lord Emsworth was at a loss.

‘Who is
Horace?’ ‘My nephew.’

‘And he
is engaged?’

‘He
was. Ickenham’s niece.’ ‘Who is?’

‘The
girl he was engaged to.’

‘Who is
Ickenham?’

‘Her
uncle.’

‘Oh,’
said Lord Emsworth, brightening. The name had struck a chord in his memory. Oh,
Ickenham? Of course. Ickenham, to be sure. I know Ickenham. He is a friend of
my brother Galahad. I think they used to be thrown out of night clubs together.
I am glad Ickenham is coming here.’

‘He isn’t.’

‘You
said he was.’

‘I didn’t
say he was. I said Horace was. ‘The name was new to Lord Emsworth. ‘Who,’ he
asked, ‘is Horace?’

‘I told
you two seconds ago,’ said the Duke, with the asperity which never left him for
long, ‘that he was my nephew. I have no reason to believe that conditions have
altered since.

‘Oh?’
said Lord Emsworth. ‘Ah? Yes. Yes, to be sure. Your nephew. Well, we must try
to make his stay pleasant. Perhaps he is interested in pigs. Are you interested
in pigs, Alaric? You know my sow, Empress of Blandings, I think. I believe you
met when you were here in the summer.’

He
moved aside to allow his guest an uninterrupted view of the superb animal. The
Duke advanced to the rail, and there followed a brief silence — on Lord
Emsworth’s side reverent, on that of the Duke austere. He had produced a large
pair of spectacles from his breast pocket and through them was scrutinizing the
silver medallist in a spirit only too plainly captious and disrespectful.