Uncle Fred in the Springtime Page 16

  ‘I am fond of Snap.’

  ‘Yes, Snap’s a good game.’

  ‘And Animal Grab.’

  ‘That’s not bad, either. But I can tell you something that’s better than both.’

  ‘Have —’ said Mr Pott.

  ‘Have you —’ said Lord Bosham.

  ‘Have you ever —’ said Mr Pott.

  ‘Have you ever,’ concluded Lord Bosham, ‘heard of a game called Persian Monarchs?’ Mr Pott’s eyes rolled up to the ceiling, and for an instant he could not speak. His lips moved silently. He may have been praying.

  ‘No,’ he said, at length. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a thing I used to play a good deal at one time,’ said Lord Bosham, ‘though in recent years I’ve dropped it a bit. As I say, a married man of the right sort defers to his wife’s wishes. If she’s around. But now she isn’t around, and it would be interesting to see if the old skill still lingers.’

  ‘It’s a pretty name,’ said Mr Pott, still experiencing some trouble with his vocal chords. ‘Is it difficult to learn?’

  ‘I could teach it you in a minute. In its essentials it is not unlike Blind Hooky. Here’s the way it goes. You cut a card, if you see what I mean, and the other fellow cuts a card, if you follow me. Then if the card you’ve cut is higher than the card the other fellow has cut, you win. While, conversely, if the card the other fellow’s cut is higher than the card you’ve cut, he wins.

  He shot an anxious glance at Mr Pott, as if wondering if he had been too abstruse. But Mr Pott appeared to have followed him perfectly.

  ‘I think I see the idea,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’ll pick it up as I go along. Come on, my noble sportsman. Follow the dictates of your heart and fear nothing. Roll, bowl or pitch! Ladies half-way and all bad nuts returned! If you don’t speculate, you can’t accumulate.’

  ‘You have a rummy way of expressing yourself,’ said Lord Bosham, ‘but no doubt your heart is in the right place. Start ho, Pott?’

  ‘Start ho, Bosham!’

  Twilight had begun to fall, the soft mysterious twilight of an English spring evening, when a rotund figure came out of the front door of Blandings Castle and began to walk down the drive. It was Claude Pott, private investigator, on his way to the Emsworth Arms to have a couple. The beer, he knew, was admirable there. And if it should seem strange that one so recently arrived in Market Blandings was in possession of this local knowledge, it may be explained that his first act on alighting from the station cab had been to canvass Ed. Robinson’s views on the matter. Like some canny explorer in the wilds, Mr Pott, on coming to a strange place, always made sure of his drink supply before doing anything else.

  Ed. Robinson, a perfect encyclopaedia on the subject in hand, had been fluent and informative. But while he had spoken with a generous warmth of the Wheatsheaf, the Waggoner’s Rest, the Beetle and Wedge, the Stitch in Time, the Blue Cow, the Blue Boar, the Blue Dragon and the Jolly Cricketers, for he was always a man to give credit where credit was due, he had made it quite clear where his heart lay, and it was thither that Mr Pott was now proceeding.

  He walked slowly, with bowed head, for he was counting ten-pound notes. And it was because his head was bowed that he did not immediately observe the approach of his old friend Lord Ickenham, who was coming with springy steps along the drive towards him. It was only when he heard a surprised voice utter his name that he looked up.

  Lord Ickenham had been for an afternoon ramble, in the course of which he had seen many interesting objects of the countryside, but here was one which he had not expected to see, and in his eyes as he saw it there was no welcoming glow. Claude Pott’s advent, he could not but feel, added another complication to an already complicated situation. And even a man who holds that complications lend spice to life may legitimately consider that enough is enough.

  ‘Mustard!’

  ‘Coo! Lord I.!’

  ‘What on earth are you doing in the middle of Shropshire, Mustard?’

  Mr Pott hesitated. For a moment, it seemed that professional caution was about to cause him to be evasive. Then he decided that so ancient a crony as his companion deserved to enjoy his confidence.

  ‘Well, it’s a secret, Lord I., but I know you won’t let it go any further. I was sent for.’

  ‘Sent for? By Polly?’

  ‘Polly? She’s not here?’

  ‘Yes, she is.’

  ‘I thought she was at your country seat.’

  ‘No, she’s at this country seat. Who sent for you?’

  ‘A member of the aristocracy residing at Blandings Castle. Name of Bosham. He rang me up night before last, engaging my professional services. Seems there’s impostors in the place, and he wants an eye kept on them.’

  For the first time since George, Viscount Bosham, had come into his life, Lord Ickenham began to feel a grudging respect for that young man’s intelligence stealing over him. It was clear that he had formed too low an estimate of this adversary. In lulling suspicion as he had done on the station platform by looking pink and letting his mouth hang open, while all the time he was planning to send for detectives, the other had acted, he was forced to confess, with a shrewdness amounting to the snaky.

  ‘Does he, by Jove?’ he said, giving his moustache a thoughtful twirl.

  ‘Yes, I’m to take up my residence as an unsuspected guest and keep my eyes skinned to see that they don’t walk off with the objets d’art.’

  ‘I see. What did he tell you about these impostors? Did he go into details?’

  ‘Not what you would call details. But he told me there was three of them — two m, one f.’

  ‘Myself, my nephew Pongo and your daughter Polly.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The impostors to whom Bosham refers are — reading from right to left — your daughter Polly, my nephew Pongo and myself.’

  ‘You’re pulling my leg, Lord I.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, this beats me.’

  ‘I thought it might. Perhaps I had better explain.’

  Before starting to do so, however, Lord Ickenham paused for a moment in thought. He had just remembered that Mr Pott was not an admirer of Ricky Gilpin and did not approve of his daughter’s desire to marry that ineligible young man. He also recalled that Polly had said that it was her father’s hope that she would succumb to the charms of Horace Davenport. It seemed to him, therefore, that if Mr Pott’s sympathy for and co-operation in their little venture was to be, secured, it would be necessary to deviate slightly from the actual facts. So he deviated from them. He was a man who was always ready to deviate from facts when the cause was good.

  ‘Polly,’ he began, ‘is in love with Horace Davenport.’

  Mr Pott’s eyes widened to saucerlike dimensions, and such was his emotion that he dropped a ten-pound note. Lord Ickenham picked it up, and looked at it with interest.

  ‘Hullo! Somebody been leaving you a fortune, Mustard?’

  Mr Pott smirked.

  ‘Tantamount to that, Lord I. Young Bosham — and a nice young fellow he is — was teaching me to play Persian Monarchs.’

  ‘You seem to have cleaned up.’

  ‘I had beginner’s luck,’ said Mr Pott modestly.

  ‘How much did you get away with?’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty I make it. He had a system which involved doubling up when he lost.’

  ‘That will make a nice little dowry for Polly. Help her to buy her trousseau.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘But I shall be coming back to that later. For the moment, I will be putting you au courant with the position of affairs at Blandings Castle. The key to the whole business, the thing you have to grasp at the outset, is that Polly is in love with Horace Davenport.’

  ‘When you told me that, you could have knocked me down with a feather. I thought the one she was in love with was young Gilpin.’

  ‘Oh, that? A mere passing flirtation. And even if it had been anything deeper, his behaviour at that Ball woul
d have quenched love’s spark.’

  ‘Love’s what?’

  ‘Spark.’

  ‘Oh, spark? Yes, that’s right, too,’ said Mr Pott, beginning to get the whole thing into perspective. ‘Cursing and swearing and calling her names, all because she went to a dance with somebody, such as is happening in our midst every day. Seems he’d told her not to go. A nice way to carry on with a girl of spirit. What right has he to get bossy and tell my dear daughter what she can do and what she can’t do? Who does he think he is? Ben Bolt?’

  ‘Ben who?’

  ‘Bolt. Bloke with the girl called Sweet-Alice-With-Hair-So-Brown who laughed with delight at his smile and trembled with fear at his frown. Does he expect my dear daughter to do that? Coo! Whoever heard of such a thing? Is this Greece?’

  Lord Ickenham weighed the question.

  ‘Not that I know of. Why?’

  ‘I didn’t mean Greece,’ said Mr Pott, correcting himself with some annoyance. ‘I meant Turkey, where women are kept in subjection and daren’t call their souls their own. If Polly hadn’t got a sweet nature, she’d have hit him with a bottle. But she’s her mother’s daughter.’

  ‘Whose daughter did you expect her to be?’

  ‘You don’t apprehend my meaning, Lord I.,’ said Mr Port patiently. ‘I meant that she takes after her dear mother in having a sweet nature. Her dear mother had the loving kindness of an angel or something, and so has Polly. That’s what I meant. Her dear mother wouldn’t hurt a fly, nor would Polly hurt a fly. I’ve seen her dear mother take a fly tenderly in her hand—’

  Lord Ickenham interrupted. He would have liked to hear all about the late Mrs Pott and the insect kingdom, but time was getting on.

  ‘Suppose we shelve the subject of flies for the moment, shall We, Mustard? Let us get back to Horace Davenport. As I was saying, he is the man Polly has got her eye on. And he loves her just as she loves him. He came down here the day after that dance, and we came the day after, following him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s quite simple. You know who Horace is, Mustard. The nephew and heir of the Duke of Dunstable.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Mr Pott, and seemed about to bare his head.

  ‘And we have come here in the humble capacity of impostors because it is essential, if there is to be a happy ending, that Polly shall fascinate the Duke and set him thinking that she is the ideal girl to marry his nephew and heir. This Duke is tough, Mustard. He nails his collar to the back of his neck to save buying studs. Horace has been scared to death of him since infancy, and would never have the nerve to marry unless he first put up the All Right sign. Before Polly can walk up the aisle with Horace Davenport, the Duke has got to be worked on lovingly and patiently. And I cannot impress it upon you too emphatically that you must keep yourself in the background, Mustard. Polly is supposed to be my daughter.’

  In a few well-chosen words Lord Ickenham sketched out the position of affairs. Mr Pott, when he had finished, seemed inclined to be critical.

  ‘Seems a roundabout way of doing things,’ he complained. ‘Why couldn’t she have come here as my daughter?’

  ‘Well, it just happened to work out the other way,’ said Lord Ickenham tactfully. ‘Too late to do anything about it now. But you understand?’

  ‘Oh, I understand.’

  ‘I knew you would. Nobody has ever disparaged your intelligence, though I have known people to be a bit captious about the habit of yours of always cutting the ace. And that brings me back to what I was saying just now. This money you’ve taken off Bosham. Kiss it goodbye, Mustard.’

  ‘I don’t follow you, Lord I.’

  ‘I want you to give me that money, my dear old friend —’

  ‘What!’

  ‘— and I will hand it over to Polly as her wedding portion. I know, I know,’ said Lord Ickenham sympathetically. ‘You’ve no need to tell me that it will be agony. I can see the thought searing your soul. But there comes a time in every man’s life, Mustard, when he has to decide whether to do the fine, generous thing or be as the beasts that perish. Put yourself in Polly’s place. The child must have her little bit of snuff, to make her feel that she is not going empty-handed to the man she loves. Her pride demands it.’

  ‘Yes, but hoy —!’

  ‘And think how you have always watched over her with a father’s tender care. Did she have measles as a child?’

  ‘Yes, she had measles, but that’s not the point —’

  ‘It is the point, Mustard. Throw your mind back to the picture of her lying there, flushed and feverish. You would have given all you possessed to help her then. I see your eyes are wet with tears.’

  ‘No, they aren’t.’

  ‘Well, they ought to be.’

  ‘I don’t approve of a young girl having a lot of money. I wouldn’t mind giving her a tenner.

  ‘Pah!’

  ‘Yes, but two hundred and fifty—’

  ‘A trifle compared with your peace of mind. If you fail her now, you will never have another happy moment. It would be criminal to allow a sensitive girl like Polly to get married without a penny in her pocket. You’re a man of the world, Mustard. You know what buying a trousseau means. She will need two of everything. And can you subject her to the degradation of going and touching her future husband for those intimate articles of underclothing which a nice girl shrinks from naming when there are gentlemen present? Compel her to do so, and you leave a scar on her pure soul which the years may hide but which will always be there.’

  Mr Pott shuffled his feet.

  ‘She needn’t tell him what she wants the money for.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Mustard, don’t try to evade the issue. Of course, she would have to tell him what she wanted the money for. A girl can’t be whispering in the twilight with the man she loves and suddenly introduce a demand for two hundred and fifty pounds as a sort of side issue. She will have to get right down to it and speak of camisoles and slips. Are you going to force her to do that? It will not make very pleasant reading in your biography, my dear chap. As I see it,’ said Lord Ickenham gravely, ‘you are standing at the crossroads, Mustard. This way lies happiness for Polly, peace of mind for you … that way, self-scorn for you, misery for her. Which road will you take? I seem to picture your late wife asking herself the same question. I can see her up there now … watching … waiting … all agog … wondering if you are going to do the square thing. Don’t disappoint her, Mustard.’

  Mr Pott continued to shuffle his feet. It was plain that in one sense he was touched, but not so certain that he intended to be in another.

  ‘How about a nice twenty?’

  ‘All or nothing, Mustard, all or nothing. Dash it, it’s not as if the money would be lost. You can always take it off Horace at Persian Monarchs after the honeymoon.’

  Mr Pott’s face lit up with a sudden glow that made it for a moment almost beautiful.

  ‘Coo! That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘It seems to me to solve the whole difficulty.’

  ‘Of course I can. Here you are, Lord I.’

  ‘Thank you, Mustard. I knew you would not fail. And now, if you will excuse me, I will be going and taking a bath. In the course of my rambles I seem to have got quite a lot of Shropshire on my person. The moment I have removed it, I will find Polly and tell her the good news. You will never regret this, my dear fellow.’

  In this prediction, Lord Ickenham was wrong. Mr Pott was regretting it rather keenly. He was not the man to see two hundred and fifty pounds pass from his possession without a pang, and already a doubt had begun to creep over him as to whether the transaction could, as his companion had so jauntily suggested, be looked on as merely a temporary loan. Long before he reached Market Blandings he had begun to wonder if he could really rely on Horace Davenport. It takes two to play Persian Monarchs, and it might be that Horace would prove to be one of those odd, unpleasant people who have no fondness for the game. He had sometimes met them on race trains.
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  However, there is always something stimulating in the doing of a good deed, and Claude Pott, as he entered the private bar of the Emsworth Arms, could have been written down as on the whole a reasonably happy man. He was at any rate sufficiently uplifted to be in a mood for conversation, and it was with the idea of initiating a feast of reason and a flow of soul that he addressed the only other occupant of the bar, a thick-set young man seated at its shadowy end.

  ‘Nice day,’ he said.

  His fellow-customer turned, revealing himself as Ricky Gilpin.

  15

  Ricky had come to the private bar in search of relief for his bruised soul, and he could have made no wiser move. Nothing can ever render the shattering of his hopes and the bringing of his dream castles to ruin about his ears really agreeable to a young man, but the beer purveyed by G. Ovens, proprietor of the Emsworth Arms, unquestionably does its best. The Ovens home-brewed is a liquid Pollyanna, for ever pointing out the bright side and indicating silver linings. It slips its little hand in yours, and whispers ‘Cheer up!’ If King Lear had had a tankard of it handy, we should have had far less of that ‘Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks!’ stuff.

  On Ricky it acted like magic. Hours of brooding over that interview with his Uncle Alaric had brought him into the bar a broken man. At the moment of Mr Pott’s entry, he was once more facing the future with something hike fortitude.

  Money, the beer pointed out, was not everything. ‘Look at it this way,’ it argued. ‘It’s absurd to say there aren’t a hundred ways by which a smart and enterprising young fellow can get enough money to marry on. The essential thing about this marrying business is not money, but the girl. If the girl’s all right, everything’s all right. It’s true that at the moment you’re down among the wines and spirits a bit financially, but what of it? Polly’s still there, loving you just as much as ever. And something is sure to turn up.’

  And now Mr Pott had turned up. And at the sight of him it was as if the scales had suddenly fallen from Ricky Gilpin’s eyes.

  Until this moment, the idea of trying to secure the purchase price of the onion soup bar from Claude Pott had never occurred to him. But when you examined it, what an obvious solution it seemed. Mr Pott was Polly’s father. He had once rescued Mr Pott from an infuriated mob. That Mr Pott should supply the money to ensure Polly’s happiness and repay that old debt was one of the things that one recognizes as dramatically right.