Pigs Have Wings (17 page)

‘Eh? Oh, good morning. Yes. Wanted to speak to him about something.’

‘He won’t be back till tonight, I’m afraid. He has gone to Wolverhampton.’

‘So Beach was saying.’

‘He is making a speech there to some sort of pig-breeding society. But you will stay to lunch, won’t you?’

Sir Gregory considered. Lunch? Not a bad idea. He had a solid respect for the artistry of the castle cook, and now that Gloria Salt had given him the old heave-ho, there was no obstacle to his enjoyment of it.

‘Kind of you,’ he said. ‘Delighted.’

He looked forward to filling himself to the brim under Gloria’s eyes, defiantly sailing into the potatoes and generally raising hell with the calories. That, in his opinion, would show her she wasn’t everybody.

When Gally had left Lord Vosper so abruptly in the middle of their conversation on the terrace, it was with the intention of hastening to Matchingham Hall and confronting its proprietor, and such was his agitation of spirit that he was half-way there before he realized that a sensible man would have taken the car instead of walking. It being too late to turn back now, he completed the journey on foot, using the short cut across the fields, and reached his destination in a state of considerable warmth.

Binstead’s manner, as he imparted the information that Sir Gregory was not at home, should have cooled him, for it was frigid in the extreme. It was impossible for so young a butler to be as glacial as Beach would have been in similar circumstances, but he was as glacial as he knew how to be, and it disappointed him that this visiting pig stealer appeared quite oblivious to his chilliness. Gally was much too exhausted by his hike to make a close study of butlers and notice whether they were hot or cold.

‘I’ll come in and wait,’ he said, and Binstead, though in inward revolt against the suggestion, did not see what he could do to prevent the intrusion. Reluctantly he conducted Gally to the study, and Gally, making for the sofa, put his feet up with a contented sigh. He then outraged Binstead’s feelings still further by asking for a whisky and soda.

‘A good strong one,’ said Gally, and such was the magic of his personality that the butler, who had stiffened from head to foot, relaxed with a meek ‘Yes, sir’.

When he returned with the restorative, Gally had settled down to
The Times
crossword puzzle.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘You don’t know what a large Australian bird in three letters beginning with E is, do you?’

‘I do not, sir,’ said Binstead icily, and withdrew.

For some minutes after he was alone, Gally gave himself up to the crossword puzzle, concentrating tensely. But crossword puzzles are only a palliative. They do not really cure the aching heart. Soon his mind was straying back to the burden that weighed on it, and he put the paper down with a weary sigh and gave himself up to thought.

It might have been supposed that a man who had himself purloined a pig on the previous night would have looked with an indulgent eye on the pig-stealing activities of others, on the principle that a fellow-feeling makes one wondrous kind. But there was nothing resembling tolerant sympathy in Gally’s mind as he sat there brooding on Sir Gregory Parsloe. The blackness of the other’s villainy appalled him. He could see no excuse for the fellow. Still, there it was and no use thinking about it. He tried to envisage the outcome, were the man to stick to his guns and refuse to restore the Empress.

A superficial thinker would have said in his haste that the thing was a stand-off. If Empress of Blandings had been removed from circulation, he would have reasoned, so had Queen of Matchingham. Here, in other words, were two pigs, both missing, and these two pigs cancelled each other out.

But Gally saw more deeply into the matter, and shuddered at what he saw. What the superficial thinker was overlooking was the fact that while the Empress was the solitary jewel in Lord Emsworth’s crown, the man Parsloe had another pig up his sleeve which he could thrust into the arena at a moment’s notice. In the whirl of recent events, Pride of Matchingham, the original Parsloe entry, had rather receded into the background, but it was still there, a unit in the Parsloe stable, and if necessary it could do its stuff.

And with what hideous effectiveness! For two years Pride of Matchingham had been runner-up in the contest, and in the absence of the Empress its triumph was assured. In other words, all the man Parsloe had to do was to hang on to the Empress, and he would flourish like a green bay tree. If there was a bitterer thought than that, Gally would have been interested to learn what it was. It was the sudden realization of this angle that had caused Sir Gregory to perk up so noticeably towards the end of his interview with George Cyril Wellbeloved.

After a three mile walk on a hot summer morning, followed by a stiffish whisky and soda in a comfortable arm chair, a man who is getting on in years tends to become drowsy, and at this point in his meditations Gally’s head began to nod.

For a long time the study remained hushed and still except for an occasional gurgle, like that of a leaky radiator. Then the telephone bell rang, and Gally sat up with a jerk.

He lifted the receiver. Somebody at the other end of the wire was saying ‘Sir’ – huskily, like a voice speaking from the tomb.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Wellbeloved, Sir Gregory.’

The last mists of sleep cleared from Gally’s mind. He became keen and alert. He was a man of the world, and he knew that pig men do not call their employers on the telephone unless they have something urgent to say. Plainly this Wellbeloved was about to plot, and he was consequently in a position of a Private Eye who is listening in on the intimate agenda of the Secret Nine.

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m phoning from the Beetle and Wedge, Sir Gregory. And I was wondering, Sir Gregory,’ proceeded George Cyril Wellbeloved, a pleading note creeping into his voice, ‘if under the circs, it being such a warm day and me all worn out from toiling in your interests, I might have a glass of beer.’

‘Certainly, certainly,’ said Gally heartily. ‘Have all you want and tell them to charge it to me.’

There was a silence. It seemed for a moment that the pig man had swooned. When he resumed, it was plain from the new animation with which he spoke that he was feeling that there had been a great improvement in his employer since they had last met. This, he seemed to be saying to himself, was something like sweetness and light.

‘Well, sir,’ he said, sunnily, ‘I’ve found her.’

‘Eh?’

‘The Queen, sir.’

Gally reeled. The words had been like a blow between his eyes. He had been so sure that his secret was safe from the world, and here he was, unmasked by a pig man. For a long instant he stood speechless. Then he managed to utter.

‘Good God!’

‘Yes, sir, it took a bit of doing, but I did it, and I came along here to the Beetle and Wedge to apprise you of her whereabouts. Following your instructions, sir, I proceeded to Blandings Castle … About that beer,’ said George Cyril Wellbeloved, digressing for a moment. ‘Would it run to a spot of gin in it, sir?’

‘Yes, yes, yes.’

‘Thank you, sir. I find it improves the flavour. Well, sir, as I was saying, I proceeded to Blandings Castle and proceeded to lurk unseen. What had occurred to me, thinking it over, was that if the Queen was being held in durance vile – that’s an expression they use, sir, I don’t know if it’s familiar to you – somebody would have to be feeding her pretty soon, and this, I presumed, would be done by an underling, if you understand the word, effecting an egress through the back door. So I lurked near the back door, and sure enough out came Mr Beach, the butler, carrying in his hand a substantial pail and glancing very nervous from side to side as much as to say “Am I observed?” Well, sir, to cut a long story short, he proceeded to proceed to what is known as the west wood – which is a wood lying in a westerly direction – and there fetched up at an edifice which I assumed to have been at one time the residence of one of the gamekeepers. He went in. He effected an entrance,’ said George Cyril Wellbeloved, correcting himself, ‘and I crope up secretly and looked in through the window, and there was the Queen, sir, as large as life. And then I took my departure and proceeded here and rang you up on the telephone so as to apprise you of what had transpired and leave it to you to take what steps you may consider germane to the issue, trusting I have given satisfaction as is my constant endeavour. And, now, sir, with your permission, I will be ringing off and going and securing the beer you have so kindly donated. Thank you, sir.’

‘Hey!’ shouted Gally.

‘Sir?’

‘Where’s the Empress?’

‘Why, just where we left her, sir,’ said George Cyril Wellbeloved, surprised, and hung up.

Gally replaced the receiver, and stood dazed and numb. He was thinking hard thoughts of George Cyril Wellbeloved and wondering a little that such men were permitted to roam at large in a civilized country. If at that moment he had learned that George Cyril Wellbeloved had tripped over a hole in the Beetle and Wedge’s linoleum and broken his neck, he would, like Pollyanna, have been glad, glad, glad.

But men of the stamp of the Hon. Galahad Threepwood do not remain dazed and numb for long. Another moment, and he was lifting the receiver and asking for the number of Blandings Castle. And presently Beach’s voice came over the wire.

‘Hullo? Lord Emsworth’s residence. Beach, the butler, speaking.’

‘Beach,’ said Gally, wasting no time in courteous preliminaries, ‘pick up those flat feet of yours and race like a mustang to the west wood and remove that pig. That blasted Wellbeloved was tailing you up when you went to feed the animal, and has just been making his report to me, thinking that I was the man Parsloe. We’ve got to find another resting place for it before he realizes his error, and most fortunately I know of one that will be ideal. Do you remember Fruity Biffen? Don’t be an ass, Beach, of course you remember Fruity Biffen. My friend Admiral Biffen. Until a few days ago he was living in a house on the Shrewsbury road. You can’t mistake it. It’s got a red roof, and it’s called Sunnybrae. Take this pig there and deposit it in the kitchen. What do you mean, what will Admiral Biffen say? He isn’t there. He went back to London, leaving the place empty. So put the pig … What’s that?
How
? Use a wheelbarrow, man, use a wheelbarrow.’

In his office in Long Island City, N.Y., Mr Donaldson of Donaldson’s Dog Joy was dictating a cable to his secretary.

‘Lady Constance Keeble, Blandings Castle, Shropshire, England. Got that?’

‘Yes, Mr Donaldson.’

Mr Donaldson thought for a moment. The divine afflatus descended on him, and he spoke rapidly.

‘“Cannot understand your letter just received saying you find my old friend Mrs Bunbury so charming. Stop. Where do you get that old friend Mrs Bunbury stuff. Query mark. I never had an old friend Mrs Bunbury. Stop. If person calling self Mrs Bunbury has insinuated self into Blandings Castle claiming to be old friend of mine, comma, she is a goshdarned impostor and strongly advocate throwing her out on her … ” What’s the word, Miss Horwitt?’

‘Keister, Mr Donaldson.’

‘Thank you, Miss Horwitt. “Strongly advocate throwing her out on her keister or calling police reserves. Stop. Old friend of mine forsooth. Stop. The idea. Stop. Never heard of such a thing. Stop.”’

‘Shall I add “Hoity-toity”, Mr Donaldson?’

‘No. Just kindest regards.’

‘Yes, Mr Donaldson.’

‘Right. Send it direct.’

THE ANNUAL BINGE
or jamboree of the Shropshire, Herefordshire and South Wales Pig Breeders’ Association is always rather a long time breaking up. Pig breeders are of an affectionate nature and hate to tear themselves away from other pig breeders. The proceedings concluded, they like to linger and light pipes and stand around asking the boys if they know the one about the young man of Calcutta. It was consequently not till late in the afternoon that the car which had taken Lord Emsworth and Maudie to Wolverhampton – Alfred Voules, chauffeur, at the wheel – began its return journey.

Stress was laid earlier in this narrative on the fact that the conscientious historian, when recording any given series of events, is not at liberty to wander off down byways, however attractive, but is compelled to keep plodding steadily along the dusty high road of his story, and this must now be emphasized again to explain why the chronicler does not at this point diverge from his tale to give a word for word transcript of Lord Emsworth’s speech. It would have been a congenial task, calling out all the best in him, but it cannot be done. Fortunately the loss to Literature is not irreparable. A full report will be found in the
Bridgnorth, Shifnal and Albrighton Argus
(with which is incorporated the
Wheat Growers’ Intelligencer and Stock Breeders’ Gazetteer
), which is in every home.

Nor is he able to reveal the details of the conversation in the car, because there was no conversation in the car. It was Lord Emsworth’s custom, when travelling, to fall asleep at the start of the journey and remain asleep throughout. Possibly on a special occasion like this a strong man’s passion might have kept him awake, at least for the first mile or two, but the cold from which he was suffering lowered his resistance and he had had a tiring day trying to keep his top hat balanced on his head. So Nature took its toll, and Maudie, watching him, was well pleased, for his insensibility fitted in neatly with her plans. She was contemplating a course of action which she would have found difficult to carry out with a wakeful host prattling at her side.

As the car neared the home stretch and his thoughts, like drifting thistledown, had begun to turn to supper and beer, Alfred Voules heard the glass panel slide back behind him and a hushed voice say ‘Hey!’

‘Listen,’ whispered Maudie. ‘Do you know a place called Matchingham Hall? And don’t yell, or you’ll wake Lord Emsworth.’

Alfred Voules knew Matchingham Hall well. He replied in a hoarse undertone that it was just round the next bend in the road and they would be coming to it in a couple of ticks.