Blotto, Twinks and Riddle of the Sphinx Read online

  ‘Maybe, but—’

  ‘We’re right, and we’ve always been right – in every sense,’ Twinks continued forcefully. ‘Common people should never be allowed near to the business of government. We all know that. The only people who have the skills to rule are those who also have the right to rule – in other words, people like us.’

  ‘But—

  ‘You’re not disagreeing with me, are you, Blotters?’

  ‘No, no, what you’re saying is absolutely tickey-tockey. And of course now you ladies have got the vote too, haven’t you?’ He couldn’t help giggling. ‘Who’ll they be giving it to next? Children? Dogs? Cats?’

  His sister turned on him a look of uncharacteristic sternness. ‘Blotto, you are trivialising one of the most important political developments of this or any century.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about “trivialising”.’ He was speaking no more than the truth. He’d never heard the word before. Blotto found himself giggling again as he went on. ‘But it does seem a bit banana-shaped, doesn’t it . . . I mean, the idea of women troubling their pretty heads about votes and politics and . . . ?’

  The intensity of the look now being beamed from his sister’s azure eyes dried up his words at source. Must remember, he gave himself a memo, clearly women’s suffrage was one of the few areas of life where Twinks didn’t see the joke. Probably a subject to steer the dinghy away from in the future.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, shrewdly diverting the conversation in another direction, ‘about this boddo on the train, you’ve got the wrong end of the treacle spoon.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Talking about him already having my vote. And,’ he reminded himself, ‘your vote as well. You see, that wasn’t the point I was making about him.’

  ‘Then what was it?’ asked Twinks, still testy.

  Blotto was silent, not wanting to break the news too suddenly. Then he announced, ‘This particular pineapple I met on the train wasn’t a Tory.’

  ‘Great Wilberforce! What was he then? A Liberal?’

  ‘No.’ Blotto paused again before saying the word. ‘He was a Socialist.’

  Now Twinks was not the kind of girl who’d ever before had the need for smelling salts. Her reckless insouciance in the face of danger had frequently been commented on. And she was a lot braver than the raft of sporting and military heroes who so regularly fell in love with her.

  But these were exceptional circumstances. Never in her life had Twinks been subjected to a shock on such a scale.

  Fortunately Blotto remembered that in her sequinned reticule his sister always kept a bottle of sal volatile to revive females less intrepid than herself. It was a matter of moments to have the top off and be waving the restorative beneath his sister’s fine nose. Within seconds she shook her delicate head, setting up ripples in her ash-blonde hair, and was herself again.

  ‘Are you saying, Blotto,’ she asked, ‘that the constituency in which we, the Lyminster family, live, might perhaps one day be represented in the Houses of Parliament by a Socialist?’

  He gave a sombre nod to confirm the awful possibility. Another long silence ensued while his sister digested the information. ‘It’ll never happen,’ she announced, but her customary assurance had momentarily deserted her.

  She brought her focus back to the matter in hand. ‘You still haven’t told me, Blotto me old curry-comb, why you began telling me this saga of the six-faced Socialist . . .’

  ‘Ah well, no, you see, the thing is, we were talking about money, weren’t we? Or rather the lack of it so far as Tawcester Towers is concerned. And I was struck by something that this potential Member of Parliament boddo said to me.’

  ‘What did the running sore say to you?’

  ‘Well, when he found out who I was—’

  ‘You let the little filch-features know who you were?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he asked me.’

  ‘That was no reason to answer him. Slimers like that should either recognise members of the aristocracy or keep their verminous little mouths shut!’ Twinks could sound worryingly like her mother at times. And Blotto had never heard her being quite so vindictive towards the lower classes. Generally, like most people of her breeding, Twinks just basked in her obvious superiority over the rest of the world and took no notice of those less privileged. In a rare moment of perception, Blotto concluded that her current viciousness was born of frustration. His sister was unused to not finding an instant solution to a problem, – viz. the financial crisis facing Tawcester Towers – and it was not an experience she was enjoying.

  ‘Anyway,’ she went on grumpily, ‘when he did find out who you were, what did he say?’

  ‘Ah, now this was interesting. He said I was a dinosaur. “A dinosaur in the twentieth century,” he said. Which I thought was rather odd, because I didn’t think there were any dinosaurs in the twentieth century. I thought they all died out yonks back. What’s more, I’ve seen pictures of dinosaurs and, so far as I can tell, I don’t look anything like them. I haven’t got any of those funny horn things sticking out. Or scaly skin, come to that.’ Blotto had never been very at ease with metaphors. ‘But that’s what the oik said. And then he went on, “Come the revolution, you’ll be one of the first ones up against the wall!” I thought it was a bit of a rum baba that he said that too.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t have expected a stencher like that to have heard of the Eton Wall Game.’

  ‘Erm, Blotto me old moustache-curler, I’m not sure that’s what he—’

  ‘Anyway, that wasn’t the important thing the filcher said.’

  ‘So what was?’

  ‘He said, “You must be rolling in it.” Took me a moment to work out what he thought I was rolling in, but then I decided he meant money.’

  ‘I think he probably did.’

  ‘And then he went on, “Families like yours make all your money from the sweat of the brows of honest working men, build yourself dirty great piles like Tawcester Towers – there’s no justice. You must be rolling in it.”’ Blotto slurped down the last of his cocoa with considerable relish, then beamed at his sister. ‘See?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘Well, if an uneducated trumble like that reckons that we’re rolling in it . . .’

  ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘Then that must mean that we really are rolling in it. Mustn’t it?’

  ‘Erm,’ said Twinks. ‘Actually, Blotters . . . it’s not quite as simple as that.’

  3

  Men of Business

  The two siblings arranged to meet Mr Crouptickle again, this time without their mother present. Since they did not wish the Dowager Duchess to suspect that they were going behind her back, they met away from Tawcester Towers at the accountant’s office in Tawsford, the county town of Tawcestershire.

  Mr Crouptickle’s premises were in a square Georgian building made in the biscuit-coloured local stone. There was an air of opulence about the whole set-up. He had a large number of secretaries working in an outer office on the latest typewriters. However much his clients might be feeling the pinch, it was clear that Mr Crouptickle himself was doing very nicely, thank you.

  The coffee he had ordered came in a Georgian silver pot, and the bone-china cups would not have disgraced Tawcester Towers. A secretary poured for them, and then left the meeting room.

  ‘So, milord, milady . . . to what do I owe this pleasure?’

  His manner was not the appropriate one for a minor functionary addressing his betters. There was an air of smugness about him, almost of condescension. As though he were in some way superior to them. Blotto and Twinks bridled. From the Crusades onwards, the Lyminsters had taken a pretty dim view of people imagining they were superior to them.

  ‘The fact is,’ said Twinks, ‘we would like a little clarification about the process by which a large amount of gold bullion was transmogrified into worthless stocks and shares.’

>   The man of business shrugged with elaborate helplessness. ‘I’m afraid that is the way of the world, milady. Since recent unfortunate events in the United States, international markets have become extremely volatile.’

  ‘So are you actually saying,’ asked Blotto, ‘that the jingle-jangle from the sale of the bullion has all gone?’

  Another helpless shrug. ‘How I wish I could say that was not the case. But I’m afraid it is.’ No one had ever issued an apology that sound less apologetic.

  ‘Surely, though, Mr Crouptickle,’ insisted Twinks, ‘as our mother’s man of business, it is your job to give her advice on financial matters.’

  ‘Indeed it is, milady. But have you ever known your mother to show much aptitude for taking advice?’

  The question was unanswerable. Dammit, the man was right.

  ‘And since,’ he went on, ‘she doesn’t listen to advice, but keeps ordering me to do things, my job is reduced to the single function of following her instructions. Do you think I would be well advised to question such instructions from your mother?’

  Blotto let out a heartfelt ‘No.’ He remembered once in the nursery questioning his mother’s instructions. He could still feel the humiliation of the beating with the back of a hairbrush that the Dowager Duchess had delegated his nanny to administer.

  ‘So,’ the man of business continued, ‘when your mother instructed me to sell the gold bullion and invest the proceeds in stocks and shares – whatever my own views on the inadvisability of such a course might have been – I had no alternative but to follow them.’

  Twinks looked downcast. ‘I was rather afraid that was what you’d say. But I thought the question was worth asking.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mr Crouptickle, not sounding sorry at all. In fact sounding almost gleeful.

  ‘So what else can we do?’ asked Blotto. ‘Get one of those mortgage flipmadoodles?’

  ‘If only you could,’ came the unctuous reply. ‘But Tawcester Towers is already mortgaged.’

  ‘To the hilt?’

  ‘Rather deeper than that. In fact, the estate is so deeply mortgaged even the tip of the hilt is not visible.’

  ‘So it’s down to selling the family silver, is it?’

  ‘Ah, milady, if only that were possible . . .’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The family silver is allowed to stay in Tawcester Towers by special dispensation of the bank who owns it as security on previous loans.’

  ‘And dare I ask about the family portraits in the Long Gallery?’

  ‘I’m afraid exactly the same situation obtains with them, milady.’

  ‘And there’s nothing else we can sell?’

  Mr Crouptickle spread his hands wide in a gesture of helplessness. ‘Can you think of anything else you can sell?’

  Twinks was forced to admit that she couldn’t.

  ‘Though we’ll have a jolly good shuffle round the old place,’ Blotto asserted defiantly, ‘and I’m sure we’ll find something. Won’t we, Twinks me old pan scourer?’

  For once his sister could not provide a reassuring affirmative. ‘Do you have any other suggestions as to what we could do, Mr Crouptickle?’ The never-before-heard quality in her voice was humility.

  ‘I fear there is only one solution, milady.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘To sell Tawcester Towers.’

  ‘Sell Tawcester Towers!’ said Blotto and Twinks together, too shocked to be capable of more than an echo.

  ‘There is a market for such properties,’ insinuated Mr Crouptickle. ‘A few have been turned into hotels, and I’m sure that is a trend which will increase as more and more long-established families begin to feel the economic pinch.’

  ‘An hotel?’ Twinks could scarcely bring herself to say the word. ‘An hotel? Are you suggesting that Tawcester Towers should be turned into an hotel?’

  ‘And have lots of oikish spongeworms sleeping in our beds?’ said Blotto.

  ‘It is a possibility, milord.’

  ‘No, it isn’t, Crouptickle.’

  ‘Anyway, if we were to sell Tawcester Towers,’ demanded Twinks, ‘where would we live?’

  ‘I might suggest that you could move into cheap rented accommodation and get jobs.’

  ‘No Lyminster would ever do that!’ cried the unison voices of Blotto and Twinks.

  Eventually a kind of compromise was agreed. Though not optimistic of the chances of finding anything worth selling, Mr Crouptickle suggested that an inventory should be made of the contents of Tawcester Towers. He pressed the button of an electric buzzer on his desk and, like an unpleasant smell borne on the wind from a distant privy, there appeared in his office another black-suited man, unbelievably even thinner than his employer. The two of them looked like a pair of praying mantises.

  ‘May I introduce Mr Snidely? Also an accountant like myself,’ said Mr Crouptickle. ‘Lord Devereux Lyminster and Lady Honoria Lyminster.’

  The newcomer bowed to his superiors, as obsequious as a pat of butter melting on a hot muffin. ‘I am extremely honoured to be in your presence, milord, milady.’

  ‘You certainly are,’ said Twinks, a glacial version of her mother. Though not snobbish to all common people, she had a particular – and entirely appropriate – animus against those who came under the category of accountants or solicitors.

  Mr Snidely turned to Mr Crouptickle. ‘And what task is it which is to be entrusted to my competence?’ he asked.

  The man of business gave him a brief résumé of his duties. It was agreed that Mr Snidely should report to Tawcester Towers the following morning to begin the compilation of his inventory. ‘And should I present myself to you, milord? Or you, milady?’

  ‘Neither,’ said Twinks, still sounding uncannily like her mother. ‘You should present yourself to Grimshaw the butler.’

  She didn’t want people like Mr Snidely getting ideas above their station.

  As they left the accountant’s office and got into the Lagonda, Blotto and Twinks saw a large banner hanging outside Tawsford Town Hall which read: VOTE FOR ALFRED SPROCKETT. RALLY THIS AFTERNOON. EVERYONE WELCOME.

  ‘And who’s Alfred Sprockett when he’s got his spats on?’ asked a disconsolate Twinks.

  ‘Toad-in-the-hole!’ said Blotto as a recollection came to him. ‘I’ve met the stencher!’

  ‘You’ve met him? I can’t believe it, Blotters. You went to Eton, and you’re telling me you’ve actually met someone called Alfred Sprockett?’

  ‘He was the four-faced filcher I encountered on the train.’

  ‘The Socialist?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Twinks looked again at the Town Hall, and observed that a lot of depressed-looking men in flat caps and women in battered hats were filing in through the entrance. Suddenly she was more cheerful. ‘Larksissimo!’ she cried. ‘His rally’s starting right now. Let’s go in and find out what we’re up against.’

  ‘Toad-in-the-hole,’ said Blotto, as ever amazed by his sister’s daring.

  4

  Dangerous Talk

  Blotto had never been inside the Town Hall, though his sister had attended a few occasions when their mother was required to patronise the local populace. Flower shows, charity teas, mayoral inaugurations, wakes after the funerals of Tawsford dignitaries . . . all such events were thought to be given an added lustre by the presence of the Dowager Duchess of Tawcester. The lady herself rationed such appearances as much as was possible, and when prevailed on to attend, fixed her craggy face in an expression of undisguised disgust, as though she were offended by the aromas arising from the local citizenry. As indeed she was. But local reports, either in gossip or the newspapers, always commented on how ‘gracious’ Her Grace had been.

  To the surprise of Blotto and Twinks, it was clear that Alfred Sprockett was a popular man in the community. There was hardly a spare seat to be had inside the Town Hall. And on entrance their nostrils were immediately assailed by the kind of odours that
so offended their mother. Twinks, whose olfactory sensibility was as well developed as all her other senses, was able to identify a good many of the trades pursued by members of the throng. Tanners were certainly present, also men involved in the sewerage industry. She identified the smoky tang of blacksmiths, foundrymen and charcoal burners.

  Nor were the females present odour-free. Cooks brought with them the fatty stench of the kitchen, housemaids the whiff of furniture polish, nurses the miasma of disinfectant. Though the part of Twinks so supportive of women’s suffrage approved of their attending a political rally, her delicate nose was less enthusiastic.

  Predominating over all the other aromas, however, from men or women, were the emanations of the farmyard. It was abundantly evident that many of those present had only recently left the company of cattle, horses and particularly pigs. The soil of which they were sons and daughters clung to their boots and garments.

  Twinks found it all absolutely fascinating.

  She and her brother were unaware of the rather old-fashioned looks that were being cast in their direction. They had been brought up to be unaware of anyone who wasn’t of comparable breeding to their own. Members of Alfred Sprockett’s audience were as invisible to them as the majority of the Tawcester Towers servants (with the honourable exception of Corky Froggett the chauffeur).

  So it would never have occurred to either of them that they might look out of place at the gathering in Tawsford Town Hall. True, no one else present was wearing full shooting tweeds and a brown homburg like Blotto. Nor were any of the other women sporting above-the-knee grey silk dresses, silver mink coats and cloche hats like Twinks. But neither of the siblings noticed these differences. They were, in some senses, great egalitarians.

  Instead they focused their attention on the eloquence of the occasion’s principal attraction, Alfred Sprockett. In his account to his sister of their encounter in a first-class railway carriage, Blotto had not provided any physical description of the gentleman (if that was the right word in the circumstances?), so she had not been prepared for what she saw on the stage of Tawsford Town Hall.