Blotto, Twinks and the Intimate Revue Page 6

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said the Earl, without enthusiasm. ‘You can go, Pentecost.’

  ‘Yes, milord.’ The butler paused by the door. ‘Would it be appropriate, milord, for me to offer your guests some refreshment?’

  ‘Heavens, no, Pentecost. Start doing that, and they’ll never leave.’

  ‘Very good, milord.’ The butler melted into the corridor.

  The Earl continued to take no notice of his guests, preoccupied with affixing, with hoof glue and a pair of tweezers, another matchstick to what was clearly the cupola above the Little Tickling entrance hall. Once he had got that in place to his satisfaction, he looked round for his next building block, and found he had run out. He picked up a matchbox bearing the insignia of an upmarket pipe-maker which operated in an arcade off Jermyn Street, and shook out its contents. With a scalpel he began to cut off the heads of the matches, discarding the flammable parts to join thousands of others in a large wooden crate beside his workbench.

  Blotto cleared his throat, aware that he wasn’t doing it as well as Pentecost had. But the sound did at least make the Earl look up briefly. ‘Oh,’ he said, before returning to his matchsticks and scalpel. ‘You still here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Erm. We actually have met before,’ Blotto ventured.

  ‘Have we? No recollection of it. I can’t be expected to remember every Tom, Dick and Harry, you know.’

  ‘I’m actually not a Tom, or a Dick, or a Harry. I’m a Lyminster.’

  ‘Are you, by thunder?’

  ‘Tickey-Tockey. Your son Giles and I were muffin-toasters at Eton.’

  ‘Were you, by lightning?’

  ‘Yes. I often used to come here to play cricket with him.’

  This did finally seem to penetrate the aged peer’s consciousness. ‘Oh yes, I know who you are. Potto.’

  ‘Blotto.’

  ‘Blotto, yes. I remember you. Thick as a dungeon wall.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, milord.’

  ‘Here for the cricket, are you? Is it the cricket season already?’

  ‘No, milord.’

  Twinks had been silent for much longer than was her custom. She now burst out with: ‘We’re here because your son Giles has been abducted.’

  ‘Yes, I heard about that.’ The noble peer, completely unperturbed, turned back to his matchsticks and tweezers.

  ‘And we,’ Twinks persisted, ‘are determined to find him and set him free.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be too difficult . . . that is, assuming that you have a spare hundred thou.’

  ‘Ah, well, that’s a bit of a fly in the woodpile,’ said Blotto. ‘You see, because of the plumbing.’

  ‘Plumbing?’

  ‘Yes, milord. The Tawcester Towers plumbing.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Blotto, though I do remember you better with every word you say. It all comes back – you never had anything between the ears. A total void.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, milord.’

  ‘I think there’s one pointette that should be made,’ said Twinks. ‘Even if we did have a spare hundred thou . . .’

  ‘Which we don’t,’ Blotto asserted.

  ‘. . . the fact is that the ransom note was addressed to you, milord. You are Giles’s father, and don’t you believe that certain responsibilities come along with that role?’

  ‘Young lady, responsibility is a two-way process. If my wastrel of a son showed any sense of responsibility about the title which he should by rights inherit, then I might feel some responsibility to get him out of his current plight. Since he has shown no desire to become the Earl of Hartlepool – and has indeed expressed his deep unwillingness to take on the honour . . . well, I’ve washed my hands of him.’

  ‘But hasn’t it occurred to you that he might be in danger?’

  Blotto came in quickly to support his sister’s argument. ‘Yes. I saw the boddoes who abducted him. There were two of them – no, three; well, at least three – and they looked to be total lumps of toadspawn. They were carrying guns.’

  ‘Then I definitely don’t want to have anything to do with them.’

  ‘Sorry? Not on the same page.’

  ‘I don’t believe in shooting.’

  ‘No, I agree. Shooting people is way beyond the barbed wire.’

  ‘I didn’t say “people”. I don’t believe in shooting anything.’

  ‘What?’ Blotto gestured to the shotguns on the wall. ‘What, not even taking one of those out on the estate and blasting away at the odd pheasant?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Partridge?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Grouse?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ptarmigan?’

  ‘No.’

  Twinks felt she should intervene before the entire avian population of the world had been catalogued. ‘The point is, milord,’ she said, ‘that your attitude to shooting is not what’s important here. It’s the attitude to shooting of the stenchers who’ve abducted Whiffler that matters.’

  ‘Whiffler?’ echoed the bemused Earl.

  ‘That’s what Giles was known as by all his muffin-toasters at Eton,’ Blotto explained.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Though it might have been something to do with a noise he made.’

  ‘What kind of noise?’

  ‘A whiffling noise.’

  ‘And when did he make this whiffling noise?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Anyway, forget that,’ said Twinks. ‘The pointette I’m trying to make, milord, is that Giles is in serious danger. The ransom note bullied off with: “IF YOU WANT TO SEE YOUR SON ALIVE AGAIN . . .” The running sores who’re holding him have got guns. If you make no response to their note, they’re quite capable of coffinating him.’

  The Earl of Hartlepool shrugged. ‘That’s a risk Giles has to take. He got himself into this particular gluepot. He must find his way out.’

  Having been brought up in the untender care of the Dowager Duchess, Twinks did not expect to encounter parental sentimentality anywhere, but she did think the Earl was going a bit far in this case. Leaving one’s son to be murdered by gun-toting desperadoes did not comply with her reading of the rules of noblesse oblige.

  ‘Milord, you can’t play the rat’s part with Giles,’ she protested. ‘He is blood of your blood.’

  ‘Is he, though? Blood of my blood wouldn’t talk of renouncing the Earldom. Blood of my blood would do anything to prevent the title going to a solicitor in Croydon.’ He was as appalled by the thought of this subspecies as Blotto and Twinks had been.

  ‘I’m sure Giles would be persuaded to see reason.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘But only if he’s alive. If he’s shot dead by his kidnappers, he won’t be able to see anything, let alone reason.’

  ‘Huh. If I believed that, I would do something to save him. But I know Giles too well. Once he’s got an idea fixed in his brain, nothing’ll shift it.’

  ‘I’m convinced he could be persuaded.’

  ‘By whom?’ The Earl’s focus returned to his matchstick model.

  ‘I could persuade him!’ said Twinks passionately.

  This outburst made the peer of the realm actually look at her for the first time. And clearly, like all men, he very much liked what he saw.

  ‘I say, you’re a fine, frolicsome filly. Yes, I see anyone of the male gender might be persuaded by you.’

  Twinks pressed home her advantage. ‘I’d put my last laddered silk stocking on the fact that I could persuade Giles to take on the Earldom.’

  ‘Hm. Interesting. The thing is, though, that I actually have another plan.’

  ‘Oh. What’s that when it’s got its spats on?’ asked Blotto.

  ‘That I should remarry.’

  ‘Toad-in-the-hole!’ said Blotto.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Earl. ‘I think it’s a particularly fruity wheeze. I remarry, having found th
e right filly, of course, have another son; then, when I take the old one-way ticket, he becomes the Earl of Hartlepool.’ He looked closely at Twinks. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Honoria Lyminster.’

  ‘Ah. Well, I wonder if you—’

  He was interrupted by the sound of a telephone ringing. He picked up the receiver from its cradle, blew the dust off it and said, ‘Hello? Earl of Hartlepool.’

  Blotto and Twinks could hear nothing from the other end of the line, only his responses. ‘In a what? Suitcase, yes. Telephone box? Behind the Pocket Theatre? A hundred thousand by midnight tomorrow night? Otherwise, my son . . . ? I understand. Yes, well, thank you for the information, but I’m afraid I’m not going to do business with you. I have thought of another solution to my problem. Goodbye.’ And he replaced the receiver in its cradle.

  Twinks couldn’t stop herself from saying, ‘You shouldn’t have done that! You should have kept them on the line till we get the police to trace the—’

  ‘Oh, fiddlesticks,’ said the Earl of Hartlepool.

  ‘You said,’ Blotto prompted cautiously, ‘that you’d got another solution to your problem . . . ?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Earl. ‘Damned good one.’ He turned to Twinks and asked, ‘Will you marry me?’

  7

  Dinner after the Show – I

  ‘A hundred thou by tomorrow night,’ said Blotto, with a low whistle. ‘Or Whiffler gets coffinated. Any thoughts how we might get our mitts on the jingle-jangle?’

  ‘No,’ said Twinks, uncharacteristically subdued.

  Blotto had allowed Corky Froggett to drive back to London, so he and Twinks could sit in the back of the Lagonda and really focus on their Whiffler Rescue Plan. Which was currently somewhat undernourished. Or, not to put too fine a point on it, non-existent.

  ‘I was thinking,’ said Blotto, ‘that tomorrow night, we should stake out the telephone box behind the old Pocket Theatre, and nab the four-faced filchers when they come to pick up the mazuma.’

  ‘Don’t you think they’ll be anticipating that?’

  ‘They may be, but don’t don your worry-boots about that. I’ll have my cricket bat with me.’ A cloud of uncertainty crossed his noble brow. ‘At least, I think I’ll have my cricket bat with me. Corky,’ he called out, ‘is my cricket bat packed in the car boot?’

  ‘No, milord. It’s back at Tawcester Towers.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a stye in the eye! I say, Corky old fellow, would you mind driving back to the homestead tomorrow to pick the spoffing thing up?’

  ‘I’ll do better than that, milord. The minute we get back to the Savoy, I’ll go straight down to Tawcester Towers and have the bat back before midnight.’

  ‘You know, Corky,’ said Blotto, ‘you’re a Grade A foundation stone.’

  ‘Hello?’

  Blotto had rung through the moment he got back to his suite. He didn’t recognise the voice at the other end of the line. ‘Is that Scotland Yard?’ he asked.

  ‘Scotland Yard?’ There was almost a giggle in the unknown voice. ‘Oh yes, right, right. This is Scotland Yard, yes.’

  ‘Could I speak to Detective Inspector Craig Dewar?’

  ‘Of course. Reg, some geyser wants to talk to Detective Inspector Craig Dewar.’

  There was a moment of silence, then the Inspector’s familiar voice came on the line. ‘Yes, Mr Lyminster. What can I do to help you?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got some information,’ said Blotto.

  ‘Did you travel to Little Tickling to see the Earl?’

  ‘Certainly did.’

  ‘And he has by now been given instructions about where to put the money?’

  ‘Good ticket. We were actually there when the ping from the kidnappers came through.’

  ‘We? Who’s we?’

  ‘Me and my old sis, Twinks.’

  ‘I thought we agreed that this investigation was a secret just between you and me.’

  ‘No probs there. Twinks doesn’t know I’m in touch with you.’

  ‘Very well.’ But the Inspector didn’t sound completely happy as he said the words. ‘More importantly, though, has the Earl agreed to pay the money?’

  ‘Ah. Now this is where there’s a bit of a kink in the fly-line.’ And Blotto proceeded to tell the Inspector about the noble peer’s intransigence (though he didn’t use the word ‘intransigence’, because he’d never heard of it) about paying for his son’s release.

  ‘That’s very unfortunate, Mr Lyminster. These desperadoes have threatened to kill Mr Tortington, and I don’t think they’re the kind to make idle threats.’

  ‘So, you think they’d actually be prepared to coffinate Whiffler?’

  ‘If they don’t get the money by midnight tomorrow, I’m sure that’s exactly what they will do.’

  ‘You sound as if you know who the stenchers are, Inspector.’

  ‘We may be close to identifying them,’ Dewar responded cautiously. Then he went all official. ‘But I’m afraid it is not Scotland Yard policy to discuss an investigation in progress.’

  ‘Take that on board, Inspector. But I should tell you that my sister and I had a real buzzbanger of an idea.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, these four-faced filchers are expecting the old jingle-jangle to be placed in this telephone box behind the Pocket Theatre . . .’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So we thought, if we staked out the telephone box, we’d snap the lumps of toadspawn when they came snuffling for the loot.’

  ‘And hasn’t it occurred to you, Mr Lyminster, that the kidnappers might be armed? They’ll have guns.’

  ‘Don’t get into crimps over that, Inspector. I’ll have my cricket bat.’

  ‘Hm. Mr Lyminster, what you don’t seem to have taken into account is that I am conducting an official police investigation here.’

  ‘Yes, don’t worry, I read your semaphore.’

  ‘And it doesn’t seem to have occurred to you that we might have thought of staking out the telephone box to apprehend the villains. So I very much advise you – and your sister – not to go near that telephone box tomorrow.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘Remember, Mr Lyminster, my team at Scotland Yard are the official investigators here. You and your sister are just amateurs.’

  Ouch. The Inspector really knew how to hurt.

  When Twinks got back to her suite after the excursion to Little Tickling, Reception rang through with a message for her. Jack Carmichael wondered whether she might be free to dine with him after the evening’s performance of Light and Frothy. If so, they could meet at the restaurant.

  She thought back to their dinner of the night before, when Jack had so charmingly talked about his profession, and the hard work of rehearsal that went into creating such an apparently effortless confection as Light and Frothy. She remembered the compliments to her, which he had slipped so randomly into their conversation.

  But, above all, she remembered Jack Carmichael’s sheer gorgeousness. To sit opposite, bathing in the brown-eyed adoration of such a beautiful man, was a pleasure of which she could not get enough.

  Twinks decided she would be free.

  As specified by the Savoy Reception, Jack Carmichael had booked the same restaurant they had gone to the previous night. Twinks was already there when he arrived. The star was warmly greeted by the maître d’, and the waiting staff made a great fuss of him. In his regular alcove, there were three signed photographs of him on the wall. He ordered exactly the same cocktail, food and wine as he had the night before. He was clearly a creature of habit.

  Twinks wouldn’t have minded that, but for the fact that his conversation was also identical to that of the night before. What had seemed so charming when first heard became, by reiteration, rather dull. Her appreciation of his clipped upper-class drawl gave way to the conviction that he hadn’t been born to such vowels. Twinks knew enough genuine aristocrats to recognise what wasn’t the genuine article.

&nbs
p; She also realised another thing she hadn’t on their first meeting: that, basically, Jack Carmichael’s conversation was all about Jack Carmichael. Though he still slipped in the odd compliment to her (word for word the same as the previous night’s), he talked for at least forty-five minutes about that evening’s performance of Light and Frothy, examining in minute detail the way he’d played each song, dance and sketch. Eventually, he turned to Twinks with an engagingly boyish grin and said, ‘Still, enough about me. What did you think of the way I sang “Mist Over Mayfair”: you know, the song that closed the first half?’

  Any illusions about there being a future in their relationship having quickly dissipated, Twinks didn’t want to waste time. And she realised that she was sitting opposite someone who knew the whole Light and Frothy set-up inside out. If romance wasn’t going to work out – and it clearly wasn’t – then she might as well take the opportunity to pursue her investigation into Giles ‘Whiffler’ Tortington’s abduction.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said brusquely, not answering Jack Carmichael’s question, ‘about Frou-Frou Gavotte.’

  He looked suitably dumbfounded. He wasn’t used to the idea of talking about other people. After a silence, he replied, ‘Well, she’s obviously very fortunate.’

  ‘Fortunate? Why?’

  ‘Well, she’s in a show with me. Getting her name beside mine on the marquee outside the Pocket Theatre can only help her career.’

  ‘Are you suggesting the poor little droplet is not as famous as you are?’

  He laughed at the sheer incongruity of the question. ‘Of course she isn’t. Now, you know that tap dance I do in the “London is for Lovers” routine—’

  ‘I’m not interested in that. You told me all about it last night.’

  ‘Ah yes, but tonight I put in a slight variation on the—’

  ‘Oh, stuff a pillow in it, Jack! I’m not interested in you.’ Having never heard these words before from anyone, Jack Carmichael’s face took on the look of a barrage balloon pierced by enemy fire. He was still too shocked to speak, so Twinks went on, ‘I want to talk about Frou-Frou. Whiffler had fallen for her like an inebriated scaffolder. He was even talking of the two of them twiddling up the old reef-knot. Well, that might have put lumps in someone’s custard. I’m just wondering whose.’