Blotto, Twinks and Riddle of the Sphinx Page 8

  ‘Inequality rules all over the country, but nowhere is it more blatantly on display than here in Tawcestershire. The gap between the wealth of the richest in our county and that of the honest men and women who break sweat to till its soil is offensive to all right-thinking individuals. And on our very doorstep stands a mighty symbol of this great injustice – Tawcester Towers. Built by money stolen from the poor, built on land stolen from the poor, maintained by the sweat of the exploited poor, Tawcester Towers represents everything that is wrong with this country. Its huge estate is arrogantly lorded over by a family who do not think it necessary to pay their bills, regardless of the hardship this may cause to local suppliers and shopkeepers who have kept up their productivity by the sweat of their brows. In the new dawn – a dawn that is not now far away – places like Tawcester Towers will still exist, certainly, but they will exist in a new and egalitarian form. They will not be inhabited by idle aristocrats, concerned only with killing animals and battening off the sweat of working men. It is the working men themselves who will walk through the long corridors and sleep in the feather beds of Tawcester Towers. Justice will be done, privilege will be ended and the bloated aristocrats who have for too long lived off the fat of the land will finally have to get jobs and live off the sweat of their brows.’

  ‘How,’ the Dowager Duchess demanded of her daughter, ‘does he know that we don’t pay our bills?’

  ‘Presumably, Mater, the shopkeepers tell him,’ said Twinks.

  ‘Huh,’ her mother snorted. ‘Whatever happened to loyalty?’

  ‘I think,’ Twinks offered cautiously, ‘the contemporary view might be that loyalty is a two-way process. And if we don’t show loyalty to the shopkeepers they might feel justified in not showing any loyalty to us.’

  ‘But of course we’re loyal to them. We continue to buy their produce, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes, Mater, but we don’t continue to pay them for it.’

  ‘Fiddlesticks! A mere detail.’ The Dowager Duchess looked at the copy of the Tawcestershire Gazette that Blotto was reading as if it had been scraped off the boot of someone who’d just walked through a stockyard. ‘Surely,’ she bellowed, ‘there’s a law against the newspapers publishing such seditious nonsense?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ said Twinks.

  ‘Then one must be introduced immediately,’ announced her mother. ‘Loofah must be sent up to the House of Lords straight away to make the necessary arrangements.’ Her older son, the current Duke of Tawcester, was rarely required to put in an appearance at the legislative heart of the country, but this was a matter of urgency.

  ‘I fear he may not be successful,’ said Twinks gently.

  ‘Why ever not?’ demanded the Dowager Duchess. ‘After all, who’s running this country?’

  ‘Not the House of Lords.’

  ‘Well, they should be.’

  ‘The country is run by the House of Commons . . .’

  ‘What absolute tosh!’

  ‘And we currently have a Labour government.’

  ‘Which gives people the right to disseminate revolutionary rubbish like that?’ The Dowager Duchess pointed again at the newspaper for emphasis.

  ‘The expression of almost all political opinions is entirely legal,’ her daughter informed her.

  ‘Well, that’s ridiculous! Plebs don’t have any opinions worth expressing. Everyone knows that. Next thing they’ll be letting Socialists talk on the radio!’ The Dowager Duchess grunted out a laugh at the incongruity of the idea.

  ‘They already do, Mater.’

  ‘WHAT!!!’

  ‘Yes, they’re allowed to read out their manifestos.’

  ‘Disgusting!’

  ‘And there’s a new invention called television, which—’

  ‘Television? Such an ugly word. What does it do?’

  ‘It enables people not only to speak, as they do on the radio, but also to be seen while they’re speaking.’

  ‘What an appalling idea! And are you suggesting that Socialists might be allowed to be seen on this newfangled device?’

  ‘I think it can only be a matter of time, Mater.’

  With another baleful look at the Tawcestershire Gazette, the Dowager Duchess said, ‘I think it’s absolutely characteristic of the lack of sensitivity of the lower classes that an article like this should be written at a time when Tawcester Towers is suffering a financial crisis.’

  Twinks did no more than nod. She knew that at such moments it was unwise to engage in detailed conversation with her mother.

  ‘On which matter,’ the Dowager Duchess went on, ‘when is our financial crisis going to be sorted? When is Rupert the Egyptologist’s sarcophagus going to be sold?’

  It was not the moment to mention Corky Froggett’s sufferings or their visit to Professor Erasmus Holofernes, so Twinks just said, ‘Mr McGloam, the expert from the British Museum, hopes the transportation of the artefact can be achieved within the next week.’

  ‘Well, tell him to get on with it! That sarcophagus needs to be sold as soon as possible – and for as much money as possible!’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mater.’

  Blotto looked up from the Tawcestershire Gazette, having read as much of the article as his brain could cope with at one sitting (the first paragraph, to be exact). The Dowager Duchess fixed her younger son with a basilisk stare. ‘So . . . what do you think about the views of Mr Alfred Sprockett?’

  ‘Well, Mater,’ Blotto replied, ‘he does seem a bit obsessed by sweat.’

  14

  The Professor’s Verdict

  Blotto and Twinks were restless. Until they heard from Professor Erasmus Holofernes there was nothing they could do except drift listlessly around Tawcester Towers. Meanwhile life there went on as usual. The Duke, Loofah, continued trying to impregnate his wife, Sloggo, with something other than a girl. The Dowager Duchess spent a lot of time on the telephone, patronising her friends. Mr Snidely, Mr Crouptickle’s acolyte, carried on creating his painstakingly slow – and entirely unproductive – inventory of the house’s contents.

  No bills got paid and some of the local shopkeepers even had the nerve to threaten withholding credit from the Lyminster family.

  While Blotto and Twinks anxiously monitored Corky Froggett for any sign of boils.

  It was only two days after their visit to St Raphael’s – but it felt a lot longer – when a letter from Professor Erasmus Holofernes finally arrived. Mr Snidely happened to be in the Tawcester Towers hallway when the postman appeared and he took the pile of mail – mostly final demands from local shopkeepers – to the butler in his pantry. On instructions from Twinks, Grimshaw took the letter from Oxford straight to her boudoir and was then despatched to fetch her brother from the stables where he was ruminating gloomily with Mephistopheles.

  As soon as they were alone, Twinks tore open the envelope. Long experience of living with Blotto told her that the quickest way of sharing the communication with him would be to read it out loud. Which is exactly what she did.

  ‘“Dear Twinks,”’ (Clearly her brother was considered by Holofernes too much of an intellectual lightweight to be included in the address).

  ‘“Since we met I have given much thought to the problem you raised – and have in fact put many other important investigations on hold while I deliberated on the matter. I have consulted, either by correspondence or telephonically, the world’s finest Egyptologists and we are all of the same opinion.

  ‘“The situation in which you have found yourself is, as I suspected, an extremely hazardous one. Though none of the experts I contacted had heard of Pharaoh Sinus Nefertop, from the sufferings that have already been visited on your chauffeur there seems little doubt that he did exist, probably as we surmised in the period of the New Kingdom, during the Nineteenth or Twentieth Dynasty. (It is possible, and my panel of Egyptologists are exploring this possibility, that Pharaoh Sinus Nefertop is an alternative appellation for a Pharaoh documented elsewhere under a more recogni
sed name.)

  ‘“There does not seem to be any doubt that the misfortunes of Mr Froggett have come as a direct result of his opening the sarcophagus of Pharaoh Sinus Nefertop. There is a lot of nonsense talked in the sensational press about curses of the Pharaohs, but there have been authenticated records of bizarre happenings following on the desecration of Egyptian tombs. Whether these are the result of magic or can submit to more rational explanation is not a matter that needs to be discussed at this time. The fact is that such events have happened before, though rarely with the kind of elaborate detail which has been visited on Mr Froggett.

  ‘“The curse spelled out in the hieroglyphs on the sarcophagus would seem to support this theory. The words ‘Herein lies the great God King Pharaoh Sinus Nefertop, guarded by the spirits of the living dead. Should anyone unauthorised open the sarcophagus he will be visited by the Curse of Pharaoh Sinus Nefertop!’ are as unambiguous as they could be.

  ‘“None of the Egyptologists I consulted have heard of another curse being based on the biblical Plagues of Egypt, but the sequence of Mr Froggett’s afflictions seem to offer no other viable explanation. If the parallel is maintained he will, as you said, now be facing Boils, Hail, Locusts, Darkness and the Death of the Firstborn. How these will be achieved in Tawcestershire – particularly the Locusts – I do not know, but the powers of evil are infinitely inventive, so I would not advise you to relax your guard.

  ‘“Since I have, at the time of writing this letter, had no telephonic communication from you, I’m assuming that Mr Froggett has not so far succumbed to the Plague of Boils. It is possible that the Plagues being visited on him are at an end, that the spirits guarding the mortal remains of Pharaoh Sinus Nefertop wished merely to deliver a reprimand to the unfortunate man.

  ‘“I do not, however, believe that to be the most likely outcome in this unhappy sequence of events. I would more incline to the view that the spirits are deliberately delaying their next move, to build up the tension for you, to torture Mr Froggett a little more in his anticipation of the next horror.”’

  ‘Well, at least we don’t have to don our worry boots about that,’ said Blotto.

  ‘What do you mean, Blotters me old shaving brush?’

  ‘I mean that Corky doesn’t realise there is a sequence. I haven’t mentioned it to him because you told me to keep it under the dustbin lid. And I’m sure he’s never read the Bible, so he won’t be tying up the bows on it himself.’

  ‘Good ticket,’ said Twinks before reading on.

  ‘“So it is important that you and your brother maintain your vigilance and keep a lookout for any sign of boils on Mr Froggett. If such a manifestation does appear, I think there is no doubt that the evil spirits will be seeing the Plagues of Egypt through to the end, right up to the Death of the Firstborn – which could of course have a dreadful effect on Mr Froggett.”’

  ‘Or on my Lagonda,’ Blotto murmured with feeling.

  ‘“I have therefore consulted with my panel of international Egyptologists if there is any way of obviating the curse of Pharaoh Sinus Nefertop. Various solutions have been offered, but the only one which seems to offer the hope of a happy resolution is a rather drastic expedient.

  ‘“The sacrilege of removing the sarcophagus from its destined tomb was clearly very great. And in fact I would be interested to know at some point the fate of your ancestor Rupert the Egyptologist. If he were to have suffered an early death, there might be comparisons to be drawn with the parlous predicament of Mr Froggett.”’

  ‘Got a batsqueak of an idea what happened to old Rupert the Egyptologist, Twinks?’ asked her brother, sure she’d know the answer.

  His confidence was well placed. ‘He died in a hunting accident at the age of eighty-four, a good sixty years after his return from Egypt.’

  ‘So that idea’s a bit of an empty revolver,’ said Blotto.

  Twinks nodded and continued to read Holofernes’s letter.

  ‘“But that enquiry should perhaps be held over till another time. The matter of immediate urgency is the safety of your chauffeur Mr Froggett. And my panel of Egyptologists are of the opinion that there is only one way that can be secured. There is no guarantee that the actions required will lift the curse, but they have been proved effective in comparable situations.

  ‘“The only way to restore serenity to the troubled soul of Pharaoh Sinus Nefertop – and incidentally save the life of Mr Froggett – is to return his sarcophagus to Egypt, to the tomb from which it was so sacrilegiously snatched. That, Twinks, is your task.”’

  ‘Toad-in-the-hole!’ said Blotto.

  15

  The Dowager Duchess Puts Her Foot Down

  Things were not going very well in the Blue Morning Room. Having the smugly smiling Mr Crouptickle present did not make the atmosphere any easier.

  ‘What you’re suggesting, Twinks, is preposterous,’ boomed the Dowager Duchess.

  ‘It’s the only solution, Mater. Isn’t that right, Blotto?’

  ‘Tickey-tockey. Bong on the nose. No other trail to follow.’

  Their mother’s granite features hardened to some new compound which might have proved very useful in the laying of arterial roads. ‘I sometimes despair of you two. Given the upbringing you have had, there are many details in the proper conduct of life for people like us which you just do not seem to have comprehended.’ She turned to Mr Crouptickle. ‘There has been no discernible improvement in the financial situation of Tawcester Towers, has there, Crouptickle?’

  ‘No, Your Grace. Rather the reverse, I’m afraid,’ he replied with barely disguised glee.

  ‘And has Mr Snidely yet found anything of value in his inventory of the Tawcester Towers contents?’

  ‘I fear not, Your Grace.’

  The Dowager Duchess turned back to her embarrassed offspring. ‘Which means that we have only one way of rescuing the estate, and that is by the sale of the sarcophagus which Rupert the Egyptologist brought back from his travels.’

  ‘Yes, but, Mater . . .’ The glare that his mother focused on him dried up Blotto’s words in his mouth.

  ‘And yet,’ the Dowager Duchess continued, ‘you are now suggesting that we should not proceed with the sale, that instead you should . . .’ she struggled with the incongruity of the idea she was about to express ‘. . . return the sarcophagus to Egypt. Did I understand correctly that that was what you are proposing?’

  ‘Yes, Mater,’ said Twinks.

  ‘Yes, Mater,’ Blotto echoed.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because, Mater,’ said Twinks, ‘there is a curse on the sarcophagus.’

  ‘Poppycock!’ snorted the Dowager Duchess. ‘There is no such thing as a curse. You’ve been reading too many sensational novels.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ Blotto asserted self-righteously. He still hadn’t finished The Hand of Fu Manchu, after all. And it wasn’t that sensational, anyway.

  His mother ignored the interruption, steamrollering on. ‘On what do you base this fanciful suggestion that there is a curse on the sarcophagus, Twinks? Do you have anything that might count as evidence?’

  ‘Blotto witnessed a sequence of unpleasant things happening to Corky Froggett.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘Corky Froggett,’ Blotto supplied. ‘He’s one of our chauffeurs.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the Dowager Duchess, genuinely surprised. ‘I didn’t know that chauffeurs had names.’

  ‘Well, anyway,’ Twinks went on, ‘some fairly murdy things have been happening to poor old Corky. They match the Plagues of Egypt. First the water in his bucket turned to blood, then—’

  ‘Twinks, Twinks.’ The Dowager Duchess raised a hand to silence her daughter. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’

  ‘Because, Mater, you asked me to explain why the sarcophagus had to be returned to Egypt.’

  ‘Well, nothing you have said has provided even a modicum of explanation.’

  ‘But Corky Froggett’s suffering,’ Twinks insis
ted. ‘And he’s going to suffer even more. He’s only been visited by five of the Plagues of Egypt so far. There are another five to go, concluding with the Death of the Firstborn. And if Corky starts to get boils, then we’re really up to our earlobes in glue. So we must—’

  Another imperious maternal hand was raised and Twinks was silenced. ‘I am deeply shocked by your attitude,’ said her mother. ‘You are proposing to put the entire financial future of Tawcester Towers at risk, and the reason for doing it is to stop the sufferings of a chauffeur.’ Never before had so much withering contempt been loaded on to a single word.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Mater. We—’

  ‘This is what I mean about the two of you not having taken on board any of the lessons of your upbringing. This person to whom you are referring is a chauffeur. A member of the plebeian classes. Lyminsters do not change the course of their lives to attend to the needs of chauffeurs. We look after our own, and even then only in special circumstances. The welfare of chauffeurs is not our concern. They work for us and get paid for their services.’

  Mr Crouptickle felt that he had to interpose, ‘Except, Your Grace, they don’t actually get paid at the moment. The Tawcester Towers wage bill has not been paid for the past three months and—’

  ‘That is irrelevant to my argument!’ the Dowager Duchess pronounced. ‘The fact is that we Lyminsters have a proud tradition of ignoring the needs of those who work for us. Our rights to do so were enshrined in law under the feudal system – and I’m still not convinced that the ending of that system was a good idea. The law may have changed, but our attitudes certainly have not.’ She gestured to the man of business by her side. ‘I mean, I’m as likely to care about his welfare as I am about a chauffeur’s. Such people just are not relevant to people like us, Twinks.’

  Mr Crouptickle smiled, apparently inured to that kind of insult. Twinks found herself wondering what went on inside the man’s head. Was he affected by the patronising treatment he received? What was his real attitude to his aristocratic employers? Might he be sympathetic to the anarchic notions of someone like Alfred Sprockett? Was the man of business nurturing some master plan for class revenge?