‘Does he seem to have any idea why I have come to the castle?’ he asked.
‘Any idea? Why, dash it, the very first thing he said to me was that you must have come to sneak Aunt Connie’s necklace.’
‘In that case, why has he made no move till to-day? I should have supposed that he would long since have denounced me before as large an audience as he could assemble. Why this reticence on the part of genial old Baxter?’
A crimson flush of chivalrous indignation spread itself over Freddie’s face.
‘He told me that, too.’
‘There seems to have been no reserves between Comrade Baxter and yourself. And very healthy, too, this spirit of confidence. What was his reason for abstaining from loosing the bomb?’
‘He said he was pretty sure you wouldn’t try to do anything on your own. He thought you would wait till your accomplice arrived. And, damn him,’ cried Freddie heatedly, ‘do you know who he’s got the infernal gall to think is your accomplice? Miss Halliday! Dash him!’
Psmith smoked in thoughtful silence.
‘Well, of course, now that this has happened,’ said Freddie, ‘I suppose it’s no good thinking of going on with the thing. You’d better pop off”, what? If I were you, I’d leg it to-day and have your luggage sent on after you.’
Psmith threw away his cigarette and stretched himself. During the last few moments he had been thinking with some tenseness.
‘Comrade Threepwood,’ he said reprovingly, ‘you suggest a cowardly and weak-minded action. I admit that the outlook would be distinctly rosier if no such person as Baxter were on the premises, but nevertheless the thing must be seen through to a finish. At least we have this advantage over our spectacled friend, that we know he suspects me and he doesn’t know we know. I think that with a little resource and ingenuity we may yet win through.’ He turned to the window and looked out. ‘Sad,’ he sighed, ‘that these idyllic surroundings should have become oppressed with a cloud of sinister menace. One thinks one sees a faun popping about in the undergrowth, and on looking more closely perceives that it is in reality a detective with a notebook. What one fancied was the piping of Pan turns out to be a police-whistle, summoning assistance. Still, we must bear these things without wincing. They are our cross. What you have told me will render me, if possible, warier and more snake-like than ever, but my purpose remains firm. The cry goes round the castle battlements “Psmith intends to keep the old flag flying!” So charge off and soothe your quivering ganglions with a couple of aspirins, Comrade Threepwood, and leave me to my thoughts. All will doubtless come right in the future.’
9 PSMITH ENGAGES A VALET
§ 1
F
ROM
out of the scented shade of the big cedar on the lawn in front of the castle Psmith looked at the flower-beds, jaunty and gleaming in the afternoon sun; then he looked back at Eve, incredulity in every feature.
‘I must have misunderstood you. Surely,’ he said in a voice vibrant with reproach, ‘you do not seriously intend to
work
in weather like this?’
‘I must. I’ve got a conscience. They aren’t paying me a handsome salary – a fairly handsome salary – to sit about in deckchairs.’
‘But you only came yesterday.’
‘Well, I ought to have worked yesterday.’
‘It seems to me,’ said Psmith, ‘the nearest thing to slavery that I have ever struck. I had hoped, seeing that everybody had gone off and left us alone, that we were going to spend a happy and instructive afternoon together under the shade of this noble tree, talking of this and that. Is it not to be?’
‘No, it is not. It’s lucky you’re not the one who’s supposed to be cataloguing this library. It would never get finished.’
‘And why, as your employer would say, should it? He has expressed the opinion several times in my hearing that the library has jogged along quite comfortably for a great number of years without being catalogued. Why shouldn’t it go on like that indefinitely?’
‘It’s no good trying to tempt me. There’s nothing I should like better than to loaf here for hours and hours, but what would Mr Baxter say when he got back and found out?’
‘It is becoming increasingly clear to me each day that I stay in this place,’ said Psmith moodily, ‘that Comrade Baxter is little short of a blister on the community. Tell me, how do you get on with him?’
‘I don’t like him much.’
‘Nor do I. It is on these communities of taste that life-long attachments are built. Sit down and let us exchange confidences on the subject of Baxter.’
Eve laughed.
‘I won’t. You’re simply trying to lure me into staying out here and neglecting my duty. I really must be off now. You have no idea what a lot of work there is to be done.’
‘You are entirely spoiling my afternoon.’
‘No, I’m not. You’ve got a book. What is it?’
Psmith picked up the brightly-jacketed volume and glanced at it.
‘
The Man with the Missing Toe.
Comrade Threepwood lent it to me. He has a vast store of this type of narrative. I expect he will be wanting you to catalogue his library next.’
‘Well, it looks interesting.’
‘Ah, but what does it
teach
? How long do you propose to shut yourself up in that evil-smelling library?’
An hour or so.’
‘Then I shall rely on your society at the end of that period. We might go for another saunter on the lake.’
‘All right. I’ll come and find you when I’ve finished.’
Psmith watched her disappear into the house, then seated himself once more in the long chair under the cedar. A sense of loneliness oppressed him. He gave one look at
The Man with the missing Toe,
and, having rejected the entertainment it offered, gave himself up to meditation.
Blandings Castle dozed in the midsummer heat like a Palace of Sleep. There had been an exodus of its inmates shortly after lunch, when Lord Emsworth, Lady Constance, Mr Keeble, Miss Peavey, and the Efficient Baxter had left for the neighbouring town of Bridgeford in the big car, with the Hon. Freddie puffing in its wake in a natty two-seater. Psmith, who had been invited to accompany them, had declined on the plea that he wished to write a poem. He felt but a tepid interest in the afternoon’s programme, which was to consist of the unveiling by his lordship of the recently completed memorial to the late Hartley Reddish, Esq., J.P., for so many years Member of Parliament for the Bridgeford and Shirley Division of Shropshire. Not even the prospect of hearing Lord Emsworth – clad, not without vain protest and weak grumbling, in a silk hat, morning coat, and spongebag trousers – deliver a speech, had been sufficient to lure him from the castle grounds.
But at the moment when he had uttered his refusal, thereby incurring the ill-concealed envy both of Lord Emsworth and his son Freddie, the latter also an unwilling celebrant, he had supposed that his solitude would be shared by Eve. This deplorable conscientiousness of hers, this morbid craving for work, had left him at a loose end. The time and the place were both above criticism, but, as so often happens in this life of ours, he had been let down by the girl.
But, though he chafed for a while, it was not long before the dreamy peace of the afternoon began to exercise a soothing effect upon him. With the exception of the bees that worked with their usual misguided energy among the flowers and an occasional butterfly which flitted past in the sunshine, all nature seemed to be taking a siesta. Somewhere out of sight a lawn-mower had begun to emphasise the stillness with its musical whir. A telegraph-boy on a red bicycle passed up the drive to the front door, and seemed to have some difficulty in establishing communication with the domestic staff – from which Psmith deduced that Beach, the butler, like a good opportunist, was taking advantage of the absence of authority to enjoy a nap in some distant lair of his own. Eventually a parlourmaid appeared, accepted the telegram and (apparently) a rebuke from the boy, and the bicycle passed out of sight, leaving silence and peace once more.
The noblest minds are not proof against atmospheric conditions of this kind. Psmith’s eyes closed, opened, closed again. And presently his regular breathing, varied by an occasional snore, was added to the rest of the small sounds of the summer afternoon.
The shadow of the cedar was appreciably longer when he awoke with that sudden start which generally terminates sleep in a garden-chair. A glance at his watch told him that it was close on five o’clock, a fact which was confirmed a moment later by the arrival of the parlourmaid who had answered the summons of the telegraph-boy. She appeared to be the sole survivor of the little world that had its centre in the servants’ hall. A sort of female Casablanca.
‘I have put your tea in the hall, sir.’
‘You could have performed no nobler or more charitable task,’ Psmith assured her; and, having corrected a certain stiffness of limb by means of massage, went in. It occurred to him that Eve, assiduous worker though she was, might have knocked off in order to keep him company.
The hope proved vain. A single cup stood bleakly on the tray. Either Eve was superior to the feminine passion for tea or she was having hers up in the library. Filled with something of the sadness which he had felt at the sight of the toiling bees, Psmith embarked on his solitary meal, wondering sorrowfully at the perverseness which made girls work when there was no one to watch them.
It was very agreeable here in the coolness of the hall. The great door of the castle was open, and through it he had a view of lawns bathed in a thirst-provoking sunlight. Through the green-baize door to his left, which led to the servants’ quarters, an occasional sharp giggle gave evidence of the presence of humanity, but apart from that he might have been alone in the world. Once again he fell into a dreamy meditation, and there is little reason to doubt that he would shortly have disgraced himself by falling asleep for the second time in a single afternoon, when he was restored to alertness by the sudden appearance of a foreign body in the open doorway. Against the background of golden light a black figure had abruptly manifested itself.
The sharp pang of apprehension which ran through Psmith’s consciousness like an electric shock, causing him to stiffen like some wild creature surprised in the woods, was due to the momentary belief that the new-comer was the local vicar, of whose conversational powers he had had experience on the second day of his visit. Another glance showed him that he had been too pessimistic. This was not the vicar. It was someone whom he had never seen before – a slim and graceful young man with a dark, intelligent face, who stood blinking in the subdued light of the hall with eyes not yet accustomed to the absence of strong sunshine. Greatly relieved, Psmith rose and approached him.
‘Hallo!’ said the new-comer. ‘I didn’t see you. It’s quite dark in here after outside.’
‘The light is pleasantly dim,’ agreed Psmith.
‘Is Lord Emsworth anywhere about?’
‘I fear not. He has legged it, accompanied by the entire household, to superintend the unveiling of a memorial at Bridgeford to – if my memory serves me rightly – the late Hartley Reddish, Esq., J.P., M.P. Is there anything I can do?’
‘Well, I’ve come to stay, you know.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Lady Constance invited me to pay a visit as soon as I reached England.’
‘Ah! Then you have come from foreign parts?’
‘Canada.’
Psmith started slightly. This, he perceived, was going to complicate matters. The last thing he desired was the addition to the Blandings circle of one familiar with Canada. Nothing would militate against his peace of mind more than the society of a man who would want to exchange with him views on that growing country.
‘Oh, Canada?’ he said.
‘I wired,’ proceeded the other, ‘but I suppose it came after everybody had left. Ah, that must be my telegram on that table over there. I walked up from the station.’ He was rambling idly about the hall after the fashion of one breaking new ground. He paused at an occasional table, the one where, when taking after-dinner coffee, Miss Peavey was wont to sit. He picked up a book, and uttered a gratified laugh. ‘One of my little things,’ he said.
‘One of what?’ said Psmith.
‘This book.
Songs of Squalor.
I wrote it.’
‘You wrote it!’
‘Yes. My name’s McTodd. Ralston McTodd. I expect you have heard them speak of me?’
§ 2
The mind of a man who has undertaken a mission as delicate as Psmith’s at Blandings Castle is necessarily alert. Ever since he had stepped into the five o’clock train at Paddington, when his adventure might have been said formally to have started, Psmith had walked warily, like one in a jungle on whom sudden and unexpected things might pounce out at any moment. This calm announcement from the slim young man, therefore, though it undoubtedly startled him, did not deprive him of his faculties. On the contrary, it quickened them. His first action was to step nimbly to the table on which the telegram lay awaiting the return of Lord Emsworth, his second was to slip the envelope into his pocket. It was imperative that telegrams signed McTodd should not lie about loose while he was enjoying the hospitality of the castle.
This done, he confronted the young man.
‘Come, come!’ he said with quiet severity.
He was extremely grateful to a kindly Providence which had arranged that this interview should take place at a time when nobody but himself was in the house.
‘You say that you are Ralston McTodd, the author of these poems?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Then what,’ said Psmith incisively, ‘is a pale parabola of Joy?’
‘Er – what?’ said the new-comer in an enfeebled voice. There was manifest in his demeanour now a marked nervousness.
‘And here is another,’ said Psmith. ‘“The—” Wait a minute, I’ll get it soon. Yes. “The sibilant, scented silence that shimmered where we sat.” Could you oblige me with a diagram of that one?’