BAXTER SUSPECTS
§ 1
The five o’clock train, having given itself a spasmodic jerk, began to
move slowly out of Paddington Station. The platform past which it was
gliding was crowded with a number of the fauna always to be seen at
railway stations at such moments, but in their ranks there was no sign
of Mr. Ralston McTodd: and Psmith, as he sat opposite Lord Emsworth
in a corner seat of a first-class compartment, felt that genial glow
of satisfaction which comes to the man who has successfully taken a
chance. Until now, he had been half afraid that McTodd, having changed
his mind, might suddenly appear with bag and baggage--an event which
must necessarily have caused confusion and discomfort. His mind was
now tranquil. Concerning the future he declined to worry. It would, no
doubt, contain its little difficulties, but he was prepared to meet
them in the right spirit; and his only trouble in the world now was the
difficulty he was experiencing in avoiding his lordship’s legs, which
showed a disposition to pervade the compartment like the tentacles
of an octopus. Lord Emsworth rather ran to leg, and his practice of
reclining when at ease on the base of his spine was causing him to
straddle, like Apollyon in Pilgrim’s Progress, “right across the way.”
It became manifest that in a journey lasting several hours his society
was likely to prove irksome. For the time being, however, he endured
it, and listened with polite attention to his host’s remarks on the
subject of the Blandings gardens. Lord Emsworth, in a train moving
in the direction of home, was behaving like a horse heading for his
stable. He snorted eagerly, and spoke at length and with emotion of
roses and herbaceous borders.
“It will be dark, I suppose, by the time we arrive,” he said
regretfully, “but the first thing to-morrow, my dear fellow, I must
take you round and show you my gardens.”
“I shall look forward to it keenly,” said Psmith. “They are, I can
readily imagine, distinctly oojah-cum-spiff.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Lord Emsworth with a start.
“Not at all,” said Psmith graciously.
“Er--what did you say?” asked his lordship after a slight pause.
“I was saying that, from all reports, you must have a very nifty
display of garden-produce at your rural seat.”
“Oh, yes. Oh, most,” said his lordship, looking puzzled. He examined
Psmith across the compartment with something of the peering curiosity
which he would have bestowed upon a new and unclassified shrub. “Most
extraordinary!” he murmured. “I trust, my dear fellow, you will not
think me personal, but, do you know, nobody would imagine that you were
a poet. You don’t look like a poet, and, dash it, you don’t talk like a
poet.”
“How should a poet talk?”
“Well . . .” Lord Emsworth considered the point. “Well, Miss
Peavey . . . But of course you don’t know Miss Peavey . . . Miss Peavey
is a poetess, and she waylaid me the other morning while I was having
a most important conference with McAllister on the subject of bulbs and
asked me if I didn’t think that it was fairies’ tear-drops that made
the dew. Did you ever hear such dashed nonsense?”
“Evidently an aggravated case. Is Miss Peavey staying at the castle?”
“My dear fellow, you couldn’t shift her with blasting-powder. Really
this craze of my sister Constance for filling the house with these
infernal literary people is getting on my nerves. I can’t stand these
poets and what not. Never could.”
“We must always remember, however,” said Psmith gravely, “that poets
are also God’s creatures.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed his lordship, aghast. “I had forgotten that
you were one. What will you think of me, my dear fellow! But, of
course, as I said a moment ago, you are different. I admit that when
Constance told me that she had invited you to the house I was not
cheered, but, now that I have had the pleasure of meeting you . . .”
The conversation had worked round to the very point to which Psmith
had been wishing to direct it. He was keenly desirous of finding out
why Mr. McTodd had been invited to Blandings and--a still more vital
matter--of ascertaining whether, on his arrival there as Mr. McTodd’s
understudy, he was going to meet people who knew the poet by sight. On
this latter point, it seemed to him, hung the question of whether he
was about to enjoy a delightful visit to a historic country house in
the society of Eve Halliday--or leave the train at the next stop and
omit to return to it.
“It was extremely kind of Lady Constance,” he hazarded, “to invite a
perfect stranger to Blandings.”
“Oh, she’s always doing that sort of thing,” said his lordship. “It
didn’t matter to her that she’d never seen you in her life. She had
read your books, you know, and liked them: and when she heard that you
were coming to England, she wrote to you.”
“I see,” said Psmith, relieved.
“Of course, it is all right as it has turned out,” said Lord Emsworth
handsomely. “As I say, you’re different. And how you came to write
that . . . that . . .”
“Bilge?” suggested Psmith.
“The very word I was about to employ, my dear fellow . . . No, no,
I don’t mean that . . . I--I . . . Capital stuff, no doubt, capital
stuff . . . but . . .”
“I understand.”
“Constance tried to make me read the things, but I couldn’t. I fell
asleep over them.”
“I hope you rested well.”
“I--er--the fact is, I suppose they were beyond me. I couldn’t see any
sense in the things.”
“If you would care to have another pop at them,” said Psmith agreeably,
“I have a complete set in my bag.”
“No, no, my dear fellow, thank you very much, thank you a thousand
times. I--er--find that reading in the train tries my eyes.”
“Ah! You would prefer that I read them aloud?”
“No, no.” A look of hunted alarm came into his lordship’s speaking
countenance at the suggestion. “As a matter of fact, I generally take a
short nap at the beginning of a railway journey. I find it refreshing
and--er--in short, refreshing. You will excuse me?”
“If you think you can get to sleep all right without the aid of my
poems, certainly.”
“You won’t think me rude?”
“Not at all, not at all. By the way, am I likely to meet any old
friends at Blandings?”
“Eh? Oh no. There will be nobody but ourselves. Except my sister and
Miss Peavey, of course. You said you had not met Miss Peavey, I think?”
“I have not had that pleasure. I am, of course, looking forward to it
with the utmost keenness.”
Lord Emsworth eyed him for a moment, astonished: then concluded the
conversation by closing his eyes defensively. Psmith was left to his
reflections, which a few minutes later were interrupted by a smart kick
on the shin, as Lord Emsworth, a jumpy sleeper, began to throw his long
legs about. Psmith moved to the other end of the seat, and, taking his
bag down from the rack, extracted a slim volume bound in squashy mauve.
After gazing at this in an unfriendly manner for a moment, he opened it
at random and began to read. His first move on leaving Lord Emsworth
at the florist’s had been to spend a portion of his slender capital on
the works of Ralston McTodd in order not to be taken at a disadvantage
in the event of questions about them at Blandings: but he speedily
realised, as he dipped into the poems, that anything in the nature of
a prolonged study of them was likely to spoil his little holiday. They
were not light summer reading.
“_Across the pale parabola of Joy_ . . .”
A gurgling snort from the other end of the compartment abruptly
detached his mind from its struggle with this mystic line. He perceived
that his host had slipped even further down on to his spine and was now
lying with open mouth in an attitude suggestive of dislocation. And as
he looked, there was a whistling sound, and another snore proceeded
from the back of his lordship’s throat.
Psmith rose and took his book of poems out into the corridor with
the purpose of roaming along the train until he should find an empty
compartment in which to read in peace.
With the two adjoining compartments he had no luck. One was occupied by
an elderly man with a retriever, while the presence of a baby in the
other ruled it out of consideration. The third, however, looked more
promising. It was not actually empty, but there was only one occupant,
and he was asleep. He was lying back in the far corner with a large
silk handkerchief draped over his face and his feet propped up on the
seat opposite. His society did not seem likely to act as a bar to the
study of Mr. McTodd’s masterpieces. Psmith sat down and resumed his
reading.
“_Across the pale parabola of Joy_ . . .”
Psmith knitted his brow. It was just the sort of line which was likely
to have puzzled his patroness, Lady Constance, and he anticipated that
she would come to him directly he arrived and ask for an explanation.
It would obviously be a poor start for his visit to confess that he had
no theory as to its meaning himself. He tried it again.
“_Across the pale parabola of Joy_ . . .”
A sound like two or three pigs feeding rather noisily in the middle of
a thunderstorm interrupted his meditations. Psmith laid his book down
and gazed in a pained way across the compartment. There came to him a
sense of being unfairly put upon, as towards the end of his troubles
it might have come upon Job. This, he felt, was too much. He was being
harried.
The man in the corner went on snoring.
* * * * *
There is always a way. Almost immediately Psmith saw what Napoleon
would have done in this crisis. On the seat beside the sleeper was
lying a compact little suit-case with hard, sharp edges. Rising softly,
Psmith edged along the compartment and secured this. Then, having
balanced it carefully on the rack above the sleeper’s stomach, he
returned to his seat to await developments.
These were not long in coming. The train, now flying at its best speed
through open country, was shaking itself at intervals in a vigorous
way as it raced along. A few seconds later it apparently passed over
some points, and shivered briskly down its whole length. The suit-case
wobbled insecurely, hesitated, and fell chunkily in the exact middle
of its owner’s waistcoat. There was a smothered gulp beneath the
handkerchief. The sleeper sat up with a jerk. The handkerchief fell
off. And there was revealed to Psmith’s interested gaze the face of the
Hon. Freddie Threepwood.
§ 2
“Goo!” observed Freddie. He removed the bag from his midriff and began
to massage the stricken spot. Then suddenly perceiving that he was not
alone he looked up and saw Psmith.
“Goo!” said Freddie, and sat staring wildly.
Nobody is more alive than we are to the fact that the dialogue of
Frederick Threepwood, recorded above, is not bright. Nevertheless,
those were his opening remarks, and the excuse must be that he had
passed through a trying time and had just received two shocks, one
after the other. From the first of these, the physical impact of the
suit-case, he was recovering; but the second had simply paralysed him.
When, the mists of sleep having cleared away, he saw sitting but a few
feet away from him on the train that was carrying him home the very man
with whom he had plotted in the lobby of the Piccadilly Palace Hotel, a
cold fear gripped Freddie’s very vitals.
Freddie’s troubles had begun when he just missed the twelve-fifty
train. This disaster had perturbed him greatly, for he could not
forget his father’s stern injunctions on the subject. But what had
really upset him was the fact that he had come within an ace of
missing the five o’clock train as well. He had spent the afternoon in
a motion-picture palace, and the fascination of the film had caused
him to lose all sense of time, so that only the slow fade-out on the
embrace and the words “The End” reminded him to look at his watch. A
mad rush had got him to Paddington just as the five o’clock express was
leaving the station. Exhausted, he had fallen into a troubled sleep,
from which he had been aroused by a violent blow in the waistcoat and
the nightmare vision of Psmith in the seat across the compartment. One
cannot wonder in these circumstances that Freddie did not immediately
soar to the heights of eloquence.
The picture which the Hon. Frederick Threepwood had selected for his
patronage that afternoon was the well-known super-super-film, “Fangs Of
The Past,” featuring Bertha Blevitch and Maurice Heddlestone--which,
as everybody knows, is all about blackmail. Green-walled by primeval
hills, bathed in the golden sunshine of peace and happiness, the
village of Honeydean slumbered in the clear morning air. But off
the train from the city stepped A Stranger--(The Stranger--Maxwell
Bannister). He inquired of a passing rustic--(The Passing
Rustic--Claude Hepworth)--the way to the great house where Myrtle Dale,
the Lady Bountiful of the village . . . well, anyway, it is all about
blackmail, and it had affected Freddie profoundly. It still coloured
his imagination, and the conclusion to which he came the moment he saw
Psmith was that the latter had shadowed him and was following him home
with the purpose of extracting hush-money.
While he was still gurgling wordlessly, Psmith opened the conversation.
“A delightful and unexpected pleasure, comrade. I thought you had left
the Metropolis some hours since.”
As Freddie sat looking like a cornered dormouse a voice from the
corridor spoke.
“Ah, there you are, my dear fellow!”
Lord Emsworth was beaming in the doorway. His slumbers, like those of
Freddie, had not lasted long. He had been aroused only a few minutes
after Psmith’s departure by the arrival of the retriever from the next
compartment, which, bored by the society of its owner, had strolled off
on a tour of investigation and, finding next door an old acquaintance
in the person of his lordship, had jumped on the seat and licked his
face with such hearty good will that further sleep was out of the
question. Being awake, Lord Emsworth, as always when he was awake, had
begun to potter.
When he saw Freddie his amiability suffered a shock.
“Frederick! I thought I told you to be sure to return on the
twelve-fifty train!”
“Missed it, guv’nor,” mumbled Freddie thickly. “Not my fault.”
“H’mph!” His father seemed about to pursue the subject, but the fact
that a stranger and one who was his guest was present apparently
decided him to avoid anything in the shape of family wrangles. He
peered from Freddie to Psmith and back again. “Do you two know each
other?” he said.
“Not yet,” said Psmith. “We only met a moment ago.”
“My son Frederick,” said Lord Emsworth, rather in the voice with which
he would have called attention to the presence of a slug among his
flowers. “Frederick, this is Mr. McTodd, the poet, who is coming to
stay at Blandings.”
Freddie started, and his mouth opened. But, meeting Psmith’s friendly
gaze, he closed the orifice again without speaking. He licked his lips
in an overwrought way.
“You’ll find me next door, if you want me,” said Lord Emsworth to
Psmith. “Just discovered that George Willard, very old friend of mine,
is in there. Never saw him get on the train. His dog came into my
compartment and licked my face. One of my neighbours. A remarkable
rose-grower. As you are so interested in flowers, I will take you over
to his place some time. Why don’t you join us now?”
“I would prefer, if you do not mind,” said Psmith, “to remain here for
the moment and foster what I feel sure is about to develop into a great
and lasting friendship. I am convinced that your son and I will have
much to talk about together.”
“Very well, my dear fellow. We will meet at dinner in the
restaurant-car.”
Lord Emsworth pottered off, and Psmith rose and closed the door. He
returned to his seat to find Freddie regarding him with a tortured
expression in his rather prominent eyes. Freddie’s brain had had more
exercise in the last few minutes than in years of his normal life, and
he was feeling the strain.
“I say, what?” he observed feebly.
“If there is anything,” said Psmith kindly, “that I can do to clear
up any little difficulty that is perplexing you, call on me. What is
biting you?”
Freddie swallowed convulsively.
“I say, he said your name was McTodd!”
“Precisely.”
“But you said it was Psmith.”
“It is.”
“Then why did father call you McTodd?”
“He thinks I am. It is a harmless error, and I see no reason why it
should be discouraged.”
“But why does he think you’re McTodd?”
“It is a long story, which you may find tedious. But, if you really
wish to hear it . . .”
Nothing could have exceeded the raptness of Freddie’s attention as he
listened to the tale of the encounter with Lord Emsworth at the Senior
Conservative Club.
“Do you mean to say,” he demanded at its conclusion, “that you’re
coming to Blandings pretending to be this poet blighter?”
“That is the scheme.”
“But why?”
“I have my reasons, Comrade--what is the name? Threepwood? I thank
you. You will pardon me, Comrade Threepwood, if I do not go into them.
And now,” said Psmith, “to resume our very interesting chat which was
unfortunately cut short this morning, why do you want me to steal your
aunt’s necklace?”
Freddie jumped. For the moment, so tensely had the fact of his
companion’s audacity chained his interest, he had actually forgotten
about the necklace.
“Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “Why, of course!”
“You still have not made it quite clear.”
“It fits splendidly.”
“The necklace?”
“I mean to say, the great difficulty would have been to find a way of
getting you into the house, and here you are, coming there as this poet
bird. Topping!”
“If,” said Psmith, regarding him patiently through his eyeglass, “I do
not seem to be immediately infected by your joyous enthusiasm, put it
down to the fact that I haven’t the remotest idea what you’re talking
about. Could you give me a pointer or two? What, for instance, assuming
that I agreed to steal your aunt’s necklace, would you expect me to do
with it, when and if stolen?”
“Why, hand it over to me.”
“I see. And what would you do with it?”
“Hand it over to my uncle.”
“And whom would he hand it over to?”
“Look here,” said Freddie, “I might as well start at the beginning.”
“An excellent idea.”
The speed at which the train was now proceeding had begun to render
conversation in anything but stentorian tones somewhat difficult.
Freddie accordingly bent forward till his mouth almost touched Psmith’s
ear.
“You see, it’s like this. My uncle, old Joe Keeble . . .”
“Keeble?” said Psmith. “Why,” he murmured meditatively, “is that name
familiar?”
“Don’t interrupt, old lad,” pleaded Freddie.
“I stand corrected.”
“Uncle Joe has a stepdaughter--Phyllis her name is--and some time ago
she popped off and married a cove called Jackson . . .”
Psmith did not interrupt the narrative again, but as it proceeded
his look of interest deepened. And at the conclusion he patted his
companion encouragingly on the shoulder.
“The proceeds, then, of this jewel-robbery, if it comes off,” he said,
“will go to establish the Jackson home on a firm footing? Am I right in
thinking that?”
“Absolutely.”
“There is no danger--you will pardon the suggestion--of you clinging
like glue to the swag and using it to maintain yourself in the position
to which you are accustomed?”
“Absolutely not. Uncle Joe is giving me--er--giving me a bit for
myself. Just a small bit, you understand. This is the scheme. You sneak
the necklace and hand it over to me. I push the necklace over to Uncle
Joe, who hides it somewhere for the moment. There is the dickens of a
fuss, and Uncle Joe comes out strong by telling Aunt Constance that
he’ll buy her another necklace, just as good. Then he takes the stones
out of the necklace, has them reset, and gives them to Aunt Constance.
Looks like a new necklace, if you see what I mean. Then he draws a
cheque for twenty thousand quid, which Aunt Constance naturally thinks
is for the new necklace, and he shoves the money somewhere as a little
private account. He gives Phyllis her money, and everybody’s happy.
Aunt Constance has got her necklace, Phyllis has got her money, and all
that’s happened is that Aunt Constance’s and Uncle Joe’s combined bank
balance has had a bit of a hole knocked in it. See?”
“I see. It is a little difficult to follow all the necklaces. I seemed
to count about seventeen of them while you were talking, but I suppose
I was wrong. Yes, I see, Comrade Threepwood, and I may say at once that
you can rely on my co-operation.”
“You’ll do it?”
“I will.”
“Of course,” said Freddie awkwardly, “I’ll see that you get a bit all
right. I mean . . .”
Psmith waved his hand deprecatingly.
“My dear Comrade Threepwood, let us not become sordid on this glad
occasion. As far as I am concerned, there will be no charge.”
“What! But look here . . .”
“Any assistance I can give will be offered in a purely amateur spirit.
I would have mentioned before, only I was reluctant to interrupt you,
that Comrade Jackson is my boyhood chum, and that Phyllis, his wife,
injects into my life the few beams of sunshine that illumine its dreary
round. I have long desired to do something to ameliorate their lot,
and now that the chance has come I am delighted. It is true that I am
not a man of affluence--my bank-manager, I am told, winces in a rather
painful manner whenever my name is mentioned--but I am not so reduced
that I must charge a fee for performing, on behalf of a pal, a simple
act of courtesy like pinching a twenty thousand pound necklace.”
“Good Lord! Fancy that!”
“Fancy what, Comrade Threepwood?”
“Fancy your knowing Phyllis and her husband.”
“It is odd, no doubt. But true. Many a whack at the cold beef have I
had on Sunday evenings under their roof, and I am much obliged to you
for putting in my way this opportunity of repaying their hospitality.
Thank you!”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Freddie, somewhat bewildered by this
eloquence.
“Even if the little enterprise meets with disaster, the reflection that
I did my best for the young couple will be a great consolation to me
when I am serving my bit of time in Wormwood Scrubbs. It will cheer me
up. The jailers will cluster outside the door to listen to me singing
in my cell. My pet rat, as he creeps out to share the crumbs of my
breakfast, will wonder why I whistle as I pick the morning’s oakum.
I shall join in the hymns on Sundays in a way that will electrify
the chaplain. That is to say, if anything goes wrong and I am what
I believe is technically termed ‘copped.’ I say ‘if,’” said Psmith,
gazing solemnly at his companion. “But I do not intend to be copped. I
have never gone in largely for crime hitherto, but something tells me
I shall be rather good at it. I look forward confidently to making a
nice, clean job of the thing. And now, Comrade Threepwood, I must ask
you to excuse me while I get the half-nelson on this rather poisonous
poetry of good old McTodd’s. From the cursory glance I have taken at
it, the stuff doesn’t seem to mean anything. I think the boy’s _non
compos_. _You_ don’t happen to understand the expression ‘Across the
pale parabola of Joy,’ do you? . . . I feared as much. Well, pip-pip
for the present, Comrade Threepwood. I shall now ask you to retire
into your corner and amuse yourself for awhile as you best can. I must
concentrate, concentrate.”
And Psmith, having put his feet up on the opposite seat and reopened
the mauve volume, began to read. Freddie, his mind still in a whirl,
looked out of the window at the passing scenery in a mood which was a
nice blend of elation and apprehension.
§ 3
Although the hands of the station clock pointed to several minutes past
nine, it was still apparently early evening when the train drew up
at the platform of Market Blandings and discharged its distinguished
passengers. The sun, taken in as usual by the never-failing practical
joke of the Daylight Saving Act, had only just set, and a golden
afterglow lingered on the fields as the car which had met the train
purred over the two miles of country road that separated the little
town from the castle. As they passed in between the great stone
gate-posts and shot up the winding drive, the soft murmur of the
engines seemed to deepen rather than break the soothing stillness.
The air was fragrant with indescribable English scents. Somewhere
in the distance sheep-bells tinkled; rabbits, waggling white tails,
bolted across the path; and once a herd of agitated deer made a brief
appearance among the trees. The only thing that disturbed the magic
hush was the fluting voice of Lord Emsworth, on whom the spectacle of
his beloved property had acted as an immediate stimulant. Unlike his
son Freddie, who sat silent in his corner wrestling with his hopes
and fears, Lord Emsworth had plunged into a perfect Niagara of speech
the moment the car entered the park. In a high tenor voice, and with
wide, excited gestures, he pointed out to Psmith oaks with a history
and rhododendrons with a past: his conversation as they drew near the
castle and came in sight of the flower-beds taking on an almost lyrical
note and becoming a sort of anthem of gladness, through which, like
some theme in the minor, ran a series of opprobrious observations on
the subject of Angus McAllister.
Beach, the butler, solicitously scooping them out of the car at the
front door, announced that her ladyship and Miss Peavey were taking
their after-dinner coffee in the arbour by the bowling-green; and
presently Psmith, conducted by his lordship, found himself shaking
hands with a strikingly handsome woman in whom, though her manner
was friendliness itself, he could detect a marked suggestion of the
formidable. Æsthetically, he admired Lady Constance’s appearance, but
he could not conceal from himself that in the peculiar circumstances
he would have preferred something rather more fragile and drooping.
Lady Constance conveyed the impression that anybody who had the choice
between stealing anything from her and stirring up a nest of hornets
with a short walking-stick would do well to choose the hornets.
“How do you do, Mr. McTodd?” said Lady Constance with great amiability.
“I am so glad you were able to come after all.”
Psmith wondered what she meant by “after all,” but there were so many
things about his present situation calculated to tax the mind that he
had no desire to probe slight verbal ambiguities. He shook her hand and
replied that it was very kind of her to say so.
“We are quite a small party at present,” continued Lady Constance, “but
we are expecting a number of people quite soon. For the moment Aileen
and you are our only guests. Oh, I am sorry, I should have . . . Miss
Peavey, Mr. McTodd.”
The slim and willowy female who during this brief conversation had been
waiting in an attitude of suspended animation, gazing at Psmith with
large, wistful eyes, stepped forward. She clasped Psmith’s hand in
hers, held it, and in a low, soft voice, like thick cream made audible,
uttered one reverent word.
“_Maître!_”
“I beg your pardon?” said Psmith. A young man capable of bearing
himself with calm and dignity in most circumstances, however trying, he
found his poise wobbling under the impact of Miss Aileen Peavey.
Miss Peavey often had this effect on the less soulful type of man,
especially in the mornings, when such men are not at their strongest
and best. When she came into the breakfast-room of a country house,
brave men who had been up a bit late the night before quailed and tried
to hide behind newspapers. She was the sort of woman who tells a man
who is propping his eyes open with his fingers and endeavouring to
correct a headache with strong tea, that she was up at six watching the
dew fade off the grass, and didn’t he think that those wisps of morning
mist were the elves’ bridal-veils. She had large, fine, melancholy
eyes, and was apt to droop dreamily.
“Master!” said Miss Peavey, obligingly translating.
There did not seem to be any immediate come-back to a remark like this,
so Psmith contented himself with beaming genially at her through his
monocle: and Miss Peavey came to bat again.
“How wonderful that you were able to come--after all!”
Again this “after all” motive creeping into the theme. . . .
“You know Miss Peavey’s work, of course?” said Lady Constance, smiling
pleasantly on her two celebrities.
“Who does not?” said Psmith courteously.
“Oh, _do_ you?” said Miss Peavey, gratification causing her slender
body to perform a sort of ladylike shimmy down its whole length. “I
scarcely hoped that you would know my name. My Canadian sales have not
been large.”
“Quite large enough,” said Psmith. “I mean, of course,” he added with a
paternal smile, “that, while your delicate art may not have a universal
appeal in a young country, it is intensely appreciated by a small and
select body of the intelligentsia.”
And if that was not the stuff to give them, he reflected with not a
little complacency, he was dashed.
“Your own wonderful poems,” replied Miss Peavey, “are, of course, known
the whole world over. Oh, Mr. McTodd, you can hardly appreciate how I
feel, meeting you. It is like the realisation of some golden dream of
childhood. It is like . . .”
Here the Hon. Freddie Threepwood remarked suddenly that he was going
to pop into the house for a whisky and soda. As he had not previously
spoken, his observation had something of the effect of a voice from
the tomb. The daylight was ebbing fast now, and in the shadows he had
contrived to pass out of sight as well as out of mind. Miss Peavey
started like an abruptly awakened somnambulist, and Psmith was at last
able to release his hand, which he had begun to look on as gone beyond
his control for ever. Until this fortunate interruption there had
seemed no reason why Miss Peavey should not have continued to hold it
till bedtime.
Freddie’s departure had the effect of breaking a spell. Lord Emsworth,
who had been standing perfectly still with vacant eyes, like a dog
listening to a noise a long way off, came to life with a jerk.
“I’m going to have a look at my flowers,” he announced.
“Don’t be silly, Clarence,” said his sister. “It’s much too dark to see
flowers.”
“I could smell ’em,” retorted his lordship argumentatively.
It seemed as if the party must break up, for already his lordship had
begun to potter off, when a new-comer arrived to solidify it again.
“Ah, Baxter, my dear fellow,” said Lord Emsworth. “Here we are, you
see.”
“Mr. Baxter,” said Lady Constance, “I want you to meet Mr. McTodd.”
“Mr. McTodd!” said the new arrival, on a note of surprise.
“Yes, he found himself able to come after all.”
“Ah!” said the Efficient Baxter.
It occurred to Psmith as a passing thought, to which he gave no more
than a momentary attention, that this spectacled and capable-looking
man was gazing at him, as they shook hands, with a curious intensity.
But possibly, he reflected, this was merely a species of optical
illusion due to the other’s spectacles. Baxter, staring through his
spectacles, often gave people the impression of possessing an eye that
could pierce six inches of harveyised steel and stick out on the other
side. Having registered in his consciousness the fact that he had been
stared at keenly by this stranger, Psmith thought no more of the matter.
In thus lightly dismissing the Baxterian stare, Psmith had acted
injudiciously. He should have examined it more closely and made
an effort to analyse it, for it was by no means without its
message. It was a stare of suspicion. Vague suspicion as yet, but
nevertheless suspicion. Rupert Baxter was one of those men whose chief
characteristic is a disposition to suspect their fellows. He did not
suspect them of this or that definite crime: he simply suspected them.
He had not yet definitely accused Psmith in his mind of any specific
tort or malfeasance. He merely had a nebulous feeling that he would
bear watching.
Miss Peavey now fluttered again into the centre of things. On the
arrival of Baxter she had withdrawn for a moment into the background,
but she was not the woman to stay there long. She came forward holding
out a small oblong book, which, with a languishing firmness, she
pressed into Psmith’s hands.
“Could I persuade you, Mr. McTodd,” said Miss Peavey pleadingly, “to
write some little thought in my autograph-book and sign it? I have a
fountain-pen.”
Light flooded the arbour. The Efficient Baxter, who knew where
everything was, had found and pressed the switch. He did this not so
much to oblige Miss Peavey as to enable him to obtain a clearer view
of the visitor. With each minute that passed the Efficient Baxter was
finding himself more and more doubtful in his mind about this visitor.
“There!” said Miss Peavey, welcoming the illumination.
Psmith tapped his chin thoughtfully with the fountain-pen. He felt
that he should have foreseen this emergency earlier. If ever there was
a woman who was bound to have an autograph-book, that woman was Miss
Peavey.
“Just some little thought . . .”
Psmith hesitated no longer. In a firm hand he wrote the words “Across
the pale parabola of Joy . . .” added an unfaltering “Ralston McTodd,”
and handed the book back.
“How strange,” sighed Miss Peavey.
“May I look?” said Baxter, moving quickly to her side.
“How strange!” repeated Miss Peavey. “To think that you should have
chosen that line! There are several of your more mystic passages that I
meant to ask you to explain, but particularly ‘Across the pale parabola
of Joy’ . . .”
“You find it difficult to understand?”
“A little, I confess.”
“Well, well,” said Psmith indulgently, “perhaps I did put a bit of
top-spin on that one.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I say, perhaps it is a little obscure. We must have a long chat about
it--later on.”
“Why not now?” demanded the Efficient Baxter, flashing his spectacles.
“I am rather tired,” said Psmith with gentle reproach, “after my
journey. Fatigued. We artists . . .”
“Of course,” said Miss Peavey, with an indignant glance at the
secretary. “Mr. Baxter does not understand the sensitive poetic
temperament.”
“A bit unspiritual, eh?” said Psmith tolerantly. “A trifle earthy? So
I thought, so I thought. One of these strong, hard men of affairs, I
shouldn’t wonder.”
“Shall we go and find Lord Emsworth, Mr. McTodd?” said Miss Peavey,
dismissing the fermenting Baxter with a scornful look. “He wandered off
just now. I suppose he is among his flowers. Flowers are very beautiful
by night.”
“Indeed, yes,” said Psmith. “And also by day. When I am surrounded by
flowers, a sort of divine peace floods over me, and the rough, harsh
world seems far away. I feel soothed, tranquil. I sometimes think, Miss
Peavey, that flowers must be the souls of little children who have died
in their innocence.”
“What a beautiful thought, Mr. McTodd!” exclaimed Miss Peavey
rapturously.
“Yes,” agreed Psmith. “Don’t pinch it. It’s copyright.”
The darkness swallowed them up. Lady Constance turned to the Efficient
Baxter, who was brooding with furrowed brow.
“Charming, is he not?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said I thought Mr. McTodd was charming.”
“Oh, quite.”
“Completely unspoiled.”
“Oh, decidedly.”
“I am so glad that he was able to come after all. That telegram he sent
this afternoon cancelling his visit seemed so curt and final.”
“So I thought it.”
“Almost as if he had taken offence at something and decided to have
nothing to do with us.”
“Quite.”
Lady Constance shivered delicately. A cool breeze had sprung up. She
drew her wrap more closely about her shapely shoulders, and began to
walk to the house. Baxter did not accompany her. The moment she had
gone he switched off the light and sat down, chin in hand. That massive
brain was working hard.