Hidden Variables (49 page)

It was no use. When he opened them, Sir Hamish still stood there, black and fierce as ever. George girded up his loins, walked forward, and held out the amulet.

"You can have this back," he said. "I want my ten pounds instead."

The sudden appearance of his grandson startled Lord Emsworth. He was already feeling a little dazed by his abrupt return to human form, if that term may be stretched to include Sir Hamish.

"What?" he said. "What what?"

"Ten pounds. You agreed to give me ten pounds."

"I did?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Lord Emsworth was struck by a sudden thought.

"Is it your birthday?"

"No."

George was beginning to feel a lot more comfortable. Sir Hamish looked fierce, no doubt about it, but the conversation was running along lines already familiar to George from frequent discourse with his grandfather.

"Ten pounds," he repeated. "You owe me ten pounds."

"Right. Ten pounds. Do I have ten pounds?"

"Why not look in your wallet?"

"Of course." Lord Emsworth warmed to the lad's quick intelligence. "Capital idea. You're quite right, there's more than enough here."

As he peeled a couple of fivers from Sir Hamish's wad, Lord Emsworth heard an anguished squeal from the sty behind him. Normally, he would have responded to it instantly, but just now an odd feeling was creeping over him. Even to an intellect as limited as the ninth Earl's, recent events were beginning to seem a little odd. It was, he realized, time for some peace and quiet. A couple of chapters of Whiffle's masterpiece
The Care of the Pig,
accompanied by a beaker full of the warm south with perhaps a splash or two of soda, would go far to restore him. He pressed the money into George's hand and set a determined course for Blandings Castle. Whiffle's book and the decanter were both in the study, and the sooner he could be with them the better he would like it.

"Here, wait a minute." George was pleased by the smoothness of the operation, but he was an honest lad. "I didn't give you back the amulet. It's yours now."

He pressed it into Lord Emsworth's hand, shuddered again at the blackened and bewhiskered face, and made a rapid exit before Sir Hamish could tell him that he had changed his mind.

Lord Emsworth looked at the talisman for a moment, but his attention was elsewhere. He again set his legs in motion towards the castle, and again he was detained. The figure of George Cyril Wellbeloved now stood before him, clutching at a convenient fence post in an attempt to stop the ground from moving around beneath his feet.

" 's all ready." he said.

"What? "said Lord Emsworth, regarding his former pig man with little favor.

" 'sready. 's all ready to pinch the Empress."

"What!!"

It occurred to George Cyril that, since his own speech was impeccably clear, Sir Hamish must be hard of hearing, or even perhaps inebriated. He leaned forward and put his mouth close to Lord Emsworth's ear.

"Ready to pinch the Empress!" he bellowed, forgetting that pig-pinching is usually regarded as a silent sport.

Lord Emsworth recoiled. There was a certain something in the pig man's aura, overwhelming the usual pig-related smells.

"Wellbeloved, you're drunk. Stop this silliness and get along home at once."

It seemed at first as though George Cyril had found a way to obey the instruction instantaneously. He had immediately disappeared from sight. His big mistake, he realized as he fell into the warm bosom of the ditch, had been to release his hold on the fence post. Shortly before he lapsed into the arms of Morpheus, it occurred to the pig man that the aristocracy follow very inconsistent behavior patterns. In the afternoon they harass you to pinch a pig, and that same night they have lost all interest in it.

With Wellbeloved out of the way, Lord Emsworth set off once more for the house. On the way, he became aware of the amulet that young George had thrust into his hand. It was of no special interest to him and a nuisance to carry. He threw it from him into the orchard and proceeded to the front door. It was locked, but that was nothing to a man of his resources. In a few moments he had fished out the spare key from its hiding place behind the rose trellis. He went inside, and continued steadily to the study and to the combined restorative powers of Whiffle and a glass of liquid refreshment.

And it was there that Beach saw him a few minutes later, as the butler made his rounds of the house in accordance with Lady Constance's parting instructions.

* * *

Young George had retired to his room immediately upon his return from the sty. He was happy to have his ten pounds and did not contemplate any further action that night. Something attempted, something done, has earned the night's repose, he thought. It was with some surprise that he soon heard a knock on his bedroom door and saw Beach enter. Relations between the two were pretty good, but they did not extend to evening soirees in George's bedroom.

Beach's manner was never exactly festive, but now he looked positively grim. He was carrying a large iron poker.

"Excuse me, Master George," he began."But are you aware of Lord Emsworth's whereabouts?"

It seemed an odd question. The Earl was not in the habit of leaving an itinerary with his grandson. George shook his head.

"It is most important that we locate him," went on the butler. "In making my rounds of the castle a few minutes ago, I observed a burglar in His Lordship's study. He was unaware of my presence and had even had the audacity to help himself to certain potables there. I have left Jarvis guarding the study door, but I would like to have Lord Emsworth present when we apprehend the malefactor."

George's eyes opened wide at Beach's words. If the
Champion Paper for Boys
had a fault, it was a tendency to dwell on sensational crime.

"Did you recognize him?"

Beach shook his head. "My acquaintances in the criminal community are regrettably few, Master George, and the man was wearing an excellent disguise. I would much appreciate it if you would run along to the Empress' sty now and see if His Lordship is there."

George started guiltily. "He's not there."

"Indeed. Are you sure? I have not seen him since before tea."

And there, of course, he had George. To reveal one thing to Beach might lead to revealing all, including George's own role in the purloining of the pig. George's reading had made him well aware of the dangers of being an accessory after the fact.

"I'd better just go and look," he said and escaped before further questioning could be applied.

We left the Empress, you will recall, asleep in the orchard. So it may seem unlikely that George, heading for the sty, would encounter anything that looked like his grandfather. The Empress, we might argue, should have stayed put. Pigs, and especially prize pigs, can sleep almost indefinitely, even if they look like peers of the realm. That does not hold true, of course, when they are struck hard on the nose by flying objects. The amulet that Lord Emsworth had cast into the orchard had given the Empress a good one, and she came to a rude awakening.

It took her only a second or two to pick up the talisman, decide that it could not be eaten, and begin to look for other diversions. Gadding about is all right for the daytime, but as evening shadows fall the right-minded pig yearns for the comforts of the home sty. Somewhat stiffly—for the ground beneath a pear tree is not an ideal couch for anyone over fifty—the Empress rose and made her way back home. She came to the fence that surrounded the sty and looked in. To her great surprise, she found it already occupied.

The change to porcine form had not pleased Sir Hamish. Putting aside the fact that it may have improved his appearance, we must admit that he had a point. A man who has come to snaffle a pig must be ready for certain surprises, but a change of roles with the swag is not one of them. Sir Hamish had concluded that Lord Emsworth arranged it and somehow turned the tables on him.

His suspicion seemed to be confirmed when, after some minutes of standing in the sty, he saw Lord Emsworth's face peering in at him over the fence. He fancied that he could detect a smug look of trimph in the Earl's expression. A man who had trained his stomach to accept Madras curry for breakfast would never know it, but lingering indigestion can produce just such a look. Twenty-seven plums in five minutes would be nothing to the Empress under normal circumstances, but now she was handicapped by the inadequate alimentary canal of a mere human. She did not like the feeling inside her. All she wanted was her straw bed and a few hours of meditation.

And for real satisfaction, she would like to be rid of Lord Emsworth's clothes. They itched and chafed. She reached behind her and scratched at her back with the amulet she was holding. It was nice and sharp, and rather like the pumice scraper that George Cyril Wellbeloved had applied to her in the happy days before his disappearance from the Blandings Castle environs.

George, approaching from the side, did not notice the amulet with which his grandfather had been rubbing his back. His mind was mainly taken up with the odd fact that Lord Emsworth was at the sty, while Sir Hamish was not. Then reason asserted itself. Clearly, the Earl has pottered down there for a late night worship of the Empress, and Sir Hamish was not stupid enough to try and steal the pig under the very nose of her owner.

He tugged at his grandfather's sleeve. "I say. Beach wants you to come back to the castle."

"Mph?" said Sir Hamish.

Not a sparkling reply, but George knew his grandfather's style. He tried again."Beach wants you to come to the castle."

"Mph?" repeated Sir Hamish, still feeling slightly dizzy from the switch.

It occurred to George that he was certainly earning his ten pounds. If Sir Hamish were within earshot, he ought to be ready to double the fee.

"Beach says there's a burglar in the study, drinking your whisky. He wants you to come back and help to arrest him."

Lord Emsworth, approached in this fashion, was likely to ask why Beach wanted to be arrested, but Sir Hamish responded differently. He had been in a pigsty for hours, then suddenly shifted to a body that had recently done awful things to its digestive system. Only one word of George's remarks had penetrated his clouded brain.

"Whisky?"

"That's right, drinking your whisky. In the study. Come on."

George turned and led the way. Sir Hamish trailed along behind him, still clutching the amulet. He felt like one that hath been stunned and is of sense forlorn, but if it were all a dream, at least it was a superior dream, one with whisky in it.

As they left the sty, there was stirring within. The Empress was home again and feeling as though a late-night snack of linseed meal and buttermilk might go down well. She did not see the two visitors approach the castle, where Beach stood on guard.

As a butier, Beach had few equals. If you wanted a man to shoot the crusty rolls around the dinner table or put a baronet in his place with a single raised eyebrow, you should look no further. He had it all. About the only criticism that one could make of that super-butler was of his odd reading habits. Beach was an insatiable consumer of those lurid volumes that one sees on sale in railway bookstalls, with daggers, drops of blood, white gloves and black masks displayed prominently on the cover. The arrival of a burglar at Blandings Castle offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Within minutes, Beach had footmen guarding doors, windows and chimneys, and another by the fuse box. He had already ascertained that the telephone wires had not been cut—much to his surprise. He tiptoed towards Sir Hamish, as the latter followed young George into the castle.

"He is still in the study, Your Lordship," he breathed softly, in a whisper that suggested an advanced case of laryngitis. "Drinking whisky."

"WHISKY!" replied Sir Hamish, getting at once to the heart of the matter.

His voice had been trained on the parade grounds of northern India, where it had learned to compete with the trumpeting of bull elephants and the roar and boom of field cannon. It rang now through the whole castle. So it was not surprising that Lord Emsworth should appear promptly at the study door, a glass of liquid comfort in one hand and Whiffle's masterpiece in the other, to discover the reason for the uproar.

Sir Hamish was vaguely aware of a man of dark complexion standing before him. He was much more aware of the full glass of whisky that the burnt cork character was holding in his hand. After what Sir Hamish had been through, he yearned towards it like Moses approaching the Promised Land. The talisman dropped to the carpet from his nerveless hand. Beach bent to retrieve it and, with the instinct of the true butler, whipped out a muslin cloth from his pocket and gave it an absent-minded but thorough polish to free it from dust.

The most surprising thing of all was the calm way that the intruder was behaving. He had shown no sign of alarm when he appeared, and now he was quietly drinking whisky. Sir Hamish, finding himself after a moment's dizziness in possession of a full glass of heartsease, had not waited to discuss its origin. He stuck his nose in and started sucking it down like a thirsty camel before anyone else in the room could move. Beach realized that he was dealing with what the authorities would term a cool customer.

"Do you wish me to apprehend this man, My Lord?" he asked, taking a firmer grip of the poker.

Lord Emsworth did not reply. He walked steadily forward, past Sir Hamish, and on into the study. During a brief moment of disorientation, his glass had somehow gone from his hand, and his first priority was to remedy that lack with a sizable replacement. He wasn't going to worry about lesser matters until that was taken care of.

Beach lowered the poker. If Lord Emsworth wished to delay action, that was a relief. The felon looked fierce and of muscular build, and grappling with him would be a task better suited to a chucker-out at a London night club than a well-trained butler. In any case, the visitor showed no wish to escape. He had seated himself in a comfortable chair, opened Whiffle, and appeared to be reading it between swallows. Sir Hamish had confirmed the fact that he was dreaming, and since he was now in one of the good bits he had no desire to wake up.