‘Yes, Roderick. I will be your wife.’
Spode uttered a whoop which made my nose tickle worse than ever.
‘That’s the stuff! That’s how I like to hear you talk! Come on out into the garden. I have much to say to you.’
I imagine that at this juncture he must have folded her in his embrace and hustled her out, for I heard the door close. And as it did so Pop Bassett uttered a whoop somewhat similar in its intensity to the one that had proceeded from the Spode lips. He was patently boomps-a-daisy, and one could readily understand why. A father whose daughter, after nearly marrying Gussie Fink-Nottle and then nearly marrying me, sees the light and hooks on to a prosperous member of the British aristocracy is entitled to rejoice. I didn’t like Spode and would have been glad at any time to see a Peruvian matron spike him in the leg with her dagger, but there was no denying that he was hot stuff matrimonially.
‘Lady Sidcup!’ said Pop, rolling the words round his tongue like vintage port.
‘Who’s Lady Sidcup?’ asked Plank, anxious, as always, to keep abreast.
‘My daughter will shortly be. One of the oldest titles in England. That was Lord Sidcup who has just left us.’
‘I thought his name is Roderick.’
‘His Christian name is Roderick.’
‘Ah!’ said Plank. ‘Now I’ve got it. Now I have the whole picture. Your daughter was to have married someone called Fink-Nottle?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then she was to have married this chap Wooster or Alpine Joe, as the case may be?’
‘Yes.’
‘And now she’s going to marry Lord Sidcup?’
‘Yes.’
‘Clear as crystal,’ said Plank. ‘I knew I should get it threshed out in time. Simply a matter of concentration and elimination. You approve of this marriage? As far,’ he added, ‘as one can approve of any marriage.’
‘I most certainly do.’
‘Then I think this calls for another whisky-and-soda.’
‘I will join you,’ said Pop Bassett.
It was at this point, unable to hold it back any longer, that I sneezed.
‘I knew there was something behind that sofa,’ said Plank, rounding it and subjecting me to the sort of look he had once given native chiefs who couldn’t grasp the rules of Rugby football. ‘Odd sounds came from that direction. Good God, it’s Alpine Joe.’
‘It’s Wooster!’
‘Who’s Wooster? Oh, you told me, didn’t you? What steps do you propose to take?’
‘I have rung for Butterfield.’
‘Who’s Butterfield?’
‘My butler.’
‘What do you want a butler for?’
‘To tell him to bring Oates.’
‘Who’s Oates?’
‘Our local policeman. He is having a glass of whisky in the kitchen.’
‘Whisky!’ said Plank thoughtfully, and as if reminded of something went to the side table.
The door opened.
‘Oh, Butterfield, will you tell Oates to come here.’
‘Very good, Sir Watkyn.’
‘Bit out of condition, that chap,’ said Plank, eyeing Butterfield’s retreating back. ‘Wants a few games of Rugger to put him in shape. What are you going to do about this Alpine Joe fellow? You going to charge him?’
‘I certainly am. No doubt he assumed that I would shrink from causing a scandal, but he was wrong. I shall let the law take its course.’
‘Quite right. Soak him to the utmost limit. You’re a Justice of the Peace, aren’t you?’
‘I am, and intend to give him twenty-eight days in the second division.’
‘Or sixty? Nice round number, sixty. You couldn’t make it six months, I suppose?’
‘I fear not.’
‘No, I imagine you have a regular tariff. Ah, well, twenty-eight days is better than nothing.’
‘Police Constable Oates,’ said Butterfield in the doorway.
24
I don’t know why it is, but there’s something about being hauled off to a police bin that makes you feel a bit silly. At least, that’s how it always affects me. I mean, there you are, you and the arm of the Law, toddling along side by side, and you feel that in a sense he’s your host and you ought to show an interest and try to draw him out. But it’s so difficult to hit on anything in the nature of an exchange of ideas, and conversation never really flows. I remember at my private school, the one I won a prize for Scripture Knowledge at, the Rev. Aubrey Upjohn, the top brass, used to take us one by one for an educational walk on Sunday afternoons, and I always found it hard to sparkle when my turn came to step out at his side. It was the same on this occasion, when I accompanied Constable Oates to the village coop. It’s no good my pretending the thing went with a swing, because it didn’t.