Blotto, Twinks and the Intimate Revue

Book 8: Blotto Twinks

by Simon Brett

Genres: International Crime & Mystery; Mystery

Synopsis

A quick trip to the capital goes horribly wrong when Blotto and Twinks get accidentally involved in London's criminal underworld . . .

It starts innocently enough at the intimate review 'absolutely everyone is talking about', Light and Frothy, where its glamorous star, Frou Frou Gavotte, has rather taken the fancy of Blotto's school friend Giles 'Whiffler' Trumpington. But while Blotto and Whiffler wait for the star outside the theatre to take her to dinner, Whiffler is seized and manhandled into the back of a cab which then drives off into the night . . . Leaving Blotto with the problem of how to rescue his kidnapped schoolmate.

Naturally, he enlists Twinks's help and the two of them encounter actors, singers, impresarios, revue writers, cockney showgirls and Scotland Yard's finest - and white slave traders, who succeed in abducting Twinks - leaving it up to Blotto and his trusty chauffeur, Corky Froggett, to rescue her before she's shipped off to foreign parts forever . . .

Praise for Simon Brett

'A new Simon Brett is an event for mystery fans' P. D. James

'Murder most enjoyable' Colin Dexter

'One of British crime's most assured craftsmen . . . Crime writing just like in the good old days, and perfect entertainment' Guardian

'Few crime writers are so enchantingly gifted' Sunday Times

'Simon Brett writes stunning detective stories. I would recommend them to anyone' Jilly Cooper

Release date: November 1, 2018

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 208

Sample

Blotto didn’t really like London. As Devereux Lyminster, younger brother to the Duke of Tawcester, living in the idyllic setting of Tawcester Towers in the county of Tawcestershire, everything he needed in life was right there on his doorstep. The estate had its own cricket pitch and that, with forays to other grounds, kept him ecstatically occupied during the summer months. In the winter, nothing made him happier than sitting astride his magnificent hunter Mephistopheles, thundering in pursuit of foxes and devastating the fields of the local farmers. And all through the year, he enjoyed belting along the narrow lanes of Tawcestershire in his blue Lagonda, scattering the peasantry on to the verges and into the ditches of the county. (In this he was merely obeying ancestral instinct. Families like the Lyminsters had a long tradition of mutilating serfs.)

Blotto was a man of simple pleasures and simple mind. Who needed London?

His sister Twinks, properly known as Honoria Lyminster, was a woman of more sophisticated tastes. She was also a woman of astonishing intellect and remarkable beauty. The effect of this latter quality could be measured by the number of men who fell for her like fainting guardsmen. Few of the male gender had been constructed with sufficient resistance to withstand the allure of her slender frame, white-blonde hair and azure eyes. Twinks was so inured to hearing daily declarations of love that her invariable response – ‘Don’t talk such toffee’ – had become an instinct to her. It was not that she didn’t find men physically attractive. It was just that she encountered so few who came even near to being her intellectual equals.

So, although she enjoyed many country pursuits, and although she could always engage her brainpower with some project like translating Dostoyevsky into Sanskrit, Twinks required the stimulus of London far more than her brother did. If a couple of weeks went by without a visit to the capital, she would begin to get a little twitchy, and a month of uninterrupted Tawcester Towers life would find her bouncing off its ancestral walls.

Though he didn’t welcome them, Blotto was no longer surprised when his sister accosted him with the ominous words, ‘Blotters me old frying pan, could I have a wordette with you . . . ?’ He knew all too well what they would lead to.

On this latest occasion, on a perfect English summer’s morning, he had just been down to the garage to watch as his chauffeur Corky Froggett finished polishing the Lagonda, and was on his way to set the world to rights in the stables by communing with Mephistopheles, when Twinks cornered him in the Long Rose Walk and asked the familiar question.

‘Blotto me old frying pan, could I have a wordette with you . . . ?’

‘Erm . . . Well . . . Tickey-Tockey,’ her brother responded uneasily.

‘Fact is, the Tawcester Towers Hunt Ball is on the horizon,’ she went on.

‘Well, I’ll be snickered,’ said Blotto, feigning surprise. In fact, he knew full well what she was talking about. For him Hunt Balls – even when held on home turf – were ghastly blots on the social calendar. His idea of a good time didn’t include dancing. Though so elegant at the crease in a cricket match, in a foxtrot Blotto was all left feet. Also Hunt Balls brought with them the recurring hazard of beautiful and wealthy debutantes wanting to marry him. So far, he had managed to escape the manacles of matrimony, but he knew it was only a matter of time before his mother, the craggy and redoubtable Dowager Duchess of Tawcester, dictated that he should twiddle the old marital reef knot. And he knew that mothers of eligible young girls would already be circling in preparation for showing off their wares at Tawcester Towers.

For these and other reasons, Blotto would always rather be immersed in cold custard than go to a Hunt Ball.

He waited in some trepidation for what his sister would say next.

It came. ‘And my wardrobe’s as empty as a policeman’s imagination. Just got the maid to lay out the contents in my boudoir – nothing there that doesn’t scream “so last year” at the volume of a stuck pig. I’m afraid, Blotters me old tub of tooth powder, an assault raid on the London couturiers is the absolute Wellington command.’

Broken biscuits, Blotto murmured inwardly, which was a measure of his discomfiture. He was not in the habit of using strong language. But all he said audibly was, ‘Good ticket, Twinks me old bowl of shaving soap. Then let us unleash the old Lag at worm’s waking in the morning, and pongle up to London.’

It was not in Blotto’s nature to be cast down for long. Within seconds, his customary sunny disposition had emerged from behind the clouds. When he came to think about it, London wasn’t such a treacle tin after all. While Twinks was off consulting her needle-wielders, he had ways of filling the time. The Savoy did a decent enough breakfast, luncheon at one of his clubs, early evening bite at a supper club, take in a few giggles at the latest intimate revue, and round off the metropolitan day with a large dinner somewhere. He could cope with that.

And, after all, it would only be for a couple of days.

A summons to visit the Dowager Duchess of Tawcester in the Blue Morning Room never boded well. Blotto and Twinks’s redoubtable mother was built from the primordial rock which predated the Age of the Dinosaurs (though they were in fact a species with which she shared many characteristics). Her upbringing of her three children (the oldest, universally known as Loofah, was the current Duke) had not involved any modish frills like proximity or affection, but her presence still loomed over the entire Tawcester Towers estate.

Blotto had always been appropriately cowed by his mother. Though famously brave in the cricket and hunting fields, though unflinching in battle (particularly when facing impossible odds), the flicker of a disapproving eyebrow from his mother could still reduce him to the consistency of consommé. Blotto had always known his place when it came to women – he was undoubtedly their inferior – but nowhere was this more applicable than in his relationship with his mother. In her presence, Blotto was more cowed than a Texan cattle ranch.

Even Twinks, who had intense bravery, dazzling intellect and gender on her side, trod warily around the Dowager Duchess.

‘It has come to my attention,’ the old lady boomed that morning in the Blue Morning Room, ‘that the two of you are planning a trip to the Metropolis.’

‘Yes, Mater,’ said Twinks, defiance already in her tone, as if she were expecting opposition. ‘I need to tog up with some new shimmeries for the forthcoming Hunt Ball. My wardrobe’s as empty as a pauper’s pocket.’

The expected disagreement did not materialise. Instead, Twinks was confronted with that rare commodity from her mother – enthusiasm. ‘Cracking good idea,’ said the Dowager Duchess. ‘Any such investment is to be recommended.’

‘Investment?’ echoed Twinks warily.

‘Of course. The Tawcester Towers plumbing is in need of refurbishment.’ The words were spoken as by a judge who had just put on his black cap, prior to passing a death sentence.

‘Oh, not again, Mater! That really is a rat in the larder.’

Blotto nodded in sympathy. The precarious health of the Tawcester Towers plumbing was something of which both siblings had been aware from the nursery onward. The bronchial wheezing in its pipes had been a leitmotif to their growing up. They had become used to the thin trickles of cold brown water from taps in the great house’s few bathrooms. They were used to the sounds of dripping and the smell of seepage. And their constant drinking of water from its old pipes had inoculated them forever against the effects of lead poisoning.

Blotto and Twinks had also grown up witnessing frequent attempts to improve the state of the Tawcester Towers plumbing. Recurrent floods, running down through the storeys of the old house, had prompted frequent emergency repairs, none of which did much to alleviate the basic problem of the system’s antiquity. Its ravenous maw swallowed down money as a whale does krill. And on more than one occasion, the aristocratic siblings had been forced to undertake hazardous but lucrative adventures with a view to replenishing the family coffers and meeting their plumbing bills.

‘It’s important that you look your best,’ said the Dowager Duchess ominously.

Twinks, whose brain was one of the most efficient in human history, quickly realised how her mother’s enthusiasm for new Hunt Ball dresses was connected to the Tawcester Towers plumbing. Even Blotto, whose brain was one of the least efficient in human history, had a pretty fair idea of what was going on. The Mater was match-making again. It might be thought that nothing could enhance his sister’s already perfect looks, but a new dress couldn’t do any harm. And might prove sufficiently alluring as a bait for some vapid young man from a wealthy family to marry her and sort out the Tawcester Towers plumbing for good.

Blotto looked across at his sister with sympathy. That sympathy, though, was mixed with another emotion: relief. If the Mater was focusing her matrimonial ambitions on Twinks, then he might be let off the hook for a while.

But, even while the hope was forming in his mind, it was instantly dashed, as the Dowager Duchess continued, ‘And, of course, Blotto, you always look your best at balls. So much simpler for the male of the species, isn’t it? Put a monkey in evening dress and it’d pass muster, wouldn’t it? We may have to put in a bit of work on your conversation, though.’

‘Oh?’ said Blotto feebly. ‘Why?’

‘Because,’ his mother replied imperturbably, ‘there is someone I have invited to our Hunt Ball on whom it is very important that you make an impression.’

Biscuits broken in a thousand pieces, Blotto murmured inwardly. Though, of course, he would never have allowed his mother to hear him using such strong language out loud.

He was well aware of what he was up against. The Dowager Duchess had a network of other Duchesses (with the occasional Countess and Marchioness), who made it their business to find out the precise details of all eligible young women who might be used as pawns in the complex strategies of matrimonial chess. They knew to a nicety the lineage and financial expectations of every aristocratic female under twenty in the British Isles. They knew which family scandals could be politely ignored, and which left a permanent stain on the family escutcheon. They knew in which family vaults the bodies were buried.

Their information went back long before the balls at which such young debutantes were presented to the King and Queen. Members of the Dowager Duchess’s beady-eyed collective scanned the Births columns of the right newspapers, already earmarking matrimonial potential among the hyphenated newborn.

Their network was as efficient as the Mafia, and far more deadly.

So Blotto had no doubt that, if his mother was lining up a potential bride for him, she would have done her research.

‘Do you know the Earl of Midhurst?’ asked the Dowager Duchess.

‘No, I don’t think I’ve actually met the boddo,’ said her son miserably.

‘Well, he committed the terrible social solecism of marrying an American.’ Neither Blotto nor Twinks thought it was the moment to remind their mother that she had once contemplated sacrificing her younger son in the same way, as a solution to the Tawcester Towers plumbing problem.

‘Didn’t have the decency to go over and live with her there, so that people could pretend they didn’t know about it. He actually flaunted her round the English social set, just as if she had breeding. And he bred from her, of course. No son and heir, though, just the one gel called Araminta. Quite the charmer, I gather. And relatively civilised. Doesn’t talk with an American accent, or anything embarrassing like that.

‘But, since she’s a filly, what it means is that, when the Earl’s clogs pop orf, title goes to some distant cousin. Only the title, though. Prior to her marriage, the so-called Countess had some legal instrument drawn up – by an American lawyer, of course, you have to go over there to get the real shysters – whereby her money is inherited by her children, regardless of gender.’ In the Dowager Duchess’s tone, disgust at such commercial foresight mixed with an undeniable element of admiration.

‘Terribly bad form, of course, denying the right of primogeniture, but here we could be talking ill winds. The gel’s called Araminta fffrench-Wyndeau – and, as everyone with the proper breeding knows, the second and third fs in her surname are silent. Anyway, she will inherit all of her mother’s wealth. And that wealth comes from oil!’ Again, contempt for anyone whose money wasn’t inherited vied with delight at the knowledge of how much of it could be generated by something as crude as oil.

‘So, Blotto . . .’ The Dowager Duchess fixed her implacable eye on her younger son. ‘For the sake of the Lyminster family honour . . . you know what you have to do.’

‘Tickey-Tockey, Mater,’ came the wretched response.

‘At the Hunt Ball, you must besiege Araminta fffrench-Wyndeau, you must use all of your wiles . . .’

‘But I haven’t got any wiles.’

‘. . . any ruse . . .’

‘I haven’t got any ruse either . . . well, except the ones I’m wearing.’

‘. . . to ensure that the gel falls for you like a peppered partridge. Anything less, on the night of the Hunt Ball, than her acceptance of your proposal, Blotto, I will regard as an abject failure on your part!’

‘Good ticket, Mater,’ he murmured abjectly.

On the rare occasions when Blotto had to stay in London on his own, he tended to park the old jim-jams at one of his clubs. Of these he usually favoured the Grenadiers in St James’s, universally known by its members as ‘the Gren’. It was one of those clubs devoted to making a young man’s transition from public school to adult life as painless as possible. To this end, it employed an all-male staff, and chefs whose ambitions never aspired above the level of nursery food.

Whenever Blotto went to the Gren, he was bound to meet a few of his old muffin-toasters from Eton, whose company would guarantee a riotous evening of throwing bread rolls at ancestral portraits, galloping through the wine list, and eventual collapse in a room where his bed was the only fixed point.

When accompanied by his sister, however, he took a totally different approach. Recognising how churlish it would be for him to dine in an establishment where the footfall of a lady would have caused some half-dozen coronaries before she even made it across the foyer, he always booked them adjacent suites at the Savoy (‘a boddo’s always well looked after at the Savvers’).

But on this particular occasion, he was granted the opportunity to have his cake (along with other nursery food) and eat it. Lunch at the Gren, an afternoon in one of its capacious leather armchairs to sleep that off, followed by dinner with Twinks at the Savvers. All creamy éclair, so far as Blotto was concerned.

Though he had done the driving (the Lagonda vied only with Mephistopheles and his cricket bat as Blotto’s most treasured possession), the siblings had been accompanied to London by their chauffeur, Corky Froggett. A man of military background and impeccable loyalty, it was his earnest ambition to give his life in defence of any member of the family at Tawcester Towers, but particularly of the young master, Devereux Lyminster. The fact that this supreme sacrifice had never yet been required of him remained a constant source of disappointment to Corky Froggett. But he lived in hope.

Corky was one of those men who blossomed in wartime, and for whom peace would always come as something of a disappointment. He had excelled as a fighting machine in the ‘recent little dust-up in France’ and sincerely regretted that his homicidal tendencies were no longer allowed free rein. The war had also represented the high spot of his life in other respects. In France he had met a young Resistance fighter who. . .