Sunset at Blandings by P.G. Wodehouse Page A

at Daphne
Wink-worth’s school? Well, ring up Daphne and get a description of him.’
    ‘I’ll
do it at once,’ said Florence. She felt that one could always rely on Brenda.
    She
hastened to the telephone.
    ‘Daphne.’
    ‘Who is
this?’
    ‘Florence.’
    ‘Oh,
how are you, Florence dear?’
    ‘Very
worried. I rang up to ask you to do something for me.’
    ‘Anything,
of course.’
    ‘It’s
just to describe a man named Bennison.’
    ‘Do you
mean who used to be here as drawing master?’
    ‘Used
to be! Aha!’
    ‘Why do
you say Aha?’
    ‘Because
I suspect Galahad of having sneaked him into Blandings under a false name.’
    ‘Galahad
is capable of anything.’
    ‘Anything.’
    ‘I won’t
enquire as to his motives. Being Galahad — one can assume that they were bad …’
    ‘They
were.’
    ‘Well,
Mr. Bennison is about five foot eleven, well built, clean shaven, fair hair,
and he has a small scar just under his right eye. A football accident, I
believe. I wouldn’t say for certain that his nose hadn’t been broken at some
time. Does this meet your requirements?
    ‘It
does,’ said Florence. ‘It does indeed. Thank you, Daphne. I am very grateful to
you.’
    Armed
with this information, she went out into the grounds in search of Gally. She
found him in the hammock under the cedar and for once took no offence at his
occupancy of it. A sister about to bathe a brother in confusion and, though she
could not count on this, bring the blush of shame to his cheek, has no time to
bother about hammocks.
    She was
all amiability as she opened her attack.
    ‘Having
a little sleep, Galahad?’
    ‘Not at
the moment. Thinking deep thoughts.’
    ‘About
what?’
    ‘Oh,
this and that.’
    ‘Cabbages
and kings?’
    ‘That
sort of thing.’
    ‘Did
you meditate at all on Mr. Smith?’
    ‘Not
that I remember.’
    ‘I
thought you might have been wondering why he called himself that.’
    ‘Why
shouldn’t he? It’s his name.’
    ‘Really?
I always thought his name was Bennison.’ Gally’s training at the old Pelican
Club stood him in good stead. Membership at that raffish institution always
equipped a man with the ability to remain outwardly calm under the impact of
nasty surprises. Somebody like Fruity Biffen, taken aback when his Assyrian
beard fell off, might register momentary dismay, but most members beneath the
slings and arrows of outrageous fortune were able to preserve the easy
nonchalance of a Red Indian at the stake. Gaily did so now. Nobody could have
told that he was feeling as though a charge of trinitrotoluol had been touched
off under him. His frank open face showed merely the bewilderment of a brother
who was at a loss to know what his sister was talking about.
    ‘Why on
earth should you think his name was Bennison?’
    ‘Because
last night Clarence saw him hugging and kissing Victoria. It seemed to me odd
behaviour if they had only known each other about twenty-four hours.’
    Gally
was astounded.
    ‘He was
kissing her?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You
accept Clarence’s unsupported word?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You
don’t think he was having one of those hallucinations people have?’
    ‘I do
not.’
    ‘I knew
a chap at the Pelican who thought he was being followed about by a little man
with a black beard. Well, I will certainly speak to Smith about this. But I
still think Clarence must have been mistaken.’
    ‘Have
you known him long?’
    ‘Ages.
We grew up together.’
    ‘You
did what?’
    ‘Oh,
you mean Smith. I thought you meant Clarence. Yes, I’ve known Smith quite a
while. Not so long as I’ve known Clarence, of course, but long enough to be
sure he’s just the man Vicky ought to marry.’
    ‘And I’m
sure that his name is Bennison and that you brought him to the castle.’
    Gaily
shook his head reproachfully. He was not angry, but you could see he was
terribly hurt.
    ‘You
ought not to say such things, Florence. You have wounded me deeply.’
    ‘Good.’
    ‘You
have caused me