The Bishop’s Move

‘General Bloodenough,’ announced the butler.

‘Oh, that I had wings like a dove. Psalm xlv, 6,’ muttered the bishop.

His desire to be wafted from that spot with all available speed could hardly be considered unreasonable. General Sir Hector Bloodenough, V.C., K.C.I.E., M.V.O., on retiring from the army, had been for many years, until his final return to England, in charge of the Secret Service in Western Africa, where his unerring acumen had won for him from the natives the soubriquet of Wah-nah-B’gosh-B’jingo—which, freely translated, means Big Chief Who Can See Through The Hole In A Doughnut.

A man impossible to deceive. The last man the bishop would have wished to be conducting the present investigations.

The general stalked into the room. He had keen blue eyes, topped by bushy white eyebrows: and the bishop found his gaze far too piercing to be agreeable.

‘Bad business, this,’ he said. ‘Bad business. Bad business.’

‘It is, indeed,’ faltered the bishop.

‘Shocking bad business. Shocking. Shocking. Do you know what we found on the head of that statue, eh? that statue, that statue? Your hat, bishop. Your hat. Your hat.’

The bishop made an attempt to rally. His mind was in a whirl, for the general’s habit of repeating everything three times had the effect on him of making his last night’s escapade seem three times as bad. He now saw himself on the verge of standing convicted of having painted three statues with three pots of pink paint, and of having placed on the head of each one of a trio of shovel-hats. But he was a strong man, and he did his best.

‘You say my hat?’ he retorted with spirit. ‘How do you know it was my hat? There may have been hundreds of bishops dodging about the school grounds last night.’

‘Got your name in it. Your name. Your name.’

The bishop clutched at the arm of the chair in which he sat. The general’s eyes were piercing him through and through, and every moment he felt more like a sheep that has had the misfortune to encounter a potted meat manufacturer. He was on the point of protesting that the writing in the hat was probably a forgery, when there was a tap at the door.

‘Come in,’ cried the headmaster, who had been cowering in his seat.

There entered a small boy in an Eton suit, whose face seemed to the bishop vaguely familiar. It was a face that closely resembled a ripe tomato with a nose stuck on it, but that was not what had struck the bishop. It was of something other than tomatoes that this lad reminded him.

‘Sir, please, sir,’ said the boy.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said General Bloodenough testily. ‘Run away, my boy, run away, run away. Can’t you see we’re busy?’

‘But, sir, please, sir, it’s about the statue.’

‘What about the statue? What about it? What about it?’

‘Sir, please, sir, it was me.’

‘What! What! What! What! What!’

The bishop, the general, and the headmaster had spoken simultaneously: and the ‘Whats’ had been distributed as follows:

The Bishop	1
The General	3
The Headmaster	1

making five in all. Having uttered these ejaculations, they sat staring at the boy, who turned a brighter vermilion.

‘What are you saying?’ cried the headmaster. ‘You painted that statue?’

‘Sir, yes, sir.’

‘You?’ said the bishop.

‘Sir, yes, sir.’

‘You? You? You?’ said the general.

‘Sir, yes, sir.’

There was a quivering pause. The bishop looked at the headmaster. The headmaster looked at the bishop. The general looked at the boy. The boy looked at the floor.

The general was the first to speak.

‘Monstrous!’ he exclaimed. ‘Monstrous. Monstrous. Never heard of such a thing. This boy must be expelled, Headmaster. Expelled. Ex—’

‘No!’ said the headmaster in a ringing voice.

‘Then flogged within an inch of his life. Within an inch. An inch.’

‘No!’ A strange, new dignity seemed to have descended upon the Rev. Trevor Entwhistle. He was breathing a little quickly through his nose, and his eyes had assumed a somewhat prawn-like aspect. ‘In matters of school discipline, general, I must with all deference claim to be paramount. I will deal with this case as I think best. In my opinion this is not an occasion for severity. You agree with me, bishop?’

The bishop came to himself with a start. He had been thinking of an article which he had just completed for a leading review on the subject of Miracles, and was regretting that the tone he had taken, though in keeping with the trend of Modern Thought, had been tinged with something approaching scepticism.

‘Oh, entirely,’ he said.

‘Then all I can say,’ fumed the general, ‘is that I wash my hands of the whole business, the whole business, the whole business. And if this is the way our boys are being brought up nowadays, no wonder the country is going to the dogs, the dogs, going to the dogs.’

The door slammed behind him. The headmaster turned to the boy, a kindly, winning smile upon his face.

‘No doubt,’ he said, ‘you now regret this rash act?’

‘Sir, yes, sir.’

‘And you would not do it again?’

‘Sir, no, sir.’

‘Then I think,’ said the headmaster cheerily, ‘that we may deal leniently with what, after all, was but a boyish prank, eh, bishop?’

‘Oh, decidedly, Headmaster.’

‘Quite the sort of thing—ha, ha!—that you or I might have done—er—at his age?’

‘Oh, quite.’

‘Then you shall write me twenty lines of Virgil, Mulliner, and we will say no more about it.’

The bishop sprang from his chair.

‘Mulliner! Did you say Mulliner?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have a secretary of that name. Are you, by any chance, a relation of his, my lad?’

‘Sir, yes, sir. Brother.’

‘Oh!’ said the bishop.

---

The bishop found Augustine in the garden, squirting whale-oil solution on the rose-bushes, for he was an enthusiastic horticulturist. He placed an affectionate hand on his shoulder.

‘Mulliner,’ he said, ‘do not think that I have not detected your hidden hand behind this astonishing occurrence.’

‘Eh?’ said Augustine. ‘What astonishing occurrence?’

‘As you are aware, Mulliner, last night, from motives which I can assure you were honourable and in accord with the truest spirit of sound Churchmanship, the Rev. Trevor Entwhistle and I were compelled to go out and paint old Fatty Hemel’s statue pink. Just now, in the headmaster’s study, a boy confessed that he had done it. That boy, Mulliner, was your brother.

‘Oh yes?’

‘It was you who, in order to save me, inspired him to that confession. Do not deny it, Mulliner.’

Augustine smiled an embarrassed smile.

‘It was nothing, Bish, nothing at all.’

‘I trust the matter did not involve you in any too great expense. From what I know of brothers, the lad was scarcely likely to have carried through this benevolent ruse for nothing.’

‘Oh, just a couple of quid. He wanted three, but I beat him down. Preposterous, I mean to say,’ said Augustine warmly. ‘Three quid for a perfectly simple, easy job like that? And so I told him.’

‘It shall be returned to you, Mulliner.’

‘No, no, Bish.’

‘Yes, Mulliner, it shall be returned to you. I have not the sum on my person, but I will forward you a cheque to your new address, The Vicarage, Steeple Mummery, Hants.’

Augustine’s eyes filled with sudden tears. He grasped the other’s hand.

‘Bish,’ he said in a choking voice, ‘I don’t know how to thank you. But—have you considered?’

‘Considered?’

‘The wife of thy bosom. Deuteronomy xiii, 6. What will she say when you tell her?’

The bishop’s eyes gleamed with a resolute light.

‘Mulliner,’ he said, ‘the point you raise had not escaped me. But I have the situation well in hand. A bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the matter. Ecclesiastes x, 20. I shall inform her of my decision on the long-distance telephone.’

Extract from The Bishop’s Move; Meet Mr Mulliner, P G Wodehouse, 1927.