Blandings Castle, an imposing fifteenth-century building with all the turrets and battlements one could ask for in an English castle, stood at its customary place on a knoll of rising ground at the southern end of the Vale of Blandings in Shropshire. From the highest battlement, the flag of the ninth Earl was fluttering gently in the breeze. The green meadows had a fresh look, the lake shim-mered like silver and the yew alley cast a pleasant shade over the winding road up to the majestic building.

It would have been a picture of serene British country-life, had it not been for the incessant humming of an aeroplane engine that was circling at the height of a few hundred feet.

"I have to say, old chap," observed Bertie in the cockpit of the Auster, "Chedcombe Manor is slightly smaller than that."

"Merioneth Towers, too, thank heavens," replied Algy. "Hardly large enough to get properly lost in."

"Good thing we topped up on the way; otherwise we might not have had enough juice to search the whole property in one flight. I say, you don't think they put the sow in one of the guest rooms and forgot which one, do you?"

"Most things are possible, when it comes to Emsworth, I believe," said Algy, philosophically.

"Now, since we've been sent on this fool's errand, let's do it properly. I'll circle around as low as I can, and you keep your eyes skinned and mark anything that might contain a pig on that map so we can check it out later."

"Right-ho, old boy," agreed Bertie, busying himself with the map.

They carefully surveyed the park, the surrounding fields and forest, and Bertie conscientiously marked the existence of three small cottages among the trees. Close to the formal garden, a small shed with adjoining pen was bereft of its illustrious dweller, but they could also spot another sty-like building, the stable and a few sheds dotted over the ground.

They took in the little hamlet of Blandings Parva, with its few cottages and assorted official and service institutions; namely a church, a vicarage, a general store, a filling station, an inn and the village pond. They spotted a number of cottages and smaller farm houses at some distance from the castle, and they flew over the bigger village of Blandings Market, with such facilities as a train station, several public houses and a police station.

"If the pig is in a densely populated area, such as one of the villages, it can hardly be a secret, old boy," opined Bertie.

"Yes, I think we've covered all the possible hiding-places in the vicinity," agreed Algy. "Not that stealing a pig and keeping her within sight of the owner makes much sense to me," he added as he headed the Auster in the direction of the castle again.

Bertie, struck by a disturbing thought, turned to Algy.

"You don't think it's one of those yes my lord, no my lord, households, do you?"

Algy, being a mere Honourable and not taking the whole thing very seriously, shrugged.

"Probably. What do you expect, with an old Earl and one of the most imposing castles in the country?"

"I'm sick of hearing my lord all over the place. I'm not having any of that, thank you!" said Bertie. "Be a pal and present me as plain old Bertie, would you?"

"Might be too late," pointed out Algy. "I wouldn't be surprised if Gaskin sold us in as representatives of the Yard peerage."

"Well, if he didn't, you won't sell me out, will you?"

Algy grinned, considering a range of possible mischievous schemes, but he succumbed to the pleading look in Bertie's eyes.

"All right, but you'd better mind what you say if you're going to fool anyone. No-one is going to buy that you're of solid middle-class stock if you start comparing the place with Chedcombe. All they will need is a quick glance in Debrett's Peerage."

"Don't you worry about me," assured Bertie earnestly, "I will take the greatest care. And just for your information, I am Bertie Lissie, son to a decently prosperous beef merchant in the Midlands. If needs arise, I will elaborate on my cover story and let you know."

"I'm sure you will..." said Algy solemnly, looking out for an appropriate strip of grass to put the plane down.

Landing presented no problem, and Algy parked the plane as close to the castle as he could, in the shadow of the yew alley.

"Let's get out of here, old boy, before the gardener comes around and makes a fuss about the lawn," suggested Bertie, remembering his childhood's head gardener.

"I wasn't planning on hanging around here," assured Algy, "not when there is a stunning garden close by."

"Oh. You don't you think we should tootle along and tell old Emsworth we're here, and all that sort of thing?"

"Of course we will."

They had a short walk up to the courtyard in front of the castle, where they were spotted by a liveried man, standing outside the great entrance. He went forward to meet them, eyeing them curiously but greeting them politely.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. Can I help you?"

"Yes, good afternoon, I believe Lord Emsworth is expecting us. Mr Lacey and Mr Lissie, from the Air Police of Scotland Yard."

"Indeed he is, sir," agreed the footman. "His lordship is taking tea in the amber drawing-room. Let me show you in."

Inside the spacious hall, their path were intercepted by a butler, in his own way quite as majestic as the castle. He lifted his eyebrows to the footman.

"These are the policemen from Scotland Yard that Lord Emsworth is expecting, Mr Beach," explained the footman.

"Good afternoon," said Algy with a nod. "This is Mr Lissie, and I am Mr Lacey."

"Cheerio," added Bertie.

A trained butler does not burst out in joyful exclamations, however terrific news he receives, but Beach permitted himself a slight smile and an affable tone when he bid the visitors welcome. He knew that his lordship was eagerly awaiting their arrival, and the well-being of his employer lay the butler close at heart. He bade the gentlemen to accompany him to the drawing-room for a cup of tea, perhaps some buttered toast and cucumber sandwiches, and to meet his lordship.

"Please bring in two more cups, Thomas," was his parting words to the footman as he, in a dignified manner, showed the policemen the way through a few more grand rooms until they reached their goal. Beach let them in and presented them as if they were the latest arrivals at the country ball.

"Mr Lacey and Mr Lissie, of Scotland Yard, my lord."

There were two men in the drawing-room; one tall, lean and scruffy-looking with a haunted look on his face, the other a dapper little man with a black-rimmed monocle in one eye and a vivacious air.

The tall man, who was draped like a heap of discarded clothes in an armchair, stared vacantly at his butler.

"Yard? What about the yard? It looked all right this morning."

"The policemen, your lordship," Beach clarified. "From Scotland Yard."

"The chaps who are going to help you look for the Empress, Clarence," interpreted the Honourable Galahad Threepwood.

"How do you do, Lord Emsworth," said Algy politely, not taking the risk of reminding the peer that they had met before. "I am Air Police Sergeant Lacey, and this is my colleague, Mr Lissie."

"Good afternoon," added Bertie.

Lord Emsworth's face cleared, and he rose with new energy.

"The policemen? Capital, capital, welcome, my dear fellows. Perhaps you would like to see some photos of the Empress, so you will be able to identify her?"

"You must mind your manners, Clarence," said the Hon. Galahad reproachfully. "You can't expect anyone to look at photos of fat pigs without something to fortify themselves with."

He had himself forfeited the usual tonic for an Englishman in distress, tea, for a whisky and soda. Tea was a lethal drink, he always claimed, mentioning the death of his friend Buffy Struggles, soon after he had started drinking tea, as proof. The fact that his friend had been run over by a hansom cab did nothing to change Gally's mind.

He smiled encouragingly at Algy and Bertie. The Hon. Galahad had been pinched or admonished by a great many members of the police force in his days, and his general opinion was that policemen should be kept on a short leash. But he was a kind and sociable person, ready to welcome anyone who came to the rescue of his older brother in the search for the unsurpassed sow.

"Tea or something stronger, gentlemen? I am the younger brother, by the way – please call me Gally."

"Tea, please," said Algy firmly.

"Beach, perhaps you would be so kind? Our sister Constance would normally do the honours, but she has for the moment deserted us," Gally explained, a look on his face that bore no similarities to Romeo pining for Juliet.

While Beach ceremoniously prepared to serve the tea, Gally turned to Bertie.

"Lissie? I knew a Lissie once, Archibald Lissie of Ched-something. Quite a nice fellow but somewhat crazy. He was the only one I ever met who was thrown out of the old Gardenia in the nineties because of his dress sense; something about a fez and a bow-tie, I believe. Or was it from the Criterion? A relative, perhaps?" he beamed.

"No, no," said Bertie hastily, with difficulty keeping his curiosity about his forefather in check. "I most assuredly have no connection with Chedc – something. I come from a long line of simple beef farmers in the Midlands. No Ched-something around there, no by Jove!"

Lord Emsworth waited with ill-concealed impatience while the policemen were served tea and sandwiches. He paced around the room until Algy – after a first bite of the cucumber sandwich – asked for information about when and how the loss of the pig had been discovered.

"I was forced to go to London for a few days, and when I returned the Empress was gone. The keeper, Miss Simmons, is on holiday, they tell me, but no-one knows what precautions were taken to take care of the Empress. One can't turn one's back without having one's home overrun with thieves. The Government is far too slack about these things! I knew I should have refused to leave her side, but Connie insisted."

Lord Emsworth was a firm believer in that most things evil had its origin in the Metropolis. His commanding sister, Lady Constance, at times made him go to London to fulfill his obligations as a peer of the realm and the head of a considerable family, but he was never happy until he had arrived home in the country again.

"She has been missing for four days by now, and goodness knows what it will mean to her health. She is a delicate animal, only too ready to refuse her meals on the slightest provocation. And Augustus Whipple is quite firm that a pig needs at least fifty-seven thousand and eight hundred calories per day to keep her shape," fretted Lord Emsworth.

Bertie, who had recently heard a female relative explain the latest low-calorie diet, tried to envisage a meal of such impressive proportions, but gave up somewhere at the second serving table.

"Yes, but didn't anyone notice if something was going on around the sty?" said Algy patiently. "Who was the last person to see her?"

"Clarence, or quite possibly Miss Simmons," put in Gally, when his older brother failed to provide a succinct answer. "But, unfortunately, we don't know exactly when Miss Simmons saw her charge for the last time before she left."

"And, of course, you don't know where Miss Simmons is so you can ask her?" said Algy, resignedly.

"That about covers it, my dear fellow," agreed Gally affably. "Clarence checked the sty just before he left, Thursday morning. He rose the alarm when he returned, Friday evening."

"She might even have been gone five days," murmured the harassed Earl, after an intense arithmetic operation. He tried to find strength from a photo, which he presently passed on to Algy.

The two air policemen politely studied the huge pig in the photo, taken at some kind of prize ceremony.

"You don't really pick up a pig that size and walk away. You must have seen some kind of tracks by the sty? Tyre marks you don't recognise, for instance?"

"She hardly left on her own," asserted Bertie. "Pigs don't jolly well fly, you know."

Gally was on the verge of correcting the visitor, pointing out that Bertie was himself living proof that 'pigs' did indeed fly, but for once in his life chose silence. Such a remark would only lead to unnecessary confusion since the joke would have to be explained to Lord Emsworth in great detail.

Instead, he shook his head with a mournful expression.

"I'm afraid you over-estimate our knowledge of the vehicle park, dear boy. We wouldn't recognize the estate tractor if you served it on a silver plate. We're of the indolent class, totally dependent upon others."

"I take it you haven't asked any of your staff; someone who drives the tractor, for instance?"

"Indeed, what a capital idea," agreed Gally. "We'll hound up the poor man for you to interrogate."

"We understand the local constable has been on the case, and all that," put in Bertie. "Perhaps he spoke to the tractor-chappie?"

"I'm certain he didn't," fumed Lord Emsworth. "All that oaf Evans did was to look for a second around the sty, and then he said that he couldn't see anything because I had walked all over the place."

"I suppose you have searched the cabins around here? We spotted several from the plane when we flew over the estate."

"And made enquiries around the local butchers," added Bertie, helpfully.

Lord Emsworth stared, aghast, at Bertie.

"Young man, are you implying that someone would want to murder the Empress?! But that would be monstrous!!"

Lord Emsworth collapsed in his armchair, a look of hunted agony on his face. His younger brother hurried to his side while Algy gave Bertie a reproaching look.

"There, there, Clarence," said Gally comfortingly. "Of course no-one would think to harm the Empress. Not even that snake Parsloe could think he could get away with it."

"I understood Sir Gregory had given up pigs," ventured Algy.

On hearing the name, Lord Emsworth collected himself enough to sit upright and flame of righteous indignation.

"I made constable Evans search Matchingham Hall, and he swears there are no pigs there, but I don't trust him. Parsloe has had an eye on the Empress for years!"

"Young Parsloe is not to be trusted," agreed Gally, seriously. "He's a blot on the shield of British knighthood. I've known Parsloe for thirty years, and I can tell you that the word fair play is not in his vocabulary. I remember when I was matching my dog Towser against his Banjo in a rat contest, one evening at the Black Footman public-house in Gossiter Street. A hundred pounds a side. But when the rats were brought on, Towser was dozing in a corner with his stomach bulging. When I called him, I'm dashed if he didn't just give a long yawn and rolled over and went to sleep. I sniffed his breath, and it was like opening the kitchen door of a Soho chophouse. That scoundrel Parsloe had inserted a full evening meal of steak and onions in Towser, to make certain that his Banjo should win by default, mark my words!"

"Towser! I say, what fun, I had a dog called Towser once too," said Bertie, a fond smile on his face while he was polishing his eyeglass and remembering his mongrel terrier. "A jolly little feller. Do you remember the havoc he caused when he chased that black cat out right in front of A Flight, Algy? Well, you would, wouldn't you – you were A Flight, weren't you?"

"I'm trying very hard to forget," muttered Algy. Then, since he had given up hope of extracting any useful information from the Threepwood brothers, he suggested: "We might at least check around the sty today."