Jeeves and the Wedding Bells

by Sebastian Faulks

  I wasn’t sure why, in the rather awkward circs, I was having these bosky thoughts. Ask anyone in the Drones and they’ll tell you that Wooster, B. is essentially a boulevardier – a man of pavement, café and theatre. I may be possessed of half a dozen decent tweed suitings, even the odd plus-four and deerstalker, but mine is not – au fond, as I believe the French say – a rustic soul.

  Yet something had got right in amongst me on this balmy night, and if I had an inner bumpkin, he was there with straw in his hair, grinning toothlessly and going ‘ooh-arrr’ along with the best of them. I sat down with my back to a tree trunk. I tried to clear my mind of Hackwoods and Venableses, just to get a good whiff of night air and remember what a deuced lucky fellow I was, dropped catch or no.

  Then I felt something with about five hundred feet make a determined effort to get up my trouser leg. That’s the trouble with these countryside moments: they don’t last. Reality tends to stick an oar in.

  A glance at the wrist told me it was some minutes past midnight. I knew that Bicknell went round like a gaoler at eleven-thirty on the dot, securing all entrances. My rude billet, as we know, was on the third floor at the back, with a view – if that’s not too big a word – over the yard that led to the stables. The front of Melbury Hall had a fire escape that zigzagged from the third floor to the ground, with a particularly showy landing outside what I took to be Sir Henry and Lady H’s bedroom. There was no such provision on the other side of the house, where the servants were presumably expected to knot the sheets or take a flying jump.

  Georgiana’s calming efforts seemed to have worked. I could see the light in the library go off, followed by one or two on the first floor, including that in the biggest bedroom. There appeared to be no imminent sign of the local constabulary or of the sleeping villagers of Kingston St Giles being roused by their feudal lord to a hue and cry. Then I saw a light on the second floor, in a room that must have overlooked the lawns – a pleasant but modest nook, almost certainly where they would have shoved the junior cousin, the Sonya Whatsit of the estate. I could see that the fire escape extended in a more modest form to this, the south front of the house. I imagined Georgiana doing a final bit of blue-pencil work behind the curtains before snuffing out the candle.

  The odds on the ravell’d sleeve of care being knitted up to any appreciable extent as far as I was concerned looked pretty slim. In the sober light of day, it would probably have been clear to anyone in my position that the priority was not to make matters worse. The grounds and messuages of Melbury Hall were sure to contain a hayloft or a stable with some comfortable sacking; it would not have taken much, after all, to try the bones less than the visiting valet’s cell.

  Unfortunately, the sober light of day was not where I found myself; rather the opposite. It was beginning to turn cold, as English nights do in June, quite suddenly. The thought of bunking down with the horses failed to appeal. It seemed to me, on the other hand, a quite excellent idea to shimmy up the fire escape, go round the south side to Georgiana’s light, knock on the window, check that all was well and thence make my way up indoors to my own room. As I cut along back towards the house, I could picture Georgiana’s face when she let me in; a hero’s welcome and a goodnight peck were mine for the taking.

  At private school in Bramley-on-Sea, I used to have a Tuesday rendezvous at midnight on just such a fire escape with a boy in a different dormitory – a freckled lad called Newcome, who later took holy orders. These moonlit shindigs over shared tuck were brought to an abrupt end by the slipper of the Rev. Aubrey Upjohn, but it was with something of this youthful sense of adventure that I mounted the fire escape at Melbury Hall.

  It was a solid piece of work, a credit to the ironmonger. It neither squeaked nor wobbled. I averted my eyes from what I took to be the Hackwood boudoir, climbed another floor and turned to survey the scene of which I was monarch. There in the moonlight I could make out the gazebo in the rose garden, and beyond it the rising ground of the deer park. I crept to the corner of the house and along the south front to Georgiana’s room, where the light still burned.

  Not wishing to startle the dear girl, I knocked softly. I listened hard, but there was no response. I rapped a little louder. Still nothing. I had not thought Georgiana to be so hard of hearing. Then I gave it all I’d got and was rewarded by a muffled shriek, the sound of movement from within, and finally a pulling back of curtains.

  I shall never forget the face that met mine through the glass. At first I thought I had seen a ghost, or revenant. The skin was ghastly white; the hairstyle owed plenty to the quills upon a fretful porpentine. The overall expression was that of a Gorgon or Medusa. For what seemed an hour I stood transfixed; but it probably took no more than a second for the Wooster brain, relaxed as it was by the liquid contents of Sir Henry’s ottoman, to register that the apparition was Dame Judith Puxley, readied for the night in thick cold cream and curling papers.

  Acting of their own accord, the lower limbs whisked me away without demur and up the fire escape. I heard the window being raised but was already one floor higher, beneath the stone parapet – over which I clambered on to a flattish piece of roof.

  ‘Who’s there?’ the old vixen called.

  I feared more activity in the house and determined to press on across the rooftops to the relative safety of the servants’ side of things. From this great height I could hear nothing of what commotion might be going on beneath, but I was taking no chances. The roofing arrangement of Melbury Hall was complicated. I knew it had been an especially painful drain on Sir Henry’s resources and the roofers had left ample evidence of their visit: pieces of timber, dust sheets and nails – to say nothing of cigarette ends and empty bottles – lay among the broken slates.

  As I made my way through the debris, up one pitch and down another into a flat gulley, I had a sudden brainwave. I was still in full evening dress and was therefore unlikely to be taken for a cat burglar: even a distant sighting would confirm an inside job. I therefore grabbed an abandoned dust sheet and wrapped it round the person, tucking it under my collar so no one could make out the dinner jacket.

  Just as I thought I was above my own bedroom, a bright light caught me momentarily from below. I ducked down, crawled to the edge and gave it a minute or two. All was quiet. A cast-iron drainpipe seemed to have my name on it. With an agility bred from years of climbing back into my Oxford college, I swung on to it and slid down to where my window, propped open against the sunny day, allowed me a handhold. I clambered aboard, dropped on to the welcome floor and quickly disrobed. With the dust sheet stowed beneath the bed, I was well pyjama-ed by the time footsteps and voices were heard on the back staircase.

  It was an indignant visiting valet who appeared a minute later at his door and demanded to know what the infernal noise was about.

  Breakfast the following morning was later than usual, but a good deal more animated. I had told Jeeves about the events of the night when I took him up his tea, but I need hardly have bothered since he had already come to the conclusion that there was only one candidate for the role of rooftop intruder wrapped in a builder’s dust sheet.

  I was not required in the dining room, but Bicknell brought back regular reports to Mrs Padgett, Mrs Tilman and me. It seemed that Georgiana had convinced Sir Henry that she had surprised a burglar in the library when she went in to find a book to take up to bed. To hinder the pursuit, the intruder had locked the door into the hall before making good his escape. All were agreed that it was a relief Georgiana hadn’t tried to tackle the fellow, who was described as large and of repellent aspect. There was no question of telephoning the police since the line was still out of action.

  ‘Why did Miss Meadowes want to see you earlier, Mr Wilberforce?’ said Bicknell, plonking down an emptied salver.

  ‘She wanted me to … to ask my advice about something.’

  ‘Really?’

  There was something about Bicknell’s manner that I didn’t much like.

&n
bsp; ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘About a present for Lord Etringham,’ I improvised.

  ‘A present?’

  ‘Yes … Yes, I think she wants to give him a present to say thank you for helping Sir Henry with his racing tips.’

  ‘How peculiar,’ said Bicknell. ‘I would have thought Sir Henry himself would have—’

  ‘Oh, do leave off, Mr Bicknell,’ said Mrs Tilman. ‘You sound like a police inspector, doesn’t he, Mr Wilberforce? Anyway, you were only in there a minute, weren’t you, love?’

  ‘Oh, rather,’ I said, slightly surprised.

  ‘I seen you going off to bed only a couple of minutes later.’

  ‘Oh, rather,’ I said again. Weak, I admit, but I was a bit nonplussed by this unexpected alibi.

  ‘Do they need more bacon, Mr Bicknell?’ said Mrs Tilman.

  ‘I’ll look after that,’ said Mrs Padgett, guarding her stove.

  Mrs Tilman poured me a fresh cup of tea and – unless I was mistaken – winked at me. I was still trying to work out what was going on when Bicknell returned in search of more coffee.

  ‘What they’re all asking now,’ he said, ‘is what happened to the man Dame Judith saw outside her window. If he was the burglar, where is he now and how did he escape?’

  ‘’Appen as he’s the one you saw on the roof, Mr B,’ said Mrs Padgett.

  ‘That’s as may be,’ said Bicknell. ‘But I had Hoad guard the fire escape, then go up on the roof first thing and there was nobody there.’

  ‘Sounds like The Mystery of the Gabled House,’ I said, taking a shot at lightening the tone. ‘Not that Melbury Hall has gables, obviously. Jolly good book, though.’

  ‘And who was the murderer?’ said Mrs Tilman.

  ‘The butler did it,’ I said. ‘He always does.’

  ‘Not this butler,’ said Bicknell. ‘Though I have my suspicions.’

  ‘Well, keep them to yourself,’ said Mrs Tilman, using a tone I wouldn’t have dared risk. ‘Mr Wilberforce, why don’t you pop into the dining room and start to clear the sideboard.’

  Bicknell gave Mrs Tilman a reproachful look, but said nothing. I wondered whether she knew things about him, apart from his fondness for the master’s claret; perhaps over the years the odd weakness – a pretty housemaid here, a missing silver napkin ring there – had come to her attention and been set aside for a rainy day.

  At any rate, I was glad to escape his cross-examination; pottering about in the background of the dining room seemed a safer option.

  ‘But, Dame Judith,’ Amelia was saying with some excitement when I went in, ‘surely you must have got a good look at the man’s face.’

  ‘I’ve told you, it was dark,’ said Dame Judith. ‘And I was in a state of shock. So would you have been, young lady.’

  ‘Yes, Ambo,’ said Georgiana, ‘it’s easier for someone outside to see into a lighted room than vice versa.’

  ‘So he must have got a good look at Dame Judith,’ said Amelia.

  This thought seemed to cause both girls a spasm of silent amusement.

  ‘Were you in your nightclothes, Judith?’ asked Lady Hackwood sympathetically.

  ‘Indeed. I had completed my preparations for retiring and was coming to the end of a most interesting article in the Journal of Cuneiform Studies.’

  At this point, Amelia had a fit of coughing that necessitated her holding a napkin over her face, while Georgiana leant over and ministered to her, her shoulders also silently shaking.

  Sir Henry Hackwood put down his copy of The Times and looked down the table.

  ‘Goodwood soon,’ he said. ‘Any thoughts, Etringham?’

  ‘Not yet, I fear,’ said Jeeves. ‘But I shall shortly be in touch with a Newmarket friend who may conceivably be in a position to—’

  ‘Splendid. Good man.’

  ‘What I can’t understand,’ said Lady Hackwood, ‘is why, when Bicknell shone a torch up to the roof, the intruder seemed to be swaddled in a bed sheet.’

  ‘A bed sheet?’ said Dame Judith.

  ‘Bicknell?’ said Sir Henry.

  ‘Yes, Sir Henry,’ said Bicknell. ‘The party was wearing a long piece of cloth wrapped round him from neck to feet. Like an old statue.’

  ‘Do you mean like a toga?’ said Lady Hackwood.

  ‘A toga!’ said Dame Judith. ‘Good heavens. The last time a man in a toga was discovered on a roof in the middle of the night, it was poor Agatha Worplesdon’s lunatic nephew.’

  ‘Look what you’re doing, man!’ said Sir Henry, as I bent down to pick up the pieces of a Spode side plate that had slipped from my grasp.

  ‘Yes,’ went on Dame Judith. ‘It was at a Victorian house near Ludlow.’

  ‘Beautiful county, Shropshire,’ I heard Georgiana interject gamely, as I headed out to the kitchen.

  The rest of the day passed off without incident, for which relief the entire household, I imagine, gave silent thanks. Lady Hackwood and Mrs Venables went to church; Georgiana played croquet with old Vishnu (the lawn was nowhere near as flat as that of Government House in Simla, it appeared), while Amelia gave Venables junior a straight-sets bashing at tennis. Mrs Padgett had the day off and Mrs Tilman conjured a creditable joint of roast pork for lunch. Woody made himself scarce doing some papers in his room and Sir Henry, I fancy, had another crack at the accounts, hoping that this time they just might come out right. The groans from behind the library door did not fill one with hope. I busied myself disposing of the dust sheet in a bonfire area behind the stables.

  Sometimes when you get a breather like that, though, the respite can seem ominous – as though fate is merely taking time off to refill the sock with wet sand. And so it proved; for Monday was the day that mayhem had marked down for her own.

  First thing in the morning, I took Lord Etringham his tea.

  ‘Jeeves,’ I said, placing the tray beside the bed. ‘Plan B swings into action shortly before three pip emma.’

  ‘Indeed, sir? Might I be so bold as to inquire into the nature of the stratagem?’

  ‘Georgiana is to come over all flirtatious with Woody and he’s going to give her the bum’s rush just as Amelia comes on the scene. She’ll see that he’s a parfit gentil knight who only has eyes for her.’

  Jeeves took a sip of Oolong. ‘I am somewhat surprised that Miss Meadowes has consented to such a scheme.’

  ‘She didn’t at first. Then she hit on the idea of getting Woody in on the act.’

  ‘A wise precaution, undoubtedly, sir. And Miss Meadowes is a high-spirited young lady who doubtless enjoys a prank – especially in a good cause.’

  ‘Spot on, Jeeves.’

  ‘And where is the assignation to take place?’

  ‘Next to a rhododendron bush with a bench seat in front of it on the gravel path. Not far from the tennis court. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I was merely trying to envisage the scene, sir. Assuming all passes off without incident, how will Miss Meadowes subsequently repair her friendship with Miss Hackwood?’

  I hadn’t really considered this angle. ‘I’m sure she’ll think of something,’ I said.

  ‘One can but hope, sir. They seem the best of friends.’

  ‘I expect when the dust’s settled, she’ll tell her the truth. Amelia will be so dashed happy she’ll forgive and forget. She’ll probably thank Georgie as the – who’s that chap who brought people together?’

  ‘The willing Pandarus, sir. He was the uncle of Criseyde in the poem by Chaucer, who enabled—’

  ‘That’s the chap. Is all quiet on the intruder front?’

  ‘For the time being, sir, though I fear that Dame Judith remains in a state of agitation.’

  ‘And what about me, for heaven’s sake? It was one of the most terrifying sights of my life.’

  ‘One can well imagine, sir.’

  ‘So that’s it, Jeeves. Back to the old metrop tomorrow and no harm done. Or not too much, anyway.’

  Jeeves did a bit of throat-clearing. I knew of old what th
is meant.

  ‘Something on your mind?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, sir. Sir Henry has invited me to return next weekend for the Midsummer Festival at Melbury Tetchett.’

  ‘You declined, I suppose. And don’t give me that “in the circumstances I deemed it best to accept” routine.’

  ‘I temporised, sir.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘Prevaricated, sir.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘I played for time. I told Sir Henry I would endeavour to return, though I warned him that once back in London I should need to confirm that no more pressing matters had arisen.’

  ‘Well, you’d better think of something pretty sharpish, Jeeves. Much as I love Dorset, I can’t stand another night on that fakir’s couch.’

  ‘I believe it is Sir Henry’s intention to reconvene many of this weekend’s house party.’

  ‘Why? Has he gone barking mad? Think of the cost, apart from anything else. Say what you like about the old fox, he knows how to push the boat out.’

  ‘The Midsummer Festival is something that the Hackwood family has patronised for many generations. I understand it was Sir Lancelot Hackwood who initiated the celebration in 1705. And I fear that in financial matters Sir Henry has thrown caution to the winds.’

  ‘Might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, you mean.’

  ‘The gallows image is most vivid, if I may say so, sir.’

  ‘Well, let’s jolly well hope something turns up for the old rogue. If Amelia and Woody can bury the hatchet, Georgiana will bring Venables to heel and all will be well. Sausage casings all round. Plan B, you see.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. “All is best, though oft we doubt what th’ unsearchable dispose of highest wisdom brings about.”’

  ‘I say, that’s awfully good, Jeeves.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. It was the poet Milton who so opined in a dramatic work called—’