‘Photo finish!’ it shrieked. ‘Photo finish! Photo finish! First time in the history of the Derby. Photo finish. Escalator in third place.’
Rather sheepishly the chief constable turned away and came back to Jeeves.
‘The gardener’s name you said was what? Clarence Wilberforce, was it?’
‘Percy Wellbeloved, sir.’
‘Odd name.’
‘Shropshire, I believe, sir.’
‘Ah? Percy Wellbeloved. Does that complete the roster of the staff?’
‘Yes, sir, except for myself.’
Rory came away from the radio, mopping his forehead.
‘Well, that Taj Mahal let me down with a bang,’ he said bitterly. ‘Why is it one can never pick a winner in this bally race?’
‘“The Moke” didn’t suggest a winner to you?’ said Monica.
‘Eh? No. Why? Why should it?’
‘God bless you, Roderick Carmoyle.’
Colonel Wyvern was himself again now.
‘I would like,’ he said, in a curt, official voice, ‘to inspect the scene of the robbery.’
‘I will take you there,’ said Mrs Spottsworth. ‘Will you come too, Monica?’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Monica. ‘Listen in, some of you, will you, and see what that photo shows.’
‘And I’ll send this down to the station,’ said Colonel Wyvern, picking up the jewel case by one corner, ‘and find out what it shows.’
They went out, and Rory moved to the door of the library.
‘I’ll go and see if I really have damaged that TV set,’ he said. ‘All I did was twiddle a thingummy.’ He stretched himself with a yawn. ‘Damn dull Derby,’ he said. ‘Even if Moke the Second wins, the old girl’s only got ten bob on it at eights.’
The library door closed behind him.
‘Jeeves,’ said Bill, ‘I’ve got to have a drink.’
‘I will bring it immediately, m’lord.’
‘No, don’t bring it. I’ll come to your pantry.’
‘And I’ll come with you,’ said Jill. ‘But we must wait to hear that result. Let’s hope Ballymore had sense enough to stick out his tongue.’
‘Ha!’ cried Bill.
The radio had begun to speak.
‘Hundreds of thousands of pounds hang on what that photograph decides,’ it was saying in the rather subdued voice of a man recovering from a hangover. It seemed to be a little ashamed of its recent emotion. ‘The number should be going up at any moment. Yes, here it is …’
‘Come on, Ballymore!’ cried Jill.
‘Come on, Ballymore!’ shouted Bill.
‘Come on, Ballymore,’ said Jeeves reservedly.
‘Moke the Second wins,’ said the radio. ‘Hard luck on Ballymore. He ran a wonderful race. If it hadn’t been for that bad start, he would have won in a canter. His defeat saves the bookies a tremendous loss. A huge sum was bet on the Irish horse ten minutes before starting time, obviously one of those SP jobs which are so …’
Dully, with something of the air of a man laying a wreath on the tomb of an old friend, Bill turned the radio off.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘After all, there’s still champagne.’
22
* * *
MRS SPOTTSWORTH CAME slowly down the stairs. Monica and the chief constable were still conducting their examination of the scene of the crime, but they had been speaking freely of Captain Biggar, and the trend of their remarks had been such as to make her feel that knives were being driven through her heart. When a woman loves a man with every fibre of a generous nature, it can never be pleasant for her to hear this man alluded to as a red-faced thug (Monica) and as a scoundrel who can’t possibly get away but must inevitably ere long be caught and slapped into the jug (Colonel Wyvern). It was her intention to make for that rustic seat and there sit and think of what might have been.
The rustic seat stood at a junction of two moss-grown paths facing the river which lay – though only, as we have seen, during the summer months – at the bottom of the garden. Flowering bushes masked it from the eye of one approaching, and it was not till she had turned the last corner that Mrs Spottsworth was able to perceive that it already had an occupant. At the sight of that occupant she stood for a moment transfixed. Then there burst from her lips a cry so like that of a zebu calling to its mate that Captain Biggar, who had been sitting in a deep reverie, staring at a snail, had the momentary illusion that he was back in Africa. He sprang to his feet, and for a long instant they stood there motionless, gazing at each other wide-eyed while the various birds, bees, wasps, gnats and other insects operating in the vicinity went about their business as if nothing at all sensational had happened. The snail, in particular, seemed completely unmoved.
Mrs Spottsworth did not share its detached aloofness. She was stirred to her depths.
‘You!’ she cried. ‘Oh, I knew you would come. They said you wouldn’t, but I knew.’
Captain Biggar was hanging his head. The man seemed crushed, incapable of movement. A rhinoceros, seeing him now, would have plucked up heart and charged on him without a tremor, feeling that this was going to be easy.
‘I couldn’t do it,’ he muttered. ‘I got to thinking of you and of the chaps at the club, and I couldn’t do it.’
‘The club?’
‘The old Anglo-Malay Club in Kuala Lumpur, where men are white and honesty goes for granted. Yes, I thought of the chaps. I thought of Tubby Frobisher. Would I ever be able to look him again in that one good eye of his? And then I thought that you had trusted me because … because I was an Englishman. And I said to myself, it isn’t only the old Anglo-Malay and Tubby and the Subahdar and Doc and Squiffy, Cuthbert Biggar – you’re letting down the whole British Empire.’
Mrs Spottsworth choked.
‘Did … did you take it?’
Captain Biggar threw up his chin and squared his shoulders. He was so nearly himself again, now that he had spoken those brave words, that the rhinoceros, taking a look at him, would have changed its mind and decided to remember an appointment elsewhere.
‘I took it, and I brought it back,’ he said in a firm, resonant voice, producing the pendant from his hip pocket. ‘The idea was merely to borrow it for the day, as security for a gamble. But I couldn’t do it. It might have meant a fortune, but I couldn’t do it.’
Mrs Spottsworth bent her head.
‘Put it round my neck, Cuthbert,’ she whispered.
Captain Biggar stared incredulously at her back hair.
‘You want me to? You don’t mind if I touch you?’
‘Put it round my neck,’ repeated Mrs Spottsworth.
Reverently the captain did so, and there was a pause.
‘Yes,’ said the captain, ‘I might have made a fortune, and shall I tell you why I wanted a fortune? Don’t run away with the idea that I’m a man who values money. Ask any of the chaps out East, and they’ll say “Give Bwana Biggar his .505 Gibbs, his eland steak of a night, let him breathe God’s clean air and turn his face up to God’s good sun and he asks nothing more.” But it was imperative that I should lay my hands on a bit of the stuff so that I might feel myself in a position to speak my love. Rosie … I heard them calling you that, and I must use that name … Rosie, I love you. I loved you from that first moment in Kenya when you stepped out of the car and I said “Ah, the memsahib”. All these years I have dreamed of you, and on this very seat last night it was all I could do to keep myself from pouring out my heart. It doesn’t matter now. I can speak now because we are parting for ever. Soon I shall be wandering out into the sunset … alone.’
He paused, and Mrs Spottsworth spoke. There was a certain sharpness in her voice.
‘You won’t be wandering out into any old sunset alone,’ she said. ‘Jiminy Christmas! What do you want to wander out into sunsets alone for?’
Captain Biggar smiled a faint, sad smile.
‘I don’t want to wander out into sunsets alone, dear lady. It’s the code. The code th
at says a poor man must not propose marriage to a rich woman, for if he does, he loses his self-respect and ceases to play with a straight bat.’
‘I never heard such nonsense in my life. Who started all this apple-sauce?’
Captain Biggar stiffened a little.
‘I cannot say who started it, but it is the rule that guides the lives of men like Squiffy and Doc and the Subahdar and Augustus Frobisher.’
Mrs Spottsworth uttered an exclamation.
‘Augustus Frobisher? For Pete’s sake! I’ve been thinking all along that there was something familiar about that name Frobisher, and now you say Augustus … This friend of yours, this Frobisher. Is he a fellow with a red face?’
‘We all have red faces east of Suez.’
‘And a small, bristly moustache?’
‘Small, bristly moustaches, too.’
‘Does he stammer slightly? Has he a small mole on the left cheek? Is one of his eyes green and the other glass?’
Captain Biggar was amazed.
‘Good God! That’s Tubby. You’ve met him?’
‘Met him? You bet I’ve met him. It was only a week before I left the States that I was singing “Oh, perfect love” at his wedding.’
Captain Biggar’s eyes widened.
‘Howki wa hoo!’ he exclaimed. ‘Tubby is married?’
‘He certainly is. And do you know who he’s married to? Cora Rita Rockmetteller, widow of the late Sigsbee Rockmetteller, the Sardine King, a woman with a darned sight more money than I’ve got myself. Now you see how much your old code amounts to. When Augustus Frobisher met Cora and heard that she had fifty million smackers hidden away behind the brick in the fireplace, did he wander out into any sunset alone? No, sir! He bought a clean collar and a gardenia for his buttonhole and snapped into it.’
Captain Biggar had lowered himself on to the rustic seat and was breathing heavily through the nostrils.
‘You have shaken me, Rosie!’
‘And you needed shaking, talking all that malarkey. You and your old code!’
‘I can’t take it in.’
‘You will, if you sit and think it over for a while. You stay here and get used to the idea of walking down the aisle with me, and I’ll go in and phone the papers that a marriage has been arranged and will shortly take place between Cuthbert … have you any other names, my precious lamb?’
‘Gervase,’ said the captain in a low voice. ‘And it’s Brabazon-Biggar. With a hyphen.’
‘… between Cuthbert Gervase Brabazon-Biggar and Rosalinda Bessemer Spottsworth. It’s a pity it isn’t Sir Cuthbert. Say!’ said Mrs Spottsworth, struck with an idea. ‘What’s wrong with buying you a knighthood? I wonder how much they cost these days? I’ll have to ask Sir Roderick. I might be able to get it at Harrige’s. Well, goodbye for the moment, my wonder man. Don’t go wandering off into any sunsets.’
Humming gaily, for her heart was light, Mrs Spottsworth tripped down the moss-grown path, tripped across the lawn and tripped through the french window into the living room. Jeeves was there. He had left Bill and Jill trying mournfully to console each other in his pantry, and had returned to the living room to collect the coffee cups. At the sight of the pendant encircling Mrs Spottsworth’s neck, no fewer than three hairs of his left eyebrow quivered for an instant, showing how deeply he had been moved by the spectacle.
‘You’re looking at the pendant, I see,’ said Mrs Spottsworth, beaming happily. ‘I don’t wonder you’re surprised. Captain Biggar found it just now in the grass by that rustic seat where we were sitting last night.’
It would be too much to say that Jeeves stared, but his eyes enlarged, the merest fraction, a thing they did only on special occasions.
‘Has Captain Biggar returned, madam?’
‘He got back a few minutes ago. Oh, Jeeves, do you know the telephone number of The Times?’
‘No, madam, but I could ascertain.’
‘I want to announce my engagement to Captain Biggar.’
Four hairs of Jeeves’s right eyebrow stirred slightly, as if a passing breeze had disturbed them.
‘Indeed, madam? May I wish you every happiness?’
‘Thank you, Jeeves.’
‘Shall I telephone The Times, madam?’
‘If you will, and the Telegraph and Mail and Express. Any others?’
‘I think not, madam. Those you have mentioned should be quite sufficient for an announcement of this nature.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. Just those, then.’
‘Very good, madam. Might I venture to ask, madam, if you and Captain Biggar will be taking up your residence at the abbey?’
Mrs Spottsworth sighed.
‘No, Jeeves, I wish I could buy it … I love the place … but it’s damp. This English climate!’
‘Our English summers are severe.’
‘And the winters worse.’
Jeeves coughed.
‘I wonder if I might make a suggestion, madam, which I think should be satisfactory to all parties.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Buy the house, madam, take it down stone by stone and ship it to California.’
‘And put it up there?’ Mrs Spottsworth beamed. ‘Why, what a brilliant idea!’
‘Thank you, madam.’
‘William Randolph Hearst used to do it, didn’t he? I remember visiting at San Simeon once, and there was a whole French abbey lying on the grass near the gates. I’ll do it, Jeeves. You’ve solved everything. Oh, Lord Rowcester,’ said Mrs Spottsworth. ‘Just the man I wanted to see.’
Bill had come in with Jill, walking with slow, despondent steps. As he saw the pendant, despondency fell from him like a garment. Unable to speak, he stood pointing a trembling finger.
‘It was discovered in the grass adjoining a rustic seat in the garden, m’lord, by Mrs Spottsworth’s fiancé, Captain Biggar,’ said Jeeves.
Bill found speech, though with difficulty.
‘Biggar’s back?’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
‘And he found the pendant?’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
‘And he’s engaged to Mrs Spottsworth?’
‘Yes, m’lord. And Mrs Spottsworth has decided to purchase the abbey.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
‘I do believe in fairies!’ said Bill, and Jill said she did, too.
‘Yes, Billiken,’ said Mrs Spottsworth. ‘I’m going to buy the abbey. I don’t care what you’re asking for it. I want it, and I’ll write you a cheque the moment I come back from apologizing to that nice chief constable. I left him very abruptly just now, and I’m afraid he may be feeling offended. Is he still up in my room, Jeeves?’
‘I believe so, madam. He rang for me not long ago to ask if I would provide him with a magnifying glass.’
‘I’ll go and see him,’ said Mrs Spottsworth. ‘I’m taking the abbey with me to America, Billiken. It was Jeeves’ idea.’
She went out, and Jill hurled herself into Bill’s arms.
‘Oh, Bill! Oh, Bill! Oh, Bill!’ she cried. ‘Though I don’t know why I’m kissing you,’ she said. ‘I ought to be kissing Jeeves. Shall I kiss you, Jeeves?’
‘No, miss.’
‘Just think, Jeeves. You’ll have to buy that fish slice after all.’
‘It will be a pleasure and a privilege, miss.’
‘Of course, Jeeves,’ said Bill, ‘you must never leave us, wherever we go, whatever we do.’
Jeeves sighed apologetically.
‘I am very sorry, m’lord, but I fear I cannot avail myself of your kindness. Indeed, I fear I am compelled to hand in my notice.’
‘Oh, Jeeves!’
‘With the deepest regret, miss, I need scarcely say. But Mr Wooster needs me. I received a letter from him this morning.’
‘Has he left that school of his, then?’
Jeeves sighed again. ‘Expelled, m’lord.’
‘Good heavens!’
‘It is all most u
nfortunate, m’lord. Mr Wooster was awarded the prize for sock-darning. Two pairs of his socks were actually exhibited on Speech Day. It was then discovered that he had used a crib … an old woman whom he smuggled into his study at night.’
‘Poor old Bertie!’
‘Yes, m’lord. I gather from the tone of his communication that the scandal has affected him deeply. I feel that my place is at his side.’
Rory came in from the library, looking moody.
‘I can’t fix it,’ he said.
‘Rory,’ said Bill, ‘do you know what’s happened?’
‘Yes, old boy, I’ve bust the television set.’
‘Mrs Spottsworth is going to marry Captain Biggar, and she’s buying the abbey.’
‘Oh?’ said Rory. His manner was listless. ‘Well, as I was saying, I can’t fix the bally thing, and I don’t believe any of the local yokels can, either, so the only thing to do is to go to the fountain head.’ He went to the telephone. ‘Give me Square one two three four,’ he said.
Captain Biggar came bustling through the french window humming a Swahili wedding march.
‘Where’s my Rosie?’ he asked.
‘Upstairs,’ said Bill. ‘She’ll be down in a minute. She’s just been telling us the news. Congratulations, Captain.’
‘Thank you, thank you.’
‘I say,’ said Rory, the receiver at his ear, ‘I’ve just remembered another one. Which is bigger, Captain Biggar or Mrs Biggar? Mrs Biggar, because she became Biggar. Ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha! Meanwhile, I’m trying to get –’
His number came through.
‘Oh, hullo,’ he said. ‘Harrige’s?’
* * *
THE MATING SEASON
1
* * *
WHILE I WOULD not go so far, perhaps, as to describe the heart as actually leaden, I must confess that on the eve of starting to do my bit of time at Deverill Hall I was definitely short on chirpiness. I shrank from the prospect of being decanted into a household on chummy terms with a thug like my Aunt Agatha, weakened as I already was by having had her son Thomas, one of our most prominent fiends in human shape, on my hands for three days.
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