‘It was how I meant it to sound.’
‘You wouldn’t fail me, would you?’
‘I would. I would fail you like billy-o.’
‘Don’t you like the scheme?’
‘I do not. Jeeves spoke a moment ago of his gladness at having given satisfaction. He has given me no satisfaction whatsoever. I consider that the idea he has advanced marks the absolute zero in human goofiness, and I am surprised that he should have entertained it. The book, Stiffy, if you please – and slippily.’
She was silent for a space.
‘I was rather asking myself,’ she said, ‘if you might not take this attitude.’
‘And now you know the answer,’ I riposted. ‘I have. The book, if you please.’
‘I’m not going to give you any book.’
‘Very well. Then I go to Stinker and tell him all.’
‘All right. Do. And before you can get within a mile of him, I shall be up in the library, telling Uncle Watkyn all.’
She waggled her chin, like a girl who considers that she has put over a swift one: and, examining what she had said, I was compelled to realize that this was precisely what she had put over. I had overlooked this contingency completely. Her words gave me pause. The best I could do in the way of a come-back was to utter a somewhat baffled ‘H’m!’ There is no use attempting to disguise the fact – Bertram was nonplussed.
‘So there you are. Now, how about it?’
It is never pleasant for a chap who has been doing the dominant male to have to change his stance and sink to ignoble pleadings, but I could see no other course. My voice, which had been firm and resonant, took on a melting tremolo.
‘But, Stiffy, dash it! You wouldn’t do that?’
‘Yes, I would, if you don’t go and sweeten Uncle Watkyn.’
‘But how can I go and sweeten him? Stiffy, you can’t subject me to this fearful ordeal.’
‘Yes, I can. And what’s so fearful about it? He can’t eat you.’
I conceded this.
‘True. But that’s about the best you can say.’
‘It won’t be any worse than a visit to the dentist.’
‘It’ll be worse than six visits to six dentists.’
‘Well, think how glad you will be when it’s over.’
I drew little consolation from this. I looked at her closely, hoping to detect some signs of softening. Not one. She had been as tough as a restaurant steak, and she continued as tough as a restaurant steak. Kipling was right. D. than the m. No getting round it.
I made one last appeal.
‘You won’t recede from your position?’
‘Not a step.’
‘In spite of the fact – excuse me mentioning it – that I gave you a dashed good lunch at my flat, no expense spared?’
‘No.’
I shrugged my shoulders, as some Roman gladiator – one of those chaps who threw knotted sheets over people, for instance – might have done on hearing the call-boy shouting his number in the wings.
‘Very well, then,’ I said.
She beamed at me maternally.
‘That’s the spirit. That’s my brave little man.’
At a less preoccupied moment, I might have resented her calling me her brave little man, but in this grim hour it scarcely seemed to matter.
‘Where is this frightful uncle of yours?’
‘He’s bound to be in the library now.’
‘Very good. Then I will go to him.’
I don’t know if you were ever told as a kid that story about the fellow whose dog chewed up the priceless manuscript of the book he was writing. The blow-out, if you remember, was that he gave the animal a pained look and said: ‘Oh, Diamond, Diamond, you – or it may have been thou – little know – or possibly knowest – what you – or thou – has – or hast – done.’ I heard it in the nursery, and it has always lingered in my mind. And why I bring it up now is that this was how I looked at Jeeves as I passed from the room. I didn’t actually speak the gag, but I fancy he knew what I was thinking.
I could have wished that Stiffy had not said ‘Yoicks! Tally-ho!’ as I crossed the threshold. It seemed to me in the circumstances flippant and in dubious taste.
9
* * *
IT HAS BEEN well said of Bertram Wooster by those who know him best that there is a certain resilience in his nature that enables him as a general rule to rise on stepping-stones of his dead self in the most unfavourable circumstances. It isn’t often that I fail to keep my chin up and the eye sparkling. But as I made my way to the library in pursuance of my dreadful task, I freely admit that Life had pretty well got me down. It was with leaden feet, as the expression is, that I tooled along.
Stiffy had compared the binge under advisement to a visit to the dentist, but as I reached journey’s end I was feeling more as I had felt in the old days of school when going to keep a tryst with the headmaster in his study. You will recall my telling you of the time I sneaked down by night to the Rev. Aubrey Upjohn’s lair in quest of biscuits and found myself unexpectedly cheek by jowl with the old bird, I in striped non-shrinkable pyjamas, he in tweeds and a dirty look. On that occasion, before parting, we had made a date for half-past-four next day at the same spot, and my emotions now were almost exactly similar to those which I had experienced on that far-off afternoon, as I tapped on the door and heard a scarcely human voice invite me to enter.
The only difference was that while the Rev. Aubrey had been alone, Sir Watkyn Bassett appeared to be entertaining company. As my knuckles hovered over the panel, I seemed to hear the rumble of voices, and when I went in I found that my ears had not deceived me. Pop Bassett was seated at the desk, and by his side stood Constable Eustace Oates.
It was a spectacle that rather put the lid on the shrinking feeling from which I was suffering. I don’t know if you have ever been jerked before a tribunal of justice, but if you have you will bear me out when I say that the memory of such an experience lingers, with the result that when later you are suddenly confronted by a sitting magistrate and a standing policeman, the association of ideas gives you a bit of a shock and tends to unman.
A swift, keen glance from old B. did nothing to still the fluttering pulse.
‘Yes, Mr Wooster?’
‘Oh – ah – could I speak to you for a moment?’
‘Speak to me?’ I could see that a strong distaste for having his sanctum cluttered up with Woosters was contending in Sir Watkyn Bassett’s bosom with a sense of the obligations of a host. After what seemed a nip-and-tuck struggle, the latter got its nose ahead. ‘Why, yes … That is … If you really … Oh, certainly … Pray take a seat.’
I did so, and felt a good deal better. In the dock, you have to stand. Old Bassett, after a quick look in my direction to see that I wasn’t stealing the carpet, turned to the constable again.
‘Well, I think that is all, Oates.’
‘Very good, Sir Watkyn.’
‘You understand what I wish you to do?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And with regard to that other matter, I will look into it very closely, bearing in mind what you have told me of your suspicions. A most rigorous investigation shall be made.’
The zealous officer clumped out. Old Bassett fiddled for a moment with the papers on his desk. Then he cocked an eye at me.
‘That was Constable Oates, Mr Wooster.’
‘Yes.’
‘You know him?’
‘I’ve seen him.’
‘When?’
‘This afternoon.’
‘Not since then?’
‘No.’
‘You are quite sure?’
‘Oh, quite.’
‘H’m.’
He fiddled with the papers again, then touched on another topic.
‘We were all disappointed that you were not with us in the drawing-room after dinner, Mr Wooster.’
This, of course, was a bit embarrassing. The man of sensibility does not like to reve
al to his host that he has been dodging him like a leper.
‘You were much missed.’
‘Oh, was I? I’m sorry. I had a bit of a headache, and went and ensconced myself in my room.’
‘I see. And you remained there?’
‘Yes.’
‘You did not by any chance go for a walk in the fresh air, to relieve your headache?’
‘Oh, no. Ensconced all the time.’
‘I see. Odd. My daughter Madeline tells me that she went twice to your room after the conclusion of dinner, but found it unoccupied.’
‘Oh, really? Wasn’t I there?’
‘You were not.’
‘I suppose I must have been somewhere else.’
‘The same thought had occurred to me.’
‘I remember now. I did saunter out on two occasions.’
‘I see.’
He took up a pen and leaned forward, tapping it against his left forefinger.
‘Somebody stole Constable Oates’s helmet tonight,’ he said, changing the subject.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Yes. Unfortunately he was not able to see the miscreant.’
‘No?’
‘No. At the moment when the outrage took place, his back was turned.’
‘Dashed difficult, of course, to see miscreants, if your back’s turned.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes.’
There was a pause. And as, in spite of the fact that we seemed to be agreeing on every point, I continued to sense a strain in the atmosphere, I tried to lighten things with a gag which I remembered from the old in statu pupillari days.
‘Sort of makes you say to yourself Quis custodiet ipsos custodes, what?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Latin joke,’ I explained. ‘Quis – who – custodiet – shall guard – ipsos custodes – the guardians themselves? Rather funny, I mean to say,’ I proceeded, making it clear to the meanest intelligence, ‘a chap who’s supposed to stop chaps pinching things from chaps having a chap come along and pinch something from him.’
‘Ah, I see your point. Yes, I can conceive that a certain type of mind might detect a humorous side to the affair. But I can assure you, Mr Wooster, that that is not the side which presents itself to me as a Justice of the Peace. I take the very gravest view of the matter, and this, when once he is apprehended and placed in custody, I shall do my utmost to persuade the culprit to share.’
I didn’t like the sound of this at all. A sudden alarm for old Stinker’s well-being swept over me.
‘I say, what do you think he would get?’
‘I appreciate your zeal for knowledge, Mr Wooster, but at the moment I am not prepared to confide in you. In the words of the late Lord Asquith, I can only say “Wait and see”. I think it is possible that your curiosity may be gratified before long.’
I didn’t want to rake up old sores, always being a bit of a lad for letting the dead past bury its dead, but I thought it might be as well to give him a pointer.
‘You fined me five quid,’ I reminded him.
‘So you informed me this afternoon,’ he said, pince-nezing me coldly. ‘But if I understood correctly what you were saying, the outrage for which you were brought before me at Bosher Street was perpetrated on the night of the annual boat race between the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge, when a certain licence is traditionally granted by the authorities. In the present case, there are no such extenuating circumstances. I should certainly not punish the wanton stealing of Government property from the person of Constable Oates with a mere fine.’
‘You don’t mean it would be chokey?’
‘I said that I was not prepared to confide in you, but having gone so far I will. The answer to your question, Mr Wooster, is in the affirmative.’
There was a silence. He sat tapping his finger with the pen. I, if memory serves me correctly, straightening my tie. I was deeply concerned. The thought of poor old Stinker being bunged into the Bastille was enough to disturb anyone with a kindly interest in his career and prospects. Nothing retards a curate’s advancement in his chosen profession more surely than a spell in the jug.
He lowered the pen.
‘Well, Mr Wooster, I think that you were about to tell me what brings you here?’
I started a bit. I hadn’t actually forgotten my mission, of course, but all this sinister stuff had caused me to shove it away at the back of my mind, and the suddenness with which it now came popping out gave me a bit of a jar.
I saw that there would have to be a few preliminary pourparlers before I got down to the nub. When relations between a bloke and another bloke are of a strained nature, the second bloke can’t charge straight into the topic of wanting to marry the first bloke’s niece. Not, that is to say, if he has a nice sense of what is fitting, as the Woosters have.
‘Oh, ah, yes. Thanks for reminding me.’
‘Not at all.’
‘I just thought I’d drop in and have a chat.’
‘I see.’
What the thing wanted, of course, was edging into, and I found I had got the approach. I teed up with a certain access of confidence.
‘Have you ever thought about love, Sir Watkyn?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘About love. Have you ever brooded on it to any extent?’
‘You have not come here to discuss love?’
‘Yes, I have. That’s exactly it. I wonder if you have noticed a rather rummy thing about it – viz that it is everywhere. You can’t get away from it. Love, I mean. Wherever you go, there it is, buzzing along in every class of life. Quite remarkable. Take newts, for instance.’
‘Are you quite well, Mr Wooster?’
‘Oh, fine, thanks. Take newts, I was saying. You wouldn’t think it, but Gussie Fink-Nottle tells me they get it right up their noses in the mating season. They stand in line by the hour, waggling their tails at the local belles. Starfish, too. Also undersea worms.’
‘Mr Wooster –’
‘And, according to Gussie, even ribbonlike seaweed. That surprises you, eh? It did me. But he assures me that it is so. Just where a bit of ribbonlike seaweed thinks it is going to get by pressing its suit is more than I can tell you, but at the time of the full moon it hears the voice of Love all right and is up and doing with the best of them. I suppose it builds on the hope that it will look good to other bits of ribbonlike seaweed, which, of course, would also be affected by the full moon. Well, be that as it may, what I’m working round to is that the moon is pretty full now, and if that’s how it affects seaweed you can’t very well blame a chap like me for feeling the impulse, can you?’
‘I am afraid –’
‘Well, can you?’ I repeated, pressing him strongly. And I threw in an ‘Eh, what?’ to clinch the thing.
But there was no answering spark of intelligence in his eye. He had been looking like a man who had missed the finer shades, and he still looked like a man who had missed the finer shades.
‘I am afraid, Mr Wooster, that you will think me dense, but I have not the remotest notion what you are talking about.’
Now that the moment for letting him have it in the eyeball had arrived, I was pleased to find that the all-of-a-twitter feeling which had gripped me at the outset had ceased to function. I don’t say that I had become exactly debonair and capable of flicking specks of dust from the irreproachable Mechlin lace at my wrists, but I felt perfectly calm.
What had soothed the system was the realization that in another half-jiffy I was about to slip a stick of dynamite under this old buster which would teach him that we are not put into the world for pleasure alone. When a magistrate has taken five quid off you for what, properly looked at, was a mere boyish pecadillo which would have been amply punished by a waggle of the forefinger and a brief ‘Tut, tut!’ it is always agreeable to make him jump like a pea on a hot shovel.
‘I’m talking about me and Stiffy.’
‘Stiffy?’
‘Stephanie.’
>
‘Stephanie? My niece?’
‘That’s right. Your niece. Sir Watkyn,’ I said, remembering a good one, ‘I have the honour to ask you for your niece’s hand.’
‘You – what?’
‘I have the honour to ask you for your niece’s hand.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s quite simple. I want to marry young Stiffy. She wants to marry me. Surely you’ve got it now? Take a line through that ribbonlike seaweed.’
There was no question as to its being value for money. On the cue ‘niece’s hand’, he had come out of his chair like a rocketing pheasant. He now sank back, fanning himself with the pen. He seemed to have aged quite a lot.
‘She wants to marry you?’
‘That’s the idea.’
‘But I was not aware that you knew my niece.’
‘Oh, rather. We two, if you care to put it that way, have plucked the gowans fine. Oh, yes, I know Stiffy, all right. Well, I mean to say, if I didn’t, I shouldn’t want to marry her, should I?’
He seemed to see the justice of this. He became silent, except for a soft, groaning noise. I remembered another good one.
‘You will not be losing a niece. You will be gaining a nephew.’
‘But I don’t want a nephew, damn it!’
Well, there was that, of course.
He rose, and muttering something which sounded like ‘Oh, dear! Oh, dear!’ went to the fireplace and pressed the bell with a weak finger. Returning to his seat, he remained holding his head in his hands until the butler blew in.
‘Butterfield,’ he said in a low, hoarse voice, ‘find Miss Stephanie and tell her that I wish to speak to her.’
A stage wait then occurred, but not such a long one as you might have expected. It was only about a minute before Stiffy appeared. I imagine she had been lurking in the offing, expectant of this summons. She tripped in, all merry and bright.
‘You want to see me, Uncle Watkyn? Oh, hallo, Bertie.’
‘Hallo.’
‘I didn’t know you were here. Have you and Uncle Watkyn been having a nice talk?’
Old Bassett, who had gone into a coma again, came out of it and uttered a sound like the death-rattle of a dying duck.
‘“Nice”,’ he said, ‘is not the adjective I would have selected.’ He moistened his ashen lips. ‘Mr Wooster has just informed me that he wishes to marry you.’
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