‘Paid off?’
Monica lowered her voice confidentially.
‘A man, dear. Did you catch anything worth while?’
‘I think he’s worth while. As a matter of fact, you don’t know it, but you’re moving in rather exalted circles. She whom you see before you is none other than the future Countess of Rowcester.’
Monica screamed excitedly.
‘You don’t mean you and Bill are engaged?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Since when?’
‘Some weeks ago.’
‘I’m delighted. I wouldn’t have thought Bill had so much sense.’
‘No,’ agreed Rory in his tactful way. ‘One raises the eyebrows in astonishment. Bill, as I remember it, was always more of a lad for the buxom, voluptuous type. Many a passionate romance have I seen him through with females who looked like a cross between pantomime Fairy Queens and all-in wrestlers. There was a girl in the Hippodrome chorus—’
He broke off these reminiscences, so fraught with interest to a fiancée, in order to say ‘Ouch!’ Monica had kicked him shrewdly on the ankle.
‘Tell me, darling,’ said Monica. ‘How did it happen? Suddenly?’
‘Quite suddenly. He was helping me give a cow a bolus—’
Rory blinked.
‘A—?’
‘Bolus. Medicine. You give it to cows. And before I knew what was happening, he had grabbed my hand and was saying, “I say, arising from this, will you marry me?”’
‘How frightfully eloquent. When Rory proposed to me, all he said was “Eh, what?”’
‘And it took me three weeks to work up to that,’ said Rory. His forehead had become wrinkled again. It was plain that he was puzzling over something. ‘This bolus of which you were speaking. I don’t quite follow. You were giving it to a cow, you say?’
‘A sick cow.’
‘Oh, a sick cow? Well, here’s the point that’s perplexing me. Here’s the thing that seems to me to need straightening out. Why were you giving boluses to sick cows?’
‘It’s my job. I’m the local vet.’
‘What! You don’t by any chance mean a veterinary surgeon?’
‘That’s right. Fully licensed. We’re all workers nowadays.’
Rory nodded sagely.
‘Profoundly true,’ he said. ‘I’m a son of toil myself.’
‘Rory’s at Harrige’s,’ said Monica.
‘Really?’
‘Floorwalker in the Hosepipe, Lawn Mower and Bird Bath department,’ said Rory. ‘But that is merely temporary. There’s a strong rumour going the rounds that hints at promotion to the Glass, Fancy Goods and Chinaware. And from there to the Ladies’ Underclothing is but a step.’
‘My hero!’ Monica kissed him lovingly. ‘I’ll bet they’ll all be green with jealousy.’
Rory was shocked at the suggestion.
‘Good God, no! They’ll rush to shake me by the hand and slap me on the back. Our esprit de corps is wonderful. It’s one for all and all for one in Harrige’s.’
Monica turned back to Jill.
‘And doesn’t your father mind you running about the country giving boluses to cows? Jill’s father,’ she explained to Rory, ‘is Chief Constable of the county.’
‘And very nice, too,’ said Rory.
‘I should have thought he would have objected.’
‘Oh, no. We’re all working at something. Except my brother Eustace. He won a Littlewood’s pool last winter and he’s gone frightfully upper class. Very high hat with the rest of the family. Moves on a different plane.’
‘Damn snob,’ said Rory warmly. ‘I hate class distinctions.’
He was about to speak further, for the subject was one on which he held strong opinions, but at this moment the telephone bell rang, and he looked round, startled.
‘For heaven’s sake! Don’t tell me the old boy has paid his telephone bill!’ he cried, astounded.
Monica took up the receiver.
‘Hullo?… Yes, this is Rowcester Abbey… No, Lord Rowcester is not in at the moment. This is his sister, Lady Carmoyle. The number of his car? It’s news to me that he’s got a car.’ She turned to Jill. ‘You don’t know the number of Bill’s car, do you?’
‘No. Why are they asking?’
‘Why are you asking?’ said Monica into the telephone. She waited a moment, then hung up. ‘He’s rung off.’
‘Who was it?’
‘He didn’t say. Just a voice from the void.’
‘You don’t think Bill’s had an accident?’
‘Good heavens, no,’ said Rory. ‘He’s much too good a driver. Probably he had to stop somewhere to buy some juice, and they need his number for their books. But it’s always disturbing when people don’t give their names on the telephone. There was a fellow in ours—second in command in the Jams, Sauces and Potted Meats—who was rung up one night by a Mystery Voice that wouldn’t give its name, and to cut a long story short—’
Monica did so.
‘Save it up for after dinner, my king of raconteurs,’ she said. ‘If there is any dinner,’ she added doubtfully.
‘Oh, there’ll be dinner all right,’ said Jill, ‘and you’ll probably find it’ll melt in the mouth. Bill’s got a very good cook.’
Monica stared.
‘A cook? These days? I don’t believe it. You’ll be telling me next he’s got a housemaid.’
‘He has. Name of Ellen.’
‘Pull yourself together, child. You’re talking wildly. Nobody has a housemaid.’
‘Bill has. And a gardener. And a butler. A wonderful butler called Jeeves. And he’s thinking of getting a boy to clean the knives and boots.’
‘Good heavens! It sounds like the home life of the Aga Khan.’ Monica frowned thoughtfully. ‘Jeeves?’ she said. ‘Why does that name seem to ring a bell?’
Rory supplied illumination.
‘Bertie Wooster. He has a man named Jeeves. This is probably a brother or an aunt or something.’
‘No,’ said Jill. ‘It’s the same man. Bill has him on lend-lease.’
‘But how on earth does Bertie get on without him?’
‘I believe Mr Wooster’s away somewhere. Anyhow, Jeeves appeared one day and said he was willing to take office, so Bill grabbed him, of course. He’s an absolute treasure. Bill says he’s an “old soul”, whatever that means.’
Monica was still bewildered.
‘But how about the financial end? Does he pay this entourage, or just give them a pleasant smile now and then?’
‘Of course he pays them. Lavishly. He flings them purses of gold every Saturday morning.’
‘Where does the money come from?’
‘He earns it.’
‘Don’t be silly. Bill hasn’t earned a penny since he was paid twopence a time for taking his castor oil. How could he possibly earn it?’
‘He’s doing some sort of work for the Agricultural Board.’
‘You don’t make a fortune out of that.’
‘Bill seems to. I suppose he’s so frightfully good at his job that they pay him more than the others. I don’t know what he does, actually. He just goes off in his car. Some kind of inspection, I suppose it is. Checking up on all those questionnaires. He’s not very good at figures, so he always takes Jeeves with him.’
‘Well, that’s wonderful,’ said Monica. ‘I was afraid he might have started backing horses again. It used to worry me so much in the old days, the way he would dash from racecourse to racecourse in a grey topper that he carried sandwiches in.’
‘Oh, no, it couldn’t be anything like that. He promised me faithfully he would never bet on a horse again.’
‘Very sensible,’ said Rory. ‘I don’t mind a flutter from time to time, of course. At Harrige’s we always run a Sweep on big events, five-bob chances. The brass hats frown on anything larger.’
Jill moved to the french window.
‘Well, I mustn’t stand here talking,’ she said. ‘I’ve got wor
k to do. I came to attend to Bill’s Irish terrier. It’s sick of a fever.’
‘Give it a bolus.’
‘I’m giving it some new American ointment. It’s got mange. See you later.’
Jill went off on her errand of mercy, and Rory turned to Monica. His customary stolidity had vanished. He was keen and alert, like Sherlock Holmes on the trail.
‘Moke!’
‘Hullo?’
‘What do you make of it, old girl?’
‘Make of what?’
‘This sudden affluence of Bill’s. There’s something fishy going on here. If it had just been a matter of a simple butler, one could have understood it. A broker’s man in disguise, one would have said. But how about the housemaid and the cook and the car and, by Jove, the fact that he’s paid his telephone bill.’
‘I see what you mean. It’s odd.’
‘It’s more than odd. Consider the facts. The last time I was at Rowcester Abbey, Bill was in the normal state of destitution of the upper-class Englishman of today, stealing the cat’s milk and nosing about in the gutters for cigar-ends. I come here now, and what do I find? Butlers in every nook and cranny, housemaids as far as the eye can reach, cooks jostling each other in the kitchen, Irish terriers everywhere, and a lot of sensational talk going on about boys to clean the knives and boots. It’s… what’s the word?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes, you do. Begins with “in”.’
‘Influential? Inspirational? Infra red?’
‘Inexplicable. That’s what it is. The whole thing is utterly inexplicable. One dismisses all that stuff about jobs with the Agricultural Board as pure eyewash. You don’t cut a stupendous dash like this on a salary from the Agricultural Board.’ Rory paused, and ruminated for a moment. ‘I wonder if the old boy’s been launching out as a gentleman burglar.’
‘Don’t be an idiot.’
‘Well, fellows do, you know. Raffles, if you remember. He was one, and made a dashed good thing out of it. Or could it be that he’s blackmailing somebody?’
‘Oh, Rory.’
‘Very profitable, I believe. You look around for some wealthy bimbo and nose out his guilty secrets, then you send him a letter saying that you know all and tell him to leave ten thousand quid in small notes under the second milestone on the London road. When you’ve spent that, you tap him for another ten. It all mounts up over a period of time, and would explain these butlers, housemaids and what not very neatly.’
‘If you would talk less drivel and take more bags upstairs, the world would be a better place.’
Rory thought it over and got her meaning.
‘You want me to take the bags upstairs?’
‘I do.’
‘Right ho. The Harrige motto is Service.’
The telephone rang again. Rory went to it.
‘Hullo?’ He started violently. ‘The who? Good God! All right. He’s out now, but I’ll tell him when I see him.’ He hung up. There was a grave look on his face.
‘Moke,’ he said, ‘perhaps you’ll believe me another time and not scoff and mock when I advance my theories. That was the police.’
‘The police?’
‘They want to talk to Bill.’
‘What about?’
‘They didn’t say. Well, dash it, they wouldn’t, would they? Official Secrets Acts and all that sort of thing. But they’re closing in on him, old girl, closing in on him.’
‘Probably all they want is to get him to present the prizes at the police sports or something.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Rory. ‘Still, hold that thought if it makes you happier. Take the bags upstairs, you were saying? I’ll do it instanter. Come along and encourage me with word and gesture.’
Chapter 4
For some moments after they had gone the peace of the summer evening was broken only by the dull, bumping sound of a husband carrying suitcases upstairs. This died away, and once more a drowsy stillness stole over Rowcester Abbey. Then, faintly at first but growing louder, there came from the distance the chugging of a car. It stopped, and there entered through the french window a young man. He tottered in, breathing heavily like a hart that pants for cooling streams when heated in the chase, and having produced his cigarette-case lit a cigarette in an overwrought way, as if he had much on his mind.
Or what one may loosely call his mind. William, ninth Earl of Rowcester, though intensely amiable and beloved by all who knew him, was far from being a mental giant. From his Earliest years his intimates had been aware that, while his heart was unquestionably in the right place, there was a marked shortage of the little grey cells, and it was generally agreed that whoever won the next Nobel prize, it would not be Bill Rowcester. At the Drones Club, of which he had been a member since leaving school, it was estimated that in the matter of intellect he ranked somewhere in between Freddie Widgeon and Pongo Twistleton, which is pretty low down on the list. There were some, indeed, who held his I.Q. to be inferior to that of Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps.
Against this must be set the fact that, like all his family, he was extremely good-looking, though those who considered him so might have revised their views, had they seen him now. For in addition to wearing a very loud check coat with bulging, voluminous pockets and a crimson tie with blue horseshoes on it which smote the beholder like a blow, he had a large black patch over his left eye and on his upper lip a ginger moustache of the outsize or soupstrainer type. In the clean-shaven world in which we live today it is not often that one sees a moustache of this almost tropical luxuriance, and it is not often, it may be added, that one wants to.
A black patch and a ginger moustache are grave defects, but that the ninth Earl was not wholly dead to a sense of shame was shown by the convulsive start, like the leap of an adagio dancer, which he gave a moment later when, wandering about the room, he suddenly caught sight of himself in an old-world mirror that hung on the wall.
‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed, recoiling.
With nervous fingers he removed the patch, thrust it into his pocket, tore the fungoid growth from his lip and struggled out of the check coat. This done, he went to the window, leaned out and called in a low, conspiratorial voice.
‘Jeeves!’
There was no answer.
‘Hi, Jeeves, where are you?’
Again silence.
Bill gave a whistle, then another. He was still whistling, his body half-way through the french window, when the door behind him opened, revealing a stately form.
The man who entered—or perhaps one should say shimmered into—the room was tall and dark and impressive. He might have been one of the better-class ambassadors or the youngish High Priest of some refined and dignified religion. His eyes gleamed with the light of intelligence, and his finely chiselled face expressed a feudal desire to be of service. His whole air was that of a gentleman’s gentleman who, having developed his brain over a course of years by means of a steady fish diet, is eager to place that brain at the disposal of the young master. He was carrying over one arm a coat of sedate colour and a tie of conservative pattern.
‘You whistled, m’lord?’ he said.
Bill spun round.
‘How the dickens did you get over there, Jeeves?’
‘I ran the car into the garage, m’lord, and then made my way to the servants’ quarters. Your coat, m’lord.’
‘Oh, thanks. I see you’ve changed.’
‘I deemed it advisable, m’lord. The gentleman was not far behind us as we rounded into the straight and may at any moment be calling. Were he to encounter on the threshold a butler in a check suit and a false moustache, it is possible that his suspicions might be aroused. I am glad to see that your lordship has removed that somewhat distinctive tie. Excellent for creating atmosphere on the racecourse, it is scarcely vogue in private life.’
Bill eyed the repellent object with a shudder.
‘I’ve always hated that beastly thing, Jeeves. All those foul horseshoes. Shove it away somewhere. And th
e coat.’
‘Very good, m’lord. This coffer should prove adequate as a temporary receptacle.’ Jeeves took the coat and tie, and crossed the room to where a fine old oak dower chest stood, an heirloom long in the Rowcester family. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘’Tis not so deep as a well nor so wide as a church door, but ’tis enough, ’twill serve.’
He folded the distressing objects carefully, placed them inside and closed the lid. And even this simple act he performed with a quiet dignity which would have impressed any spectator less agitated than Bill Rowcester. It was like seeing the plenipotentiary of a great nation lay a wreath on the tomb of a deceased monarch.
But Bill, as we say, was agitated. He was brooding over an Earlier remark that had fallen from this great man’s lips.
‘What do you mean, the gentleman may at any moment be calling?’ he asked. The thought of receiving a visit from that red-faced man with the loud voice who had bellowed abuse at him all the way from Epsom Downs to Southmoltonshire was not an unmixedly agreeable one.
‘It is possible that he observed and memorised the number of our car, m’lord. He was in a position to study our licence plate for some considerable time, your lordship will recollect.’
Bill sank limply into a chair and brushed a bead of perspiration from his forehead. This contingency, as Jeeves would have called it, had not occurred to him. Placed before him now, it made him feel filleted.
‘Oh, golly, I never thought of that. Then he would get the owner’s name and come racing along here, wouldn’t he?’
‘So one would be disposed to imagine, m’lord.’
‘Hell’s bells, Jeeves!’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
Bill applied the handkerchief to his forehead again.
‘What do I do if he does?’
‘I would advise your lordship to assume a nonchalant air and disclaim all knowledge of the matter.’
‘With a light laugh, you mean?’
‘Precisely, m’lord.’
Bill tried a light laugh.
‘How did that sound, Jeeves?’
‘Barely adequate, m’lord.’
‘More like a death rattle?’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
‘I shall need a few rehearsals.’
‘Several, m’lord. It will be essential to carry conviction.’
Ring For Jeeves Page 3