Ring For Jeeves

by P. G. Wodehouse

  Monica winced.

  ‘If you danced with Rory, you’d know you’ve got feet. It’s the way he jumps on and off that gets you down.’

  ‘Ouch!’ said Mrs Spottsworth suddenly. Bill had just lifted her and brought her down with a bump which would have excited Tubby Frobisher’s generous admiration, and she was now standing rubbing her leg. ‘I’ve twisted something,’ she said, hobbling to a chair.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Monica, ‘the way Bill was dancing.’

  ‘Oh, gee, I hope it is just a twist and not my sciatica come back. I suffer so terribly from sciatica, especially if I’m in a place that’s at all damp.’

  Incredible as it may seem, Rory did not say ‘Like Rowcester Abbey, what?’ and go on to speak of the garden which, in the winter months, was at the bottom of the river. He was peering down at an object lying on the floor.

  ‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘What’s this? Isn’t this pendant yours, Mrs Spottsworth?’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ said Mrs Spottsworth.

  ‘Yes, it’s mine. It must have… Ouch!’ she said, breaking off, and writhed in agony once more. Monica was all concern.

  ‘You must get straight to bed, Rosalinda.’

  ‘I guess I should.’

  ‘With a nice hot-water bottle.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Rory will help you upstairs.’

  ‘Charmed,’ said Rory. ‘But why do people always speak of a “nice” hot-water bottle? We at Harrige’s say “nasty” hot-water bottle. Our electric pads have rendered the hot-water bottle obsolete. Three speeds… Autumn Glow, Spring Warmth and Mae West.’

  They moved to the door, Mrs Spottsworth leaning heavily on his arm. They passed out, and Bill, who had followed them with a bulging eye, threw up his hands in a wide gesture of despair.

  ‘Jeeves!’

  ‘M’lord?’

  ‘This is the end!’

  ‘Yes, m’lord.’

  ‘She’s gone to ground.’

  ‘Yes, m’lord.’

  ‘Accompanied by the pendant.’

  ‘Yes, m’lord.’

  ‘So unless you have any suggestions for getting her out of that room, we’re sunk. Have you any suggestions?’

  ‘Not at the moment, m’lord.’

  ‘I didn’t think you would have. After all, you’re human, and the problem is one which is not within… what, Jeeves?’

  ‘The scope of human power, m’lord.’

  ‘Exactly. Do you know what I am going to do?’

  ‘No, m’lord?’

  ‘Go to bed, Jeeves. Go to bed and try to sleep and forget. Not that I have the remotest chance of getting to sleep, with every nerve in my body sticking out a couple of inches and curling at the ends.’

  ‘Possibly if your lordship were to count sheep—’

  ‘You think that would work?’

  ‘It is a widely recognised specific, m’lord.’

  ‘H’m.’ Bill considered. ‘Well, no harm in trying it. Good night, Jeeves.’

  ‘Good night, m’lord.’

  Chapter 15

  Except for the squeaking of mice behind the wainscoting and an occasional rustling sound as one of the bats in the chimney stirred uneasily in its sleep, Rowcester Abbey lay hushed and still. ’Twas now the very witching time of night, and in the Blue Room Rory and Monica, pleasantly fatigued after the activities of the day, slumbered peacefully. In the Queen Elizabeth Room Mrs Spottsworth, Pomona in her basket at her side, had also dropped off. In the Anne Boleyn Room Captain Biggar, the good man taking his rest, was dreaming of old days on the Me Wang river, which, we need scarcely inform our public, is a tributary of the larger and more crocodile-infested Wang Me.

  Jill, in the Clock Room, was still awake, staring at the ceiling with hot eyes, and Bill, counting sheep in the Henry VIII Room, had also failed to find oblivion. The specific recommended by Jeeves might be widely recognised but so far it had done nothing toward enabling him to knit up the ravelled sleeve of care.

  ‘Eight hundred and twenty-two,’ murmured Bill. ‘Eight hundred and twenty-three. Eight hundred and—’

  He broke off, leaving the eight hundred and twenty-fourth sheep, an animal with a more than usually vacuous expression on its face, suspended in the air into which it had been conjured up. Someone had knocked on the door, a knock so soft and deferential that it could have proceeded from the knuckle of only one man. It was consequently without surprise that a moment later he perceived Jeeves entering.

  ‘Your lordship will excuse me,’ said Jeeves courteously. ‘I would not have disturbed your lordship, had I not, listening at the door, gathered from your lordship’s remarks that the stratagem which I proposed had proved unsuccessful.’

  ‘No, it hasn’t worked yet,’ said Bill, ‘but come in, Jeeves, come in.’ He would have been glad to see anything that was not a sheep. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said, starting as he noted the gleam of intelligence in his visitor’s eye, ‘that you’ve thought of something?’

  ‘Yes, m’lord, I am happy to say that I fancy I have found a solution to the problem which confronted us.’

  ‘Jeeves, you’re a marvel!’

  ‘Thank you very much, m’lord.’

  ‘I remember Bertie Wooster saying to me once that there was no crisis which you were unable to handle.’

  ‘Mr Wooster has always been far too flattering, m’lord.’

  ‘Nonsense. Not nEarly flattering enough. If you have really put your finger on a way of overcoming the superhuman difficulties in our path—’

  ‘I feel convinced that I have, m’lord.’

  Bill quivered inside his mauve pyjama jacket.

  ‘Think well, Jeeves,’ he urged. ‘Somehow or other we have got to get Mrs Spottsworth out of her room for a lapse of time sufficient to enable me to bound in, find that pendant, scoop it up and bound out again, all this without a human eye resting upon me. Unless I have completely misinterpreted your words owing to having suffered a nervous breakdown from counting sheep, you seem to be suggesting that you can do this. How? That is the question that springs to the lips. With mirrors?’

  Jeeves did not speak for a moment. A pained look had come into his finely-chiselled face. It was as though he had suddenly seen some sight which was occasioning him distress.

  ‘Excuse me, m’lord. I am reluctant to take what is possibly a liberty on my part—’

  ‘Carry on, Jeeves. You have our ear. What is biting you?’

  ‘It is your pyjamas, m’lord. Had I been aware that your lordship was in the habit of sleeping in mauve pyjamas, I would have advised against it. Mauve does not become your lordship. I was once compelled, in his best interests, to speak in a similar vein to Mr Wooster, who at that time was also a mauve-pyjama addict.’

  Bill found himself at a loss.

  ‘How have we got on to the subject of pyjamas?’ he asked, wonderingly.

  ‘They thrust themselves on the notice, m’lord. That very aggressive purple. If your lordship would be guided by me and substitute a quiet blue or possibly a light pistachio green—’

  ‘Jeeves!’

  ‘M’lord?’

  ‘This is no time to be prattling of pyjamas.’

  ‘Very good m’lord.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I rather fancy myself in mauve. But that, as I say, is neither here nor there. Let us postpone the discussion to a more suitable moment. I will, however, tell you this. If you really have something to suggest with reference to that pendant and that something brings home the bacon, you may take these mauve pyjamas and raze them to the ground and sow salt on the foundations.’

  ‘Thank you very much, m’lord.’

  ‘It will be a small price to pay for your services. Well, now that you’ve got me all worked up, tell me more. What’s the good news? What is this scheme of yours?’

  ‘A quite simple one, m’lord. It is based on—’

  Bill uttered a cry.

  ‘Don’t tell me. Let me guess. The psychology of the in
dividual?’

  ‘Precisely, m’lord.’

  Bill drew in his breath sharply.

  ‘I thought as much. Something told me that was it. Many a time and oft, exchanging dry Martinis with Bertie Wooster in the bar of the Drones Club, I have listened to him, rapt, as he spoke of you and the psychology of the individual. He said that, once you get your teeth into the psychology of the individual, it’s all over except chucking one’s hat in the air and doing Spring dances. Proceed, Jeeves. You interest me strangely. The individual whose psychology you have been brooding on at the present juncture is, I take it, Mrs Spottsworth? Am I right or wrong, Jeeves?’

  ‘Perfectly correct, m’lord. Has it occurred to your lordship what is Mrs Spottsworth’s principal interest, the thing uppermost in the lady’s mind?’

  Bill gaped.

  ‘You haven’t come here at two in the morning to suggest that I dance the Charleston with her again?’

  ‘Oh, no, m’lord.’

  ‘Well, when you spoke of her principal interest—’

  ‘There is another facet of Mrs Spottsworth’s character which you have overlooked, m’lord. I concede that she is an enthusiastic Charleston performer, but what principally occupies her thoughts is psychical research. Since her arrival at the Abbey, she has not ceased to express a hope that she may be granted the experience of seeing the spectre of Lady Agatha. It was that that I had in mind when I informed your lordship that I had formulated a scheme for obtaining the pendant, based on the psychology of the individual.’

  Bill sank back on the pillows, a disappointed man.

  ‘No, Jeeves,’ he said. ‘I won’t do it.’

  ‘M’lord?’

  ‘I see where you’re heading. You want me to dress up in a farthingale and wimple and sneak into Mrs Spottsworth’s room, your contention being that if she wakes and sees me, she will simply say “Ah, the ghost of Lady Agatha”, and go to sleep again. It can’t be done, Jeeves. Nothing will induce me to dress up in women’s clothes, not even in such a deserving cause as this one. I might stretch a point and put on the old moustache and black patch.’

  ‘I would not advocate it, m’lord. Even on the racecourse I have observed clients, on seeing your lordship, start back with visible concern. A lady, discovering such an apparition in her room, might quite conceivably utter a piercing scream.’

  Bill threw his hands up with a despondent groan.

  ‘Well, there you are, then. The thing’s off. Your scheme falls to the ground and becomes null and void.’

  ‘No, m’lord. Your lordship has not, if I may say so, grasped the substance of the plan I am putting forward. The essential at which one aims is the inducing of Mrs Spottsworth to leave her room thus rendering it possible for your lordship to enter and secure the pendant. I propose now, with your lordship’s approval, to knock on Mrs Spottsworth’s door and request the loan of a bottle of smelling salts.’

  Bill clutched at his hair.

  ‘You said, Jeeves?’

  ‘Smelling salts, m’lord.’

  Bill shook his head.

  ‘Counting those sheep has done something to me,’ he said. My hearing has become affected. It sounded to me just as if you had said “Smelling salts”.’

  ‘I did, m’lord. I would explain that I required them in order to restore your lordship to consciousness.’

  ‘There again. I could have sworn that I heard you say “restore your lordship to consciousness”.’

  ‘Precisely, m’lord. Your lordship has sustained a severe shock. Happening to be in the vicinity of the ruined chapel at about the hour of midnight, your lordship observed the wraith of Lady Agatha and was much overcome. How your lordship contrived to totter back to your room, your lordship will never know, but I found your lordship there in what appeared to be a coma and immediately applied to Mrs Spottsworth for the loan of her smelling salts.’

  Bill was still at a loss.

  ‘I don’t get the gist, Jeeves.’

  ‘If I might elucidate my meaning still further, m’lord. The thought I had in mind was that, learning that Lady Agatha was, if I may so term it, on the wing, Mrs Spottsworth’s immediate reaction would be an intense desire to hasten to the ruined chapel in order to observe the manifestation for herself. I would offer to escort her thither, and during her absence…’

  It is never immediately that the ordinary man, stunned by some revelation of genius, is able to find words with which to express his emotion. When Alexander Graham Bell, meeting a friend one morning in the year 1876, said ‘Oh, hullo, George, heard the latest? I invented the telephone yesterday’, it is probable that the friend merely shuffled his feet in silence. It was the same with Bill now. He could not speak. He lay there dumbly, while remorse flooded over him that he could ever have doubted this man. It was just as Bertie Wooster had so often said. Let this fish-fed mastermind get his teeth into the psychology of the individual, and it was all over except chucking your hat in the air and doing Spring dances.

  ‘Jeeves,’ he began, at length finding speech, but Jeeves was shimmering through the door.

  ‘Your smelling salts, m’lord,’ he said, turning his head on the threshold. ‘If your lordship will excuse me.’

  It was perhaps two minutes, though to Bill it seemed longer, before he returned, bearing a small bottle.

  ‘Well?’ said Bill eagerly.

  ‘Everything has gone according to plan, m’lord. The lady’s reactions were substantially as I had anticipated. Mrs Spottsworth, on receiving my communication, displayed immediate interest. Is your lordship familiar with the expression “Jiminy Christmas!”?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I ever heard it. You don’t mean “Merry Christmas”?’

  ‘No, m’lord. “Jiminy Christmas!” It was what Mrs Spottsworth observed on receiving the information that the phantasm of Lady Agatha was to be seen in the ruined chapel. The words, I gathered, were intended to convey surprise and elation. She assured me that it would take her but a brief time to hop into a dressing-gown and that at the conclusion of that period she would be with me with, I understood her to say, her hair in a braid. I am to return in a moment and accompany her to the scene of the manifestation. I will leave the door open a few inches, so that your lordship, by applying your lordship’s eye to the crack, may be able to see us depart. As soon as we have descended the staircase, I would advocate instant action, for I need scarcely remind your lordship that time is—’

  ‘Of the essence? No, you certainly don’t have to tell me that. You remember what you were saying about cheetahs?’

  ‘With reference to their speed of foot, m’lord?’

  ‘That’s right. Half a mile in forty-five seconds, I think you said?’

  ‘Yes, m’lord.’

  ‘Well, the way I shall move would leave the nippiest cheetah standing at the post.’

  ‘That will be highly satisfactory, m’lord. I, on my side, may mention that on the dressing-table in Mrs Spottsworth’s room I observed a small jewel case, which I have no doubt contains the pendant. The dressing-table is immediately beneath the window. Your lordship will have no difficulty in locating it.’

  He was right, as always. It was the first thing that Bill saw when, having watched the little procession of two out of sight down the stairs, he hastened along the corridor to the Queen Elizabeth Room. There, as Jeeves had stated, was the dressing-table. On it was the small jewel case of which he had spoken. And in that jewel case, as he opened it with shaking hands, Bill saw the pendant. Hastily he slipped it into the pocket of his pyjamas, and was turning to leave, when the silence, which had been complete but for his heavy breathing, was shattered by a series of dreadful screams.

  Reference has been made Earlier to the practice of the dog Pomona of shrieking loudly to express the ecstasy she always felt on beholding a friend or even what looked to her like a congenial stranger. It was ecstasy that was animating her now. In the course of that session on the rustic seat, when Bill had done his cooing, she had taken an i
mmediate fancy to her host, as all dogs did. Meeting him now in this informal fashion, just at a moment when she had been trying to reconcile herself to the solitude which she so disliked, she made no attempt to place any bounds on her self-expression.

  Screams sufficient in number and volume to have equipped a dozen Baronets stabbed in the back in libraries burst from her lips and their effect on Bill was devastating. The author of The Hunting of the Snark says of one of his protagonists in a powerful passage:

  So great was his fright

  That his waistcoat turned white

  and the experience through which he was passing nearly caused Bill’s mauve pyjamas to do the same.

  Though fond of Pomona, he did not linger to fraternise. He shot out of the door at a speed which would have had the most athletic cheetah shrugging its shoulders helplessly, and arrived in the corridor just as Jill, roused from sleep by those awful cries, came out of the Clock Room. She watched him steal softly into the Henry VIII Room, and thought in bitter mood that a more suitable spot for him could scarcely have been found.

  It was some quarter of an hour later, as Bill, lying in bed, was murmuring ‘Nine hundred and ninety-eight… Nine hundred and ninety-nine… One thousand…’ that Jeeves entered.

  He was carrying a salver.

  On that salver was a ring.

  ‘I encountered Miss Wyvern in the corridor a few moments ago, m’lord,’ he said. ‘She desired me to give this to your lordship.’

  Chapter 16

  Wyvern Hall, the residence of Colonel Aubrey Wyvern, father of Jill and Chief Constable of the county of Southmoltonshire, lay across the river from Rowcester Abbey, and on the following afternoon Colonel Wyvern, having worked his way scowlingly through a most inferior lunch, stumped out of the dining room and went to his study and rang for his butler. And in due course the butler entered, tripping over the rug with a muffled ‘Whoops!’, his invariable practice when crossing any threshold.

  Colonel Wyvern was short and stout, and this annoyed him, for he would have preferred to be tall and slender. But if his personal appearance gave him pangs of discomfort from time to time, they were as nothing compared to the pangs the personal appearance of his butler gave him. In England today the householder in the country has to take what he can get in the way of domestic help, and all Colonel Wyvern had been able to get was the scrapings and scourings of the local parish school. Bulstrode, the major-domo of Wyvern Hall, was a skinny stripling of some sixteen summers, on whom Nature in her bounty had bestowed so many pimples that there was scarcely room on his face for the vacant grin which habitually adorned it.