The Jeeves Omnibus (192 page)

Colonel Wyvern put a finger to his brow.

‘Spottsworth? Spottsworth? Ah, yes. That’s the American woman you were telling me about.’

‘The American trollop,’ corrected Jill coldly.

‘Trollop?’ said Colonel Wyvern, intrigued.

‘That was what I said.’

‘Why do you call her that? Did you catch them – er – trolloping?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Good gracious!’

Jill swallowed once or twice, as if something jagged in her throat was troubling her.

‘It all seems to have started,’ she said, speaking in that toneless voice which had made such a painful impression on Bill, ‘in Cannes some years ago. Apparently she and Lord Rowcester used to swim together at Eden Roc and go for long drives in the moonlight. And you know what that sort of thing leads to.’

‘I do indeed,’ said Colonel Wyvern with animation, and was about to embark on an anecdote of his interesting past, when Jill went on, still speaking in that same strange, toneless voice.

‘She arrived at the abbey yesterday. The story that has been put out is that Monica Carmoyle met her in New York and invited her to stay, but I have no doubt that the whole thing was arranged between her and Lord Rowcester, because it was obvious how matters stood between them. No sooner had she appeared than he was all over her … making love to her in the garden, dancing with her like a cat on hot bricks, and,’ said Jill nonchalantly, wearing the mask like the Mrs Fish who had so diverted Captain Biggar by doing the
can-can
in her step-ins in Kenya, ‘coming out of her room at two o’clock in the morning in mauve pyjamas.’

Colonel Wyvern choked. He had been about to try to heal the rift by saying that it was quite possible for a man to exchange a few civil remarks with a woman in a garden and while away the long evening by partnering her in the dance and still not be in any way culpable, but this statement wiped the words from his lips.

‘Coming out of her room in mauve pyjamas?’

‘Yes.’

‘
Mauve
pyjamas?’

‘Bright mauve.’

‘God bless my soul!’

A club acquaintance, annoyed by the eccentricity of the other’s bridge game, had once told Colonel Wyvern that he looked like a retired member of Sanger’s troupe of midgets who for years had been doing himself too well on the starchy foods, and this was in a measure true. He was, as we have said, short and stout. But when the call to action came, he could triumph over his brevity of stature and rotundity of waistcoat and become a figure of dignity and menace. It was an impressive chief constable who strode across the room and rang the bell for Bulstrode.

‘Yus?’ said Bulstrode.

Colonel Wyvern choked down the burning words he would have liked to utter. He told himself that he must conserve his energies.

‘Bulstrode,’ he said, ‘bring me my horsewhip.’

Down in the forest of pimples on the butler’s face something stirred. It was a look of guilt.

‘It’s gorn,’ he mumbled.

Colonel Wyvern stared.

‘Gone? What do you mean, gone? Gone where?’

Bulstrode choked. He had been hoping that this investigation might have been avoided. Something had told him that it would prove embarrassing.

‘To the mender’s. To be mended. It got cracked.’

‘Cracked?’

‘Yus,’ said Bulstrode, in his emotion adding the unusual word ‘Sir’. ‘I was cracking it in the stableyard, and it cracked. So I took it to the mender’s.’

Colonel Wyvern pointed an awful finger at the door.

‘Get out, you foul blot,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’ Seating himself at his desk, as he always did when he wished to think, he drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘I’ll have to borrow
young
Rowcester’s,’ he said at length, clicking his tongue in evident annoyance. ‘Infernally awkward, calling on a fellow you’re going to horsewhip and having to ask him for the loan of his horsewhip to do it with. Still, there it is,’ said Colonel Wyvern philosophically. ‘That’s how it goes.’

He was a man who could always adjust himself to circumstances.

LUNCH AT ROWCESTER
Abbey had been a much more agreeable function than lunch at Wyvern Hall, on a different plane altogether. Where Colonel Wyvern had been compelled to cope with the distressing efforts of a pigtailed incompetent apparently under the impression that she was catering for a covey of buzzards in the Gobi Desert, the revellers at the abbey had been ministered to by an expert. Earlier in this chronicle passing reference was made to the virtuosity of Bill’s OC Kitchen, the richly gifted Mrs Piggott, and in dishing up the midday meal today she had in no way fallen short of her high ideals. Three of the four celebrants at the table had found the food melting in their mouths and had downed it with cries of appreciation.

The exception was the host himself, in whose mouth it had turned to ashes. What with one thing and another – the instability of his financial affairs, last night’s burglarious interlude and its devastating sequel, the shattering of his romance – Bill was far from being the gayest of all that gay company. In happier days he had sometimes read novels in which characters were described as pushing their food away untasted, and had often wondered, being a man who enjoyed getting his calories, how they could have brought themselves to do it. But at the meal which was now coming to an end he had been doing it himself, and, as we say, what little nourishment he had contrived to take had turned to ashes in his mouth. He had filled in the time mostly by crumbling bread, staring wildly and jumping like a galvanized frog when spoken to. A cat in a strange alley would have been more at its ease.

Nor had the conversation at the table done anything to restore his equanimity. Mrs Spottsworth would keep bringing it round to the subject of Captain Biggar, regretting his absence from the feast, and each mention of the White Hunter’s name had had a seismic effect on his sensitive conscience. She did it again now.

‘Captain Biggar was telling me –’ she began, and Rory uttered one of his jolly laughs.

‘He was, was he?’ he said in his tactful way. ‘Well, I hope you didn’t believe him.’

Mrs Spottsworth stiffened. She sensed a slur on the man she loved.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Awful liar, that chap.’

‘Why do you say that, Sir Roderick?’

‘I was thinking of those yarns of his at dinner last night.’

‘They were perfectly true.’

‘Not a bit of it,’ said Rory buoyantly. ‘Don’t you let him pull your leg, my dear Mrs Dogsbody. All these fellows from out East are the most frightful liars. It’s due, I believe, to the ultra-violet rays of the sun in those parts. They go out without their solar topees, and it does something to them. I have this from an authoritative source. One of them used to come to headquarters a lot when I was in the Guns, Pistols and Ammunition, and we became matey. And one night, when in his cups, he warned me not to swallow a single word any of them said. “Look at me,” he reasoned. “Did you ever hear a chap tell the ghastly lies I do? Why, I haven’t spoken the truth since I was so high. And so low are standards East of Suez that my nickname out there is George Washington.”’

‘Coffee is served in the living room, m’lord,’ said Jeeves, intervening in his polished way and averting what promised, judging from the manner in which Mrs Spottsworth’s eyes had begun to glitter, to develop into an ugly brawl.

Following his guests into the living room, Bill was conscious of a growing sense of uneasiness and alarm. He had not supposed that anything could have increased his mental discomfort, but Rory’s words had done so a hundredfold. As he lowered himself into a chair, accepted a cup of coffee and spilled it over his trousers, one more vulture had added itself to the little group already gnawing at his bosom. For the first time he had begun to question the veracity of Captain Biggar’s story of the pendant, and at the thought of what he had let himself in for if that story had not been true his imagination boggled.

Dimly he was aware that Rory and Monica had collected all the morning papers and were sitting surrounded by them, their faces grave and tense. The sands were running out. Less than an hour from now the Derby would be run, and soon, if ever, they must decide how their wagers were to be placed.

‘
Racing News
,’ said Monica, calling the meeting to order. ‘What does the
Racing News
say, Rory?’

Rory studied that sheet in his slow, thorough way.

‘Lot of stuff about the Guineas form. Perfect rot, all of it. You can’t go by the Guineas. Too many unknowns. If you want my considered opinion, there’s nothing in sight to beat Taj Mahal. The Aga has the mares, and that’s what counts. The sires don’t begin to matter compared with the mares.’

‘I’m glad to hear you pay this belated tribute to my sex.’

‘Yes, I think for my two quid it’s Taj Mahal on the nose.’

‘That settles Taj Mahal for me. Whenever you bet on them, they start running backwards. Remember that dog-race.’

Rory was obliged to yield this point.

‘I admit my nominee let the side down on that occasion,’ he said. ‘But when a real rabbit gets loose on a dog track, it’s bound to cause a bit of confusion. Taj Mahal gets my two o’goblins.’

‘I thought your money was going on Oratory.’

‘Oratory is my outsider bet, ten bob each way.’

‘Well, here’s another hunch for you. Escalator.’

‘Escalator?’

‘Wasn’t H’s the first store to have escalators?’

‘By jove, yes. We’ve got the cup, you know. Our safety-landing device has enabled us to clip three seconds off the record. The Oxford Street boys are livid. I must look into this Escalator matter.’

‘Lester Piggott is riding it.’

‘That settles it. L. Piggott is the name of the chap stationed in the Trunks, Bags and Suitcases, as fine a man as ever punched a time-clock. I admit his L stands for Lancelot, but that’s a good enough omen for me.’

Monica looked across at Mrs Spottsworth.

‘I suppose you think we’re crazy, Rosalinda?’

Mrs Spottsworth smiled indulgently.

‘Of course not, dear. This brings back the old days with Mr Bessemer. Racing was all he ever thought of. We spent our honeymoon at Sheepshead Bay. It’s the Derby, is it, you’re so interested in?’

‘Just our silly little annual flutter. We don’t bet high. Can’t afford to. We have to watch the pennies.’

‘Rigidly,’ said Rory. He chuckled amusedly, struck by a whimsical idea. ‘I was just thinking,’ he went on in explanation of his mirth, ‘that the smart thing for me to have done would have been to stick to that pendant of yours I picked up last night and go off to London with it and pawn it, thus raising a bit of … Yes, old man?’

Bill swallowed.

‘I didn’t speak.’

‘I thought you did.’

‘No, just a hiccup.’

‘To which,’ Rory conceded, ‘you were fully entitled. If a man can’t hiccup in his own house, in whose house can he hiccup? Well, summing up, Taj Mahal two quid. Escalator ten bob each way. I’ll go and send off my wire.’ He paused. ‘But wait. Is it not rash to commit oneself without consulting Jeeves?’

‘Why Jeeves?’

‘My dear Moke, what that man doesn’t know about form isn’t worth knowing. You should have heard him yesterday when I asked him if he had any views on the respective contestants in England’s premier classic race. He just stood there rattling off horses and times and records as if he were the Archbishop of Canterbury.’

Monica was impressed.

‘I didn’t know he was as hot as that. Are there no limits to the powers of this wonder man? We’ll go and confer with him at once.’

They hurried out, and Bill, having cleared his throat, said ‘Er’.

Mrs Spottsworth looked up inquiringly.

‘Er, Rosie. That pendant of yours. The one Rory was speaking of.’

‘Yes?’

‘I was admiring it last night.’

‘It’s nice, isn’t it?’

‘Beautiful. You didn’t have it at Cannes, did you?’

‘No. I hadn’t met Mr Spottsworth then. It was a present from him.’

Bill leaped. His worst suspicions had been confirmed.

‘A present from Mr Sp–?’ he gasped.

Mrs Spottsworth laughed.

‘It’s too funny,’ she said. ‘I was talking to Captain Biggar about it last night, and I told him one of my husbands gave it to me, but I couldn’t remember which. It was Mr Spottsworth, of course. So silly of me to have forgotten.’

Bill gulped.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh, quite.’

‘It … it wasn’t given to you by some fellow on one of those hunting expeditions … as a … as a sort of memento?’

Mrs Spottsworth stared.

‘What
do
you mean?’

‘Well, I thought … fellow grateful for kindnesses … saying
goodbye
… might have said “Won’t you accept this as a little memento … and all that sort of thing”.’

The suggestion plainly offended Mrs Spottsworth.

‘Do you imagine that I accept diamond pendants from “fellows”, as you call them?’

‘Well, I –’

‘I wouldn’t dream of such a thing. Mr Spottsworth bought that pendant when we were in Bombay. I can remember it as if it were yesterday. A funny little shop with a very fat Chinaman behind the counter, and Mr Spottsworth would insist on trying to speak Chinese. And just as he was bargaining, there was an earthquake. Not a bad one, but everything was all red dust for about ten minutes, and when it cleared, Mr Spottsworth said “Let’s get out of here!” and paid what the man was asking and grabbed the pendant and we raced out and never stopped running till we had got back to the hotel.’

A dull despair had Bill in its grip. He heaved himself painfully to his feet.

‘I wonder if you would excuse me,’ he said ‘I have to see Jeeves about something.’

‘Well, ring for Jeeves.’

Bill shook his head.

‘No, I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll go and see him in his pantry.’

It had occurred to him that in Jeeves’ pantry there would be a drop of port, and a drop of port or some similar restorative was what his stricken soul craved.

WHEN RORY AND
Monica entered Jeeves’ pantry, they found its proprietor reading a letter. His fine face, always grave, seemed a little graver than usual, as if the letter’s contents had disturbed him.