The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 3 (12 page)

‘Women are odd, Jeeves,’ he said.

‘Yes, m’lord.’

‘Not to say peculiar. You can’t tell what they mean when they say things, can you?’

‘Very seldom, m’lord.’

Bill brooded for a moment.

‘Were you observing Miss Wyvern as she buzzed off?’

‘Not closely, m’lord.’

‘Was her manner strange, do you think?’

‘I could not say, m’lord. I was concentrating on coffee cups.’

Bill brooded again. This uncertainty was preying on his nerves. ‘You’re sure I shan’t be in the way?’ Had there been a nasty tinkle in her voice as she uttered the words? Everything turned on that. If no tinkle, fine. But if tinkle, things did not look so good. The question, plus tinkle, could only mean that his reasoned explanation of the Spottsworth-Cannes sequence had failed to get across and that she still harboured suspicions, unworthy of her though such suspicions might be.

The irritability which good men feel on these occasions swept over him. What was the use of being as pure as the driven snow, or possibly purer, if girls were going to come tinkling at you?

‘The whole trouble with women, Jeeves,’ he said, and the philosopher Schopenhauer would have slapped him on the back and told him he knew just how he felt, ‘is that practically all of them are dotty. Look at Mrs Spottsworth. Wacky to the eyebrows. Roosting in a ruined chapel in the hope of seeing Lady Agatha.’

‘Indeed, m’lord? Mrs Spottsworth is interested in spectres?’

‘She eats them alive. Is that balanced behaviour?’

‘Psychical research frequently has an appeal for the other sex, m’lord. My Aunt Emily –’

Bill eyed him dangerously.

‘Remember what I said about Pliny the Younger, Jeeves?’

‘Yes, m’lord.’

‘That goes for your Aunt Emily as well.’

‘Very good, m’lord.’

‘I’m not interested in your Aunt Emily.’

‘Precisely, m’lord. During her long lifetime very few people were.’

‘She is no longer with us?’

‘No, m’lord.’

‘Oh, well, that’s something,’ said Bill.

Jeeves floated out, and Bill flung himself into a chair. He was thinking once more of that cryptic speech, and now his mood had become wholly pessimistic. It was no longer any question of a tinkle or a non-tinkle. He was virtually certain that the words ‘You’re sure I shan’t be in the way?’ had been spoken through clenched teeth and accompanied by a look of infinite meaning. They had been the words of a girl who had intended to make a nasty crack.

He was passing his hands through his hair with a febrile gesture when Monica entered from the library. She had found the celebrants
at
the Derby Dinner a little on the long-winded side. Rory was still drinking in every word, but she needed an intermission.

She regarded her hair-twisting brother with astonishment.

‘Good heavens, Bill! Why the agony? What’s up?’

Bill glared unfraternally.

‘Nothing’s up, confound it! Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing!’

Monica raised her eyebrows.

‘Well, there’s no need to be stuffy about it. I was only being the sympathetic sister.’

With a strong effort Bill recovered the chivalry of the Rowcesters. ‘I’m sorry, Moke old thing. I’ve got a headache.’

‘My poor lamb!’

‘It’ll pass off in a minute.’

‘What you need is fresh air.’

‘Perhaps I do.’

‘And pleasant society. Ma Spottsworth’s in the ruined chapel. Pop along and have a chat with her.’

‘What!’

Monica became soothing.

‘Now don’t be difficult, Bill. You know as well as I do how important it is to jolly her along. A flash of speed on your part now may mean selling the house. The whole idea was that on top of my sales talk you were to draw her aside and switch on the charm. Have you forgotten what you said about cooing to her like a turtle dove? Dash off this minute and coo as you have never cooed before.’

For a long moment it seemed as though Bill, his frail strength taxed beyond its limit of endurance, was about to suffer something in the nature of spontaneous combustion. His eyes goggled, his face flushed, and burning words trembled on his lips. Then suddenly, as if Reason had intervened with a mild ‘Tut, tut’, he ceased to glare and his cheeks slowly resumed their normal hue. He had seen that Monica’s suggestion was good and sensible.

In the rush and swirl of recent events, the vitally urgent matter of pushing through the sale of his ancestral home had been thrust into the background of Bill’s mind. It now loomed up for that it was, the only existing life preserver bobbing about in the sea of troubles in which he was immersed. Clutch it, and he was saved. When you sold houses, he reminded himself, you got deposits, paid cash down. Such a deposit would be sufficient to dispose of the Biggar menace, and if the only means of securing it was to go to Rosalinda Spottsworth and coo, then go and coo he must.

Simultaneously there came to him the healing thought that if Jill had gone home to provide herself with things for the night, it would be at least half an hour before she got back, and in half an hour a determined man can do a lot of cooing.

‘Moke,’ he said, ‘you’re right. My place is at her side.’

He hurried out, and a moment later Rory appeared at the library door.

‘I say, Moke,’ said Rory, ‘can you speak Spanish?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never tried. Why?’

‘There’s a Spaniard or an Argentine or some such bird in there telling us about his horse in his native tongue. Probably a rank outsider, still one would have been glad to hear his views. Where’s Bill? Don’t tell me he’s still in there with the White Man’s Burden?’

‘No, he came in here just now, and went out to talk to Mrs Spottsworth.’

‘I want to confer with you about old Bill,’ said Rory. ‘Are we alone and unobserved?’

‘Unless there’s someone hiding in that dower chest. What about Bill?’

‘There’s something up, old girl, and it has to do with this chap Biggar. Did you notice Bill at dinner?’

‘Not particularly. What was he doing? Eating peas with his knife?’

‘No, but every time he caught Biggar’s eye, he quivered like an Ouled Nail stomach dancer. For some reason Biggar affects him like an egg-whisk. Why? That’s what I want to know. Who is this mystery man? Why had he come here? What is there between him and Bill that makes Bill leap and quake and shiver whenever he looks at him? I don’t like it, old thing. When you married me, you never said anything about fits in the family, and I consider I have been shabbily treated. I mean to say, it’s a bit thick, going to all the trouble and expense of wooing and winning the girl you love, only to discover shortly after the honeymoon that you’ve become brother-in-law to a fellow with St Vitus’s Dance.’

Monica reflected.

‘Come to think of it,’ she said, ‘I do remember, when I told him a Captain Biggar had clocked in, he seemed a bit upset. Yes, I distinctly recall a greenish pallor and a drooping lower jaw. And I came in here just now and found him tearing his hair. I agree with you. It’s sinister.’

‘And I’ll tell you something else,’ said Rory. ‘When I left the dining room to go and look at the Derby Dinner, Bill was all for coming too. “How about it?” he said to Biggar, and Biggar, looking very
puff-faced
, said “Later, perhaps. At the moment, I would like a word with you, Lord Rowcester.” In a cold, steely voice, like a magistrate about to fine you a fiver for pinching a policeman’s helmet on Boat Race night. And Bill gulped like a stricken bull pup and said “Oh, certainly, certainly” or words to that effect. It sticks out a mile that this Biggar has got something on old Bill.’

‘But what could he possibly have on him?’

‘Just the question I asked myself, my old partner of joys and sorrows, and I think I have the solution. Do you remember those stories one used to read as a kid? The
Strand Magazine
used to be full of them.’

‘Which stories?’

‘Those idol’s eye stories. The ones where a gang of blighters pop over to India to pinch the great jewel that’s the eye of the idol. They get the jewel all right, but they chisel one of the blighters out of his share of the loot, which naturally makes him as sore as a gum-boil, and years later he tracks the other blighters down one by one in their respectable English homes and wipes them out to the last blighter, by way of getting a bit of his own back. You mark my words, old Bill is being chivvied by this chap Biggar because he did him out of his share of the proceeds of the green eye of the little yellow god in the temple of Vishnu, and I shall be much surprised if we don’t come down to breakfast tomorrow morning and find him weltering in his blood among the kippers and sausages with a dagger of Oriental design in the small of his back.’

‘Ass!’

‘Are you addressing me?’

‘I am, and with knobs on. Bill’s never been farther east than Frinton.’

‘He’s been to Cannes.’

‘Is Cannes east? I never know. But he’s certainly never been within smelling distance of Indian idols’ eyes.’

‘I didn’t think of that,’ said Rory. ‘Yes, that, I admit, does weaken my argument to a certain extent.’ He brooded tensely. ‘Ha! I have it now. I see it all. The rift between Bill and Biggar is due to the baby.’

‘What on earth are you talking about? What baby?’

‘Bill’s, working in close collaboration with Biggar’s daughter, the apple of Biggar’s eye, a poor, foolish little thing who loved not wisely but too well. And if you are going to say that girls are all wise nowadays, I reply “Not one brought up in the missionary school at Squalor Lumpit.” In those missionary schools they explain the facts of life by telling the kids about the bees
and
the flowers till the poor little brutes don’t know which is which.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Rory.’

‘Mark how it works out with the inevitability of Greek tragedy or whatever it was that was so bally inevitable. Girl comes to England, no mother to guide her, meets a handsome young Englishman, and what happens? The first false step. The remorse … too late. The little bundle. The awkward interview with Father. Father all steamed up. Curses a bit in some native dialect and packs his elephant gun and comes along to see old Bill. “
Caramba!
” as that Spaniard is probably saying at this moment on the television screen. Still, there’s nothing to worry about. I don’t suppose he can make him marry her. All Bill will have to do is look after the little thing’s education. Send it to school and so on. If a boy, Eton. If a girl, Roedean.’

‘Cheltenham.’

‘Oh, yes. I’d forgotten you were an Old Cheltonian. The question now arises, should young Jill be told? It hardly seems fair to allow her to rush unwarned into marriage with a rip-snorting roué like William, Earl of Rowcester.’

‘Don’t call Bill a rip-snorting roué!’

‘It is how we should describe him at Harrige’s.’

‘As a matter of fact, you’re probably all wrong about Bill and Biggar. I know the poor boy’s jumpy, but most likely it hasn’t anything to do with Captain Biggar at all. It’s because he’s all on edge, wondering if Mrs Spottsworth is going to buy the house. In which connection, Rory, you old fat-head, can’t you do something to help the thing along instead of bunging a series of spanners into the works?’

‘I don’t get your drift.’

‘I will continue snowing. Ever since Mrs Spottsworth arrived, you’ve been doing nothing but point out Rowcester Abbey’s defects. Be constructive.’

‘In what way, my queen?’

‘Well, draw her attention to some of the good things there are in the place.’

Rory nodded dutifully, but dubiously.

‘I’ll do my best,’ he said. ‘But I shall have very little raw material to work with. And now, old girl, I imagine that Spaniard will have blown over by this time, so let us rejoin the Derby diners. For some reason or other – why, one cannot tell – I’ve got a liking for a beast called Oratory.’

MRS SPOTTSWORTH HAD LEFT
the ruined chapel. After a vigil of some twenty-five minutes she had wearied of waiting for Lady Agatha to manifest herself. Like many very rich women, she tended to be impatient and to demand quick service. When in the mood for spectres, she wanted them hot off the griddle. Returning to the garden, she had found a rustic seat and was sitting there smoking a cigarette and enjoying the beauty of the night.

It was one of those lovely nights which occur from time to time in an English June, mitigating the rigours of the island summer and causing manufacturers of raincoats and umbrellas to wonder uneasily if they have been mistaken in supposing England to be an earthly Paradise for men of their profession.

A silver moon was riding in the sky, and a gentle breeze blew from the west, bringing with it the heart-stirring scent of stock and tobacco plant. Shy creatures of the night rustled in the bushes at her side and, to top the whole thing off, somewhere in the woods beyond the river a nightingale had begun to sing with the full-throated zest of a bird conscious of having had a rave notice from the poet Keats and only a couple of nights ago a star spot on the programme of the BBC.

It was a night made for romance, and Mrs Spottsworth recognized it as such. Although in her
vers libre
days in Greenwich Village she had gone in almost exclusively for starkness and squalor, even then she had been at heart a sentimentalist. Left to herself, she would have turned out stuff full of moons, Junes, loves, doves, blisses and kisses. It was simply that the editors of the poetry magazines seemed to prefer rat-ridden tenements, the smell of cooking cabbage, and despair, and a girl had to eat.

Fixed now as solidly financially as any woman in America and freed from the necessity of truckling to the tastes of editors, she was able to take the wraps off her romantic self, and as she sat on the rustic seat, looking at the moon and listening to the nightingale, a stylist like the late Gustave Flaubert, tireless in his quest of the
mot juste
, would have had no hesitation in describing her mood as mushy.

To this mushiness Captain Biggar’s conversation at dinner had contributed largely. We have given some indication of its trend, showing it ranging freely from cannibal chiefs to dart-blowing headhunters, from headhunters to alligators, and its effect on Mrs Spottsworth had been very similar to that of Othello’s reminiscences on Desdemona. In short, long before the last strawberry had been eaten, the final nut consumed, she was convinced that this was the mate for her and resolved to spare no effort in pushing the thing along. In the matter of marrying again, both A.B. Spottsworth and Clifton Bessemer had given her the green light, and there was consequently no obstacle in her path.