The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 3 (24 page)

‘Oh, no, no! Captain Biggar? That I can’t and won’t believe. If Captain Biggar were guilty, I should lose my faith in human nature. And that would be a far worse blow than losing the pendant.’

‘The pendant is gone, and he’s gone. It adds up, don’t you think? Oh, well,’ said Monica, ‘we shall soon know.’

‘What makes you so sure of that?’

‘Why, the jewel case, of course. The police will take it away and test it for fingerprints. What on earth’s the matter, Bill?’

‘Nothing’s the matter,’ said Bill, who had leaped some eighteen inches into the air but saw no reason for revealing the sudden agonized thought which had motivated this adagio exhibition. ‘Er, Jeeves.’

‘M’lord?’

‘Lady Carmoyle is speaking of Mrs Spottsworth’s jewel case.’

‘Yes, m’lord?’

‘She threw out the interesting suggestion that the miscreant might have forgotten to wear gloves, in which event the bally thing would be covered with his fingerprints. That would be lucky, wouldn’t it?’

‘Extremely fortunate, m’lord.’

‘I’ll bet he’s wishing he hadn’t been such an ass.’

‘Yes, m’lord.’

‘And that he could wipe them off.’

‘Yes, m’lord.’

‘You might go and get the thing, so as to have it ready for the police when they arrive.’

‘Very good, m’lord.’

‘Hold it by the edges, Jeeves. You don’t want to disturb those fingerprints.’

‘I will exercise the greatest care, m’lord,’ said Jeeves, and went out, and almost simultaneously Colonel Wyvern came in through the french window.

At the moment of his entry Jill, knowing that when a man is in a state of extreme agitation there is nothing he needs more than a woman’s gentle sympathy, had put her arms round Bill’s neck and was kissing him tenderly. The spectacle brought the colonel to a halt. It confused him. With this sort of thing going on, it was difficult to lead up to the subject of horsewhips.

‘Ha, hrr’mph!’ he said, and Monica spun round, astounded.

‘My goodness!’ she said. ‘You have been quick. It’s only five minutes since I phoned.’

‘Eh?’

‘Hullo, father,’ said Jill. ‘We were just waiting for you to show up. Have you brought your bloodhounds and magnifying glass?’

‘What the dickens are you talking about?’

Monica was perplexed.

‘Didn’t you come in answer to my phone call, Colonel?’

‘You keep talking about a phone call. What phone call? I came
to
see Lord Rowcester on a personal matter. What’s all this about a phone call?’

‘Mrs Spottsworth’s diamond pendant has been stolen, Father.’

‘What? What? What?’

‘This is Mrs Spottsworth,’ said Monica. ‘Colonel Wyvern, Rosalinda, our Chief Constable.’

‘Charmed,’ said Colonel Wyvern, bowing gallantly, but an instant later he was the keen, remorseless police officer again. ‘Had your pendant stolen, eh? Bad show, bad show.’ He took out a notebook and a pencil. ‘An inside job, was it?’

‘That’s what we think.’

‘Then I’ll have to have a list of everybody in the house.’

Jill stepped forward, her hands extended.

‘Wyvern, Jill,’ she said. ‘Slip on the bracelets, officer. I’ll come quietly.’

‘Oh, don’t be an ass,’ said Colonel Wyvern.

Something struck the door gently. It might have been a foot. Bill opened the door, revealing Jeeves. He was carrying the jewel case, a handkerchief at its extreme edges.

‘Thank you, m’lord,’ he said.

He advanced to the table and lowered the case on to it very carefully.

‘Here is the case the pendant was in,’ said Mrs Spottsworth.

‘Good.’ Colonel Wyvern eyed Jeeves with approval. ‘Glad to see you were careful about handling it, my man.’

‘Oh, trust Jeeves for that,’ said Bill.

‘And now,’ said Colonel Wyvern, ‘for the names.’

As he spoke, the library door burst open, and Rory came dashing out, horror written on his every feature.

‘I SAY, CHAPS,’
said Rory, ‘the most appalling thing has happened!’

Monica moaned.

‘Not something
more
?’

‘This is the absolute frozen limit. The Derby is just starting –’

‘Rory, the Chief Constable is here.’

‘– and the television set has gone on the blink. Oh, it’s my fault, I suppose. I was trying to get a perfect adjustment, and I must have twiddled the wrong thingummy.’

‘Rory, this is Colonel Wyvern, the Chief Constable.’

‘How are you, Chief C? Do you know anything about television?’

The colonel drew himself up.

‘I do not!’

‘You couldn’t fix a set?’ said Rory wistfully. ‘Not that there’s time, of course. The race will be over. What about the radio?’

‘In the corner, Sir Roderick,’ said Jeeves.

‘Oh, thank heaven!’ cried Rory, galloping to it. ‘Come on and give me a hand, Jeeves.’

The chief constable spoke coldly.

‘Who is this gentleman?’

‘Such as he is,’ said Monica apologetically, ‘my husband, Sir Roderick Carmoyle.’

Colonel Wyvern advanced on Rory as majestically as his lack of inches permitted, and addressed the seat of his trousers, the only portion of him visible as he bent over the radio.

‘Sir Roderick, I am conducting an investigation.’

‘But you’ll hold it up to listen to the Derby?’

‘When on duty, Sir Roderick, I allow nothing to interfere. I want a list –’

The radio, suddenly blaring forth, gave him one.

‘… Taj Mahal, Sweet William, Garniture, Moke the Second, Voleur … Quite an impressive list, isn’t it?’ said the radio. ‘There goes Gordon Richards. Lots of people think this will be his lucky day. I don’t see Bellwether … Oh, yes, he’s turning round now and
walking
back to the gate … They should be off in just a moment … Sorry, no. Two more have turned round. One of them is being
very
temperamental. It looks like Simple Simon. No, it’s the Irish outsider, Ballymore.’

The chief constable frowned. ‘Really, I must ask –’

‘Okay. I’ll turn it down,’ said Rory, and immediately, being Rory, turned it up.

‘They’re in line now,’ yelled the radio, like a costermonger calling attention to his blood oranges, ‘all twenty-six of them … They’re OFF … Ballymore is left at the post.’

Jill screamed shrilly. ‘Oh,
no
!’

‘Vaurien,’ proceeded the radio, now, owing to Rory’s ministrations, speaking in an almost inaudible whisper, like an invalid uttering a few last words from a sickbed, ‘is in front, the Boussac pacemaker.’ Its voice strengthened a little. ‘Taj Mahal is just behind. I see Escalator. Escalator’s going very strong. I see Sweet William. I see Moke the Second. I see …’ Here the wasting sickness set in again, and the rest was lost in a sort of mouselike squeak.

The chief constable drew a relieved breath.

‘Ha! At last! Now then, Lord Rowcester. What servants have you here?’

Bill did not answer. Like a mechanical figure he was moving toward the radio, as if drawn by some invisible force.

‘There’s a cook,’ said Monica.

‘A widow, sir,’ said Jeeves. ‘Mary Jane Piggott.’

Rory looked round.

‘Piggott? Who said Piggott?’

‘A housemaid,’ said Monica, as Jill, like Bill, was drawn toward the radio as if in a trance. ‘Her name’s Ellen. Ellen what, Jeeves?’

‘French, m’lady. Ellen Tallulah French.’

‘The French horse,’ bellowed the radio, suddenly acquiring a new access of strength, ‘is still in front, then Moke the Second, Escalator, Taj Mahal …’

‘What about the gardener?’

‘No, not Gardener,’ said Rory. ‘You mean Garniture.’

‘… Sweet William, Oratory … Vaurien’s falling back, and Garniture –’

‘You see?’ said Rory.

‘– and Moke the Second moving up.’

‘That’s mine,’ said Monica, and with a strange, set look on her face began to move toward the radio.

‘Looks quite as though Gordon Richards might be going to win the
Derby
at last. They’re down the hill and turning Tattenham Corner, Moke the Second in front, with Gordon up. Only three and a half furlongs to go …’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Jeeves, completely unmoved, ‘there is a gardener, an old man named Percy Wellbeloved.’

The radio suddenly broke into a frenzy of excitement.

‘Oo! … Oo! … There’s a horse coming up on the outside. It’s coming like an express train. I can’t identify …’

‘Gee, this is exciting, isn’t it!’ said Mrs Spottsworth.

She went to the radio. Jeeves alone remained at the chief constable’s side. Colonel Wyvern was writing laboriously in his notebook.

‘It’s Ballymore. The horse on the outside is Ballymore. He’s challenging the Moke. Hear that crowd roaring “Come on, Gordon!”’

‘Moke … The Moke … Gordon,’ wrote Colonel Wyvern.

‘Come on, Gordon!’ shouted Monica.

The radio was now becoming incoherent.

‘It’s Ballymore … No, it’s the Moke … No, Ballymore … No, the Moke … No …’

‘Make up your mind,’ advised Rory.

For some moments Colonel Wyvern had been standing motionless, his notebook frozen in his hand. Now a sort of shudder passed through him, and his eyes grew wide and wild. Brandishing his pencil, he leaped toward the radio.

‘Come on, Gordon!’ he roared. ‘COME ON, GORDON!!!’

‘Come on, Ballymore,’ said Jeeves with quiet dignity.

The radio had now given up all thoughts of gentlemanly restraint. It was as though on honeydew it had fed and drunk the milk of Paradise.

‘Photo finish!’ it shrieked. ‘Photo finish! Photo finish! First time in the history of the Derby. Photo finish. Escalator in third place.’

Rather sheepishly the chief constable turned away and came back to Jeeves.

‘The gardener’s name you said was what? Clarence Wilberforce, was it?’

‘Percy Wellbeloved, sir.’

‘Odd name.’

‘Shropshire, I believe, sir.’

‘Ah? Percy Wellbeloved. Does that complete the roster of the staff?’

‘Yes, sir, except for myself.’

Rory came away from the radio, mopping his forehead.

‘Well, that Taj Mahal let me down with a bang,’ he said bitterly. ‘Why is it one can never pick a winner in this bally race?’

‘“The Moke” didn’t suggest a winner to you?’ said Monica.

‘Eh? No. Why? Why should it?’

‘God bless you, Roderick Carmoyle.’

Colonel Wyvern was himself again now.

‘I would like,’ he said, in a curt, official voice, ‘to inspect the scene of the robbery.’

‘I will take you there,’ said Mrs Spottsworth. ‘Will you come too, Monica?’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Monica. ‘Listen in, some of you, will you, and see what that photo shows.’

‘And I’ll send this down to the station,’ said Colonel Wyvern, picking up the jewel case by one corner, ‘and find out what
it
shows.’

They went out, and Rory moved to the door of the library.

‘I’ll go and see if I really have damaged that TV set,’ he said. ‘All I did was twiddle a thingummy.’ He stretched himself with a yawn. ‘Damn dull Derby,’ he said. ‘Even if Moke the Second wins, the old girl’s only got ten bob on it at eights.’

The library door closed behind him.

‘Jeeves,’ said Bill, ‘I’ve got to have a drink.’

‘I will bring it immediately, m’lord.’

‘No, don’t bring it. I’ll come to your pantry.’

‘And I’ll come with you,’ said Jill. ‘But we must wait to hear that result. Let’s hope Ballymore had sense enough to stick out his tongue.’

‘Ha!’ cried Bill.

The radio had begun to speak.

‘Hundreds of thousands of pounds hang on what that photograph decides,’ it was saying in the rather subdued voice of a man recovering from a hangover. It seemed to be a little ashamed of its recent emotion. ‘The number should be going up at any moment. Yes, here it is …’

‘Come on, Ballymore!’ cried Jill.

‘Come on, Ballymore!’ shouted Bill.

‘Come on, Ballymore,’ said Jeeves reservedly.

‘Moke the Second wins,’ said the radio. ‘Hard luck on Ballymore. He ran a wonderful race. If it hadn’t been for that bad start, he would have won in a canter. His defeat saves the bookies a tremendous loss. A huge sum was bet on the Irish horse ten minutes before starting time, obviously one of those SP jobs which are so …’

Dully, with something of the air of a man laying a wreath on the tomb of an old friend, Bill turned the radio off.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘After all, there’s still champagne.’

MRS SPOTTSWORTH CAME
slowly down the stairs. Monica and the chief constable were still conducting their examination of the scene of the crime, but they had been speaking freely of Captain Biggar, and the trend of their remarks had been such as to make her feel that knives were being driven through her heart. When a woman loves a man with every fibre of a generous nature, it can never be pleasant for her to hear this man alluded to as a red-faced thug (Monica) and as a scoundrel who can’t possibly get away but must inevitably ere long be caught and slapped into the jug (Colonel Wyvern). It was her intention to make for that rustic seat and there sit and think of what might have been.

The rustic seat stood at a junction of two moss-grown paths facing the river which lay – though only, as we have seen, during the summer months – at the bottom of the garden. Flowering bushes masked it from the eye of one approaching, and it was not till she had turned the last corner that Mrs Spottsworth was able to perceive that it already had an occupant. At the sight of that occupant she stood for a moment transfixed. Then there burst from her lips a cry so like that of a zebu calling to its mate that Captain Biggar, who had been sitting in a deep reverie, staring at a snail, had the momentary illusion that he was back in Africa. He sprang to his feet, and for a long instant they stood there motionless, gazing at each other wide-eyed while the various birds, bees, wasps, gnats and other insects operating in the vicinity went about their business as if nothing at all sensational had happened. The snail, in particular, seemed completely unmoved.

Mrs Spottsworth did not share its detached aloofness. She was stirred to her depths.

‘You!’ she cried. ‘Oh, I knew you would come. They said you wouldn’t, but I knew.’