The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 3: The Mating Season / Ring for Jeeves / Very Good, Jeeves by P. G. Wodehouse
‘Embarrassing for Major Frobisher, sir.’
Captain Biggar stared.
‘For Tubby? Why? He hadn’t been pinching the things, he was merely the instrument for their recovery. But don’t tell me you’ve missed the whole point of my story, which is that I am convinced that if Patch Rowcester here were to dance the Charleston with Mrs Spottsworth with one tithe of Tubby Frobisher’s determination and will to win, we’d soon rout that pendant out of its retreat. Tubby would have had it in the open before the band had played a dozen bars. And talking of that, we shall need music. Ah, I see a gramophone over there in the corner. Excellent. Well? Do you grasp the scheme?’
‘Perfectly, sir. His lordship dances with Mrs Spottsworth, and in due course the pendant droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath.’
‘Exactly. What do you think of the idea?’
Jeeves referred the question to a higher court.
‘What does your lordship think of it?’ he asked deferentially.
‘Eh?’ said Bill. ‘What?’
Captain Biggar barked sharply.
‘You mean you haven’t been listening? Well, of all the –’
Jeeves intervened.
‘In the circumstances, sir, his lordship may, I think, be excused for being distrait,’ he said reprovingly. ‘You can see from his lordship’s lacklustre eye that the native hue of his resolution is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought. Captain Biggar’s suggestion is, m’lord, that your lordship shall invite Mrs Spottsworth to join you in performing the dance known as the Charleston. This, if your lordship infuses sufficient vigour into the steps, will result in the pendant becoming dislodged and falling to the ground, whence it can readily be recovered and placed in your lordship’s pocket.’
It was perhaps a quarter of a minute before the gist of these remarks penetrated to Bill’s numbed mind, but when it did, the effect was electric. His eyes brightened, his spine stiffened. It was plain that hope had dawned, and was working away once more at the old stand. As he rose from his chair, jauntily and with the air of a man who is ready for anything, he might have been that debonair ancestor of his who in the days of the Restoration had by his dash and gallantry won from the ladies of King Charles II’s Court the affectionate sobriquet of Tabasco Rowcester.
‘Lead me to her!’ he said, and his voice rang out clear and resonant. ‘Lead me to her, that is all I ask, and leave the rest to me.’
But it was not necessary, as it turned out, to lead him to Mrs Spottsworth, for at this moment she came in through the french window with her Pekinese dog Pomona in her arms.
Pomona, on seeing the assembled company, gave vent to a series of piercing shrieks. It sounded as if she were being torn asunder by red-hot pincers, but actually this was her method of expressing joy. In moments of ecstasy she always screamed partly like a lost soul and partly like a scalded cat.
Jill came running out of the library, and Mrs Spottsworth calmed her fears.
‘It’s nothing, dear,’ she said. ‘She’s just excited. But I wish you would put her in my room, if you are going upstairs. Would it be troubling you too much?’
‘Not at all,’ said Jill aloofly.
She went out, carrying Pomona, and Bill advanced on Mrs Spottsworth.
‘Shall we dance?’ he said.
Mrs Spottsworth was surprised. On the rustic seat just now, especially in the moments following the disappearance of her pendant, she had found her host’s mood markedly on the Byronic side. She could not readily adjust herself to this new spirit of gaiety.
‘You want to dance?’
‘Yes, with you,’ said Bill, infusing into his manner a wealth of Restoration gallantry. ‘It’ll be like the old days at Cannes.’
Mrs Spottsworth was a shrewd woman. She had not failed to observe Captain Biggar lurking in the background, and it seemed to her that an admirable opportunity had presented itself of rousing the fiend that slept in him … far too soundly, in her opinion. What it was that was slowing up the White Hunter in his capacity of wooer, she did not know: but what she did know was that there is nothing that so lights a fire under a laggard lover as the spectacle of the woman he loves treading the measure in the arms of another man, particularly another man as good-looking as William, Earl of Rowcester.
‘Yes, won’t it!’ she said, all sparkle and enthusiasm. ‘How well I remember those days! Lord Rowcester dances so wonderfully,’ she added, addressing Captain Biggar and imparting to him a piece of first-hand information which, of course, he would have been sorry to have missed. ‘I love dancing. The one unpunished rapture left on earth.’
‘What ho!’ said Bill, concurring. ‘The old Charleston … do you remember it?’
‘You bet I do.’
‘Put a Charleston record on the gramophone, Jeeves.’
‘Very good, m’lord.’
When Jill returned from depositing Pomona in Mrs Spottsworth’s sleeping quarters, only Jeeves, Bill and Mrs Spottsworth were present in the living room, for at the very outset of the proceedings Captain Biggar, unable to bear the sight before him, had plunged through the french window into the silent night.
The fact that it was he himself who had suggested this distressing exhibition, recalling, as it did in his opinion the worst excesses of the Carmagnole of the French Revolution combined with some of the more risqué features of native dances he had seen in Equatorial Africa, did nothing to assuage the darkness of his mood. The frogs on the lawn, which he was now pacing with a black scowl on his face, were beginning to get the illusion that it was raining number eleven boots.
His opinion of the Charleston, as rendered by his host and the woman he loved, was one which Jill found herself sharing. As she stood watching from the doorway, she was conscious of much the same rising feeling of nausea which had afflicted the White Hunter when listening to the exchanges on the rustic seat. Possibly there was nothing in the way in which Bill was comporting himself that rendered him actually liable to arrest, but she felt very strongly that some form of action should have been taken by the police. It was her view that there ought to have been a law.
Nothing is more difficult than to describe in words a Charleston danced by, on the one hand, a woman who loves dancing Charlestons and throws herself right into the spirit of them, and, on the other hand, by a man desirous of leaving no stone unturned in order to dislodge from some part of his associate’s anatomy a diamond pendant which has lodged there. It will be enough, perhaps, to say that if Major Frobisher had happened to walk into the room at this moment, he would instantly have been reminded of old days in Smyrna or Joppa or Stamboul or possibly Baghdad. Mrs Spottsworth he would have compared favourably with the wife of the Greek consul, while Bill he would have patted on the back, recognizing his work as fully equal, if not superior, to his own.
Rory and Monica, coming out of the library, were frankly amazed.
‘Good heavens!’ said Monica.
‘The old boy cuts quite a rug, does he not?’ said Rory. ‘Come, girl, let us join the revels.’
He put his arm about Monica’s waist, and the action became general. Jill, unable to bear the degrading spectacle any longer, turned and went out. As she made her way to her room, she was thinking unpleasant thoughts of her betrothed. It is never agreeable for an idealistic girl to discover that she has linked her lot with a libertine, and it was plain to her now that William, Earl of Rowcester, was a debauchee whose correspondence course might have been taken with advantage by Casanova, Don Juan and the rowdier Roman Emperors.
‘When I dance,’ said Mrs Spottsworth, cutting, like her partner, quite a rug, ‘I don’t know I’ve got feet.’
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 w
‘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 recognized specific, m’lord.’
‘H’m.’ Bill considered. ‘Well, no harm in trying it. Goodnight, Jeeves.’
‘Goodnight, m’lord.’
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 recognized 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 individual?’
‘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 psychol
‘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.’