Chapter Text
Of all the fillies that Bingo Little has set his cap at over the years, Miss Edith Darling was by far the strangest.
But there I go, starting the story before it’s begun, or rather opening the piece in flagrante delicto, if that’s the phrase I want. And Miss Darling wasn’t even the strangest part of the whole affair. In fact on the whole of it I would say everything that followed that week-end at Totleigh Towers is so strange, so extraordinary, that I don’t rightly know whether this little novella will ever see the light of day, for I can well imagine my publisher making a discreet call to Sir Roderick Glossop once he gets a proper look at the manuscript. And perhaps that’s for the best, for certainly there are things in this piece that might shock and offend my more delicate readers. But I can’t help writing it down, or else I wouldn’t be sure that it had happened at all.
The entire thing started on a perfectly placid morning in the metrop., when Jeeves and I had no inkling of the horrors that would soon sail our way. I awoke, as is my custom, to a steaming cup of tea outstretched in Jeeves’s steady hand, and the sound of birds singing and dogs barking and children laughing outside my window—all very bucolic and charming, if not a bit noisy for ten o’ clock in the ack-emma.
“A very pleasant day, sir,” said Jeeves, in response to my usual query about the weather. “Fair and sunny, with a slight breeze.”
“A fine day for a walk in the park,” I decided. “Ready the young master’s walking-suit and whangee, Jeeves, for I shall take a stroll.”
And stroll I did, after one of Jeeves’s bracing breakfasts. I suppose here I should pause and mention, for those of you who may be new to the scribblings of Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, that Jeeves is my man—my valet, you know. He’s a tall sort of cove, with broad shoulders that are only enhanced by the sharp cut of his morning coat, and dark hair that he combs back with brilliantine, and finely chiseled features, and a great brain that causes his head to stick out slightly at the back. Jeeves has been by my side for two years now, and a better specimen of a valet I could not hope to find, for he has the sharpest of minds and the stoutest of hearts, and also takes only one holiday per annum. I quite rely upon Jeeves, you know, though I shall never let him know it; it isn’t fitting for a master to appear too dependent upon even his most impressive servant.
Anyway, I strolled, for it was indeed a fine day, and then I stopped in at the Drones’ Club, but found it disappointingly empty. Only Barmy and Catsmeat were there, and after a few rounds of billiards and a bit of light prattle I bid my adieus and made my way home to Jeeves for my luncheon, whistling a few bars of “There’s Life in the Old Girl Yet” and assuming that all continued boomps-a-daisy in the world of Wooster, B.
But alack and alas, coming through the door and handing Jeeves my stick and hat, my whistling ceased abruptly. For my eyes were struck by a sight that will strike fear into the heart of any peace-loving fellow: that is, two telegrams laid neatly on the hallway table.
“One from Miss Basset, sir, and the other from Mr. Little,” said Jeeves, seeing where my gaze had fallen.
“Ho!” cried I, taking them up in my hand and flinging myself upon the settee. “I thought the day was too fine, Jeeves; I ought to have known we were soon to be set upon by wolves. Let us see what Miss Basset wants, first, and then we shall attend to Bingo.”
Madeline Basset’s telegram may have fooled a less jaded fellow than myself: she had written to invite me to Totleigh Towers for a few days, where there was to be a garden party to celebrate her engagement to Gussie Fink-Nottle—an idea that was all hers, I imagine, for Gussie loathes parties and is only interested in gardens so long as they are home to rare species of newts. But a fellow in the sway of a fine female profile is wont to be drawn into all sorts of things against his better judgment, which is why I myself have sworn off female profiles. Madeline was among the number with whom I credit this swearing-off, being the sort of lovely but limp girl to whom can easily find oneself accidentally affianced, and then one has nothing to look forward to but a lifetime of gazing into watery eyes and listening to drippy musings about flowers and stars and small animals and all that sort of rot.
At any rate, it all seemed safe enough: Madeline appeared quite happily and fixedly engaged to Gussie Fink-Nottle for the nonce, and a garden party celebrating their engagement was hardly the place where I might accidentally propose to her. But I have dealt enough with the nest of vipers at Totleigh Towers to keep a suspicious mind, and so it was with trepidation that I opened Bingo Little’s telegram next.
BERTIE STOP COME TO TOTLEIGH STOP MOST URGENT STOP REMEMBER WE WERE AT SCHOOL TOGETHER STOP BINGO
“Aha!” I exclaimed. “Here is the fly in the ointment, Jeeves—not only Madeline but Bingo entreating me to venture to Totleigh. And Bingo of all chaps, who positively loathes the country! There is a game afoot, to be sure, and it is not one in which Bertram Wilberforce Wooster intends to become entangled.”
“A slightly mixed metaphor, perhaps, sir, if you will permit me,” said Jeeves, “but a prudent stance nonetheless.”
“‘Remember we were at school together,’” I read again, scornfully. “Tchah! You know what that means, of course, Jeeves; he’s come up with some scheme for love or money, and intends me to play pawn. Well, I shan’t be drawn in this time; the young master is not so bally gullible as that.”
“Indeed, sir,” agreed Jeeves. “Excuse me, sir,” he added, as the telephone rang, and he sailed away to answer it.
One may wonder at the cold-heartedness with which I received this pleading communication from a bosom friend. For indeed Bingo was correct that we had been at school together—quite an excessive amount of school, from the village creche to Malvern House to Eton to Oxford, and our friendship had never wavered. But fine friend though he was, my chum Bingo had his vices, the foremost of which was his habit of falling madly in love with any filly who glanced his way, and the secondary of which was his habit of putting more money than he could strictly afford on distinctly unfavorable horses. In pursuit of both of these ends he had more than once involved me in ill-conceived schemes that usually ended up with me humiliated or entangled with some beazel or in the unforgiving hands of the law, and whilst I could generally rely upon Jeeves to fish me out of the soup, the conclusions of these episodes were never reached without some nontrivial amount of pain and difficulty on the part of yours truly. Springtime, in particular—which this was—had a way of driving Bingo to near-madness, and it was dangerous to be about him at this season.
“Pardon me, sir,” came Jeeves’s smooth baritone, intruding gently upon my reverie, “but that was Mrs. Gregson on the telephone.”
“Ah!” I cried, startled, for the mere mention of my Aunt Agatha has a way of acting upon me in such a fashion. “Good heavens, Jeeves, yet more trouble to heap upon my heavy brow?”
“Indeed, sir,” Jeeves said. “Mrs. Gregson would like you to give her lunch tomorrow at the Langham. She will be joined by Lady Theodora Feathering and her daughter, a Miss Lenora Feathering. I am given to understand that Mrs. Gregson particularly wishes sir to become acquainted with Miss Feathering.”
“Good Lord,” I murmured, struck anew by this blow. “And I suppose it’s too much to hope that this Lenora Feathering is a peppy, winsome sort of lass?”
“I am afraid, sir, that I have not had the pleasure of making the young lady’s acquaintance,” Jeeves said, in a tone that suggested such an acquaintance would not be a pleasure at all. “However, Lord Feathering’s valet, Mr. Weltersmith, is a member of the Junior Ganymede, and I regret to say, sir, that within the sheltered confines of the club, he has confessed to a rather poor opinion of Lady Feathering and her daughter, and feels they are both somewhat callous to the household staff. I am given to understand that the young lady has had some difficulty keeping a ladies’ maid; several promising candidates have given notice quite early in their tenure in the position.”
I gave a low whistle. A filly who treats her servants poorly will treat her husband the same, and unlike the staff, the husband hasn’t the option of giving notice and finding a better position—at least not without a great deal of fuss and bother that seemed more trouble than it was worth. I had no intention of becoming the hapless Mr. Feathering.
Two roads lay before me now, and I pondered. The first road led to the dark thicket of Totleigh Towers, and I was Cleopatra, unaware of the asp that waited in my bedchamber but still reasonably sure the axe was about to fall. That is, I knew trouble waited at Totleigh, but the exact shape of the trouble was unknown and, I reasoned, it might turn out to be nothing more troublesome than stealing a silver cow-creamer. And anyway, I’d have Jeeves by my side. The second road was less nebulous, but the thorny thicket was all round it instead of waiting at the end—an awkward luncheon at the Langham, a rotten engagement to a disagreeable filly, a crummy wedding, Jeeves dismissed if he hadn't already given notice, a certain lifetime of misery. The choice seemed clear enough.
“Well, Jeeves,” I sighed, “let us pack up our troubles in our old kit bag, and fetch the two-seater from the garage, for it appears we’re wanted at Totleigh Towers.”
~
The day continued fine as we wove our way east out of London, and we had a bit of desultory chatter, if desultory is the word I mean. I asked him whether he’d heard from his relations lately, and narrated to him the corking Rex West mystery I’d been sitting up with at nights.
“And so it’s obvious, to me at least, that the nursemaid is the culprit,” I finished, proud of my deduction. “She’s the only one with the keys to the nursery, after all.”
“Perhaps, sir, but I wonder if perhaps the gardener might not be a more promising suspect. You will recall, sir, that his sister is married to the local locksmith, and it would be simplicity itself to have a copy of the key made. Such a conclusion would also account for the muddy bootprint found in the hall.”
I raised my eyebrows. “The gardener, Jeeves? I say! Well, I suppose I’ll finish the bally thing, and then we’ll know.”
I confess that I always enjoy driving with Jeeves. There’s something different about sitting in an automobile with a man than sitting in a drawing room. For one thing, Jeeves never sits in our drawing room, at least when I’m there; I mean he must sit sometimes, for everyone must sit sometimes, but he would never dream of doing such a thing in the young master’s presence. The only times I’ve seen him sitting are when I’ve come into the kitchen unexpectedly and found him polishing the silver with his shirtsleeves up, which always gives me a bit of an odd thrill, as if I’ve caught him being—I don’t know—more human than usual. But then he rises immediately and asks if sir needs anything, and that’s hardly the same as having a matey chat on the chesterfield over brandy-and-sodas, if you take my meaning.
So sitting side-by-side in the two-seater on a fine day, his gloved hands firm upon the wheel, is always rather refreshing. And when we’re sitting side-by-side like that, Jeeves tends to be a bit chattier than he is when we’re just about the flat. Not that Jeeves is chatty, mind you; aside from the odd bit of useful intelligence from the vaults of the Junior Ganymede, Jeeves is not one given to tittle-tattle. But in the two-seater he’s more inclined toward openness when I ask him questions, and might even twitch his lips in an approximation of a smile if I come out with a particularly crackerjack bit of wit, which makes me feel unreasonably proud. It’s in the two-seater that I’ve learned the few things I do know about Jeeves the Man: that his Christian name is Reginald, of all things; that despite the gulf in age between himself and his elder brother, they remain quite close; and that he spent most of his youth at Deverill Hall and still regards the old pile fondly. I can’t say why I’m so curious about him, but every bit of information makes me hungry for just a bit more. Sometimes I find myself wishing, on these drives, that our destination were just a bit further away than it actually is, or even that Jeeves might somehow get lost and thereby delay our arrival, though of course such a thing is impossible.
We pulled up at Totleigh Towers in the late afternoon, under a fine blue sky; and quite a lucky thing, too, for I was itching for a gin-and-tonic, and my hindquarters were beginning to ache from the two-seater. Bingo Little emerged from the front door almost before Jeeves had turned off the motor, a fellow of about our age, whom I didn’t know, at his side.
“What ho, Bertie!” he called, waving as if I might not have seen him. “What luck, to have you down at Totleigh!”
“What do you mean, luck?” I returned, shaking his hand, as Jeeves carried our luggage into the house. “You sent me a telegram insisting I come.”
Bingo gave a nervous sort of laugh and glanced at the other gentleman, who was standing on the step with his hands in his pockets. “Yes, well,” he said, and to the fellow added “Bertie here is a jolly chap—I thought it would be a properly merry party if only he would join us! Bertie, old chum, this is Arthur Darling. Bertie and I were at school together, Arthur.”
Said Arthur Darling put his hand out for a shake, and I shook it. He was a tall chap with darkish hair, good-looking in a vague sort of way, and had a rather disconcerting way of gazing straight at you without blinking.“Arthur, really?” I said. “Not Artie or Archie anything?”
Arthur gave a little smile and shrug. “I’m afraid not—it’s always been Arthur.”
“Arthur is here with his sister, Miss Edith Darling,” continued Bingo, the self-appointed master of ceremonies. “Miss Darling was at school with Miss Basset.”
“Yes, they’re very close,” Arthur replied. “And speaking of my sister, Bingo, it looks like the girls are back from the village, and I told Edie we’d take a turn around the garden.” He nodded to something behind me, and glancing over my shoulder I could see a small parade of lace and poplin making its way in our direction up the drive. I could make out the forms of Madeline and Stiffy and Stiffy’s terrier Bartholomew and another beazel who must be this Miss Darling. Arthur gave me another friendly smile, patted my shoulder once, which I found rather odd, and headed for the fillies. Bingo stepped closer and gripped my forearm tightly.
“What an angel!” he exclaimed.
“Is he?” I said, leaning away. I could tell by his breath that he’d had cheese with luncheon. Bingo gave me a little shove.
“Don’t be an ass, Bertie; I mean his sister, of course. Edith—Edie Darling. What a perfect name for her. She’s a perfect darling!”
This, of course, was par for the course, if not even mild, for Bingo in springtime, and he briefly waxed poetic about Edith Darling’s delicate laugh, her serene countenance, her musical voice, as I directed us into the house for a bit of refreshment. I knew Totleigh Towers well enough to find the drawing room even with Bingo jabbering on at my side, and to my relief there was a small tray with two sweating gin-and-tonics on the sideboard. I spied Jeeves’s handiwork in that bit of magic; Totleigh’s butler, Butterfield, is one hundred and ten years old and hardly the sort to provide well-timed cocktails.
“And that’s what I need you here for, of course,” Bingo said, at last, and I looked up from my drink to meet his eyes rather guiltily.
“Er—sorry, old thing—I’m afraid I missed that last bit.”
“I said Edie’s a rare sort of beauty, the most tender—”
“Yes, yes, but the bit where you needed me.”
Bingo rolled his eyes. “To distract that brother of hers, of course. They’re practically joined at the hip. If she’s not with Madeline or Stiffy, she and her brother are out strolling the grounds or sitting in the library, and I can never get a moment with her. If I could just speak to her alone, just for a half-hour or so, preferably under that big romantic willow tree by the—”
“ That’s why you called me down here?” I broke in, rather annoyed. “To tail some beazel's brother for half an hour so you can make eyes at her? I motored over two hours, Bingo!”
“Make eyes!” Bingo gasped. “You wound me, Bertie. I’m in love with her. I’ve told you. There isn’t another girl like her on the planet.”
“Why couldn’t you enlist Gussie?” I demanded.
“Oh, Gussie ,” Bingo spat disgustedly, and I had to admit that I knew what he meant. “If he’s not holding Madeline’s hand in a daisy meadow, he’s knee-deep in pondwater chasing newts halfway across Gloucestershire. Five minutes with him and Arthur would be out the door, and Gussie wouldn’t even notice.”
“Stinker, then. He’s a likeable sort of fellow.”
“Stinker’s hardly any better—always cooing at Stiffy or pottering round that church of his. No, Bertie, it has to be you. People like you. Arthur likes you. Or he will, once he gets to know you. He’s not a bad chap, after all: a bit odd but overall a good egg. And anyway, we were at school together, you and I. It isn’t so much to ask, is it?”
I had to admit that it wasn’t. In the grand scheme of things that Bingo and other pals had asked me to do in order to further their own interests, this was rather a tame request. From our brief meeting, Arthur Darling didn’t seem the sort of fellow likely to push one into a duck pond or challenge one to a boxing match or otherwise cause injury to self or others. I wasn’t sure yet what sort of fellow he did seem like, but I could certainly keep him occupied long enough for Bingo to pitch woo. I felt sunlight breaking through the dark thicket of Totleigh Towers, and mused that perhaps there was no asp in the bedchamber after all.
~
What was in the bedchamber was Jeeves, laying out my dinner clothes, when I came into the room an hour or so later. He’d already put my things in the wardrobe, and the room had started to take on that familiar scent that I associate with home, and with him: clean soap, a hint of cigarette smoke, a note of brilliantine. I grinned at him as I stepped forward and let him loosen my tie.
“Well, Jeeves,” I said, “there’s no asp in the bedchamber.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” he said, pulling my jacket from my shoulders and beginning work on my waistcoat.
“I mean everything’s all right, for once. You and I know Totleigh Towers to be a nest of vipers, but upon this visit it appears they’ve all been defanged. Can one defang vipers, Jeeves?”
“It is certainly possible, sir, albeit dangerous. I believe zoologists do so habitually for research purposes, though in some cases the venom may be saved for use in—”
“That’s quite enough about zoologists and venom, Jeeves.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are carrying my metaphor too far. What I mean to say is that upon this visit to Totleigh Towers, we find ourselves in no danger. Item one: Madeline and Gussie are firmly engaged, so there is no risk to me there. Item two: I haven’t seen Spode lurking about, and even if he does raise his beastly head, thanks to your endeavours I have got Eulalie tucked safely in my back pocket and he shall pose no threat to me. Item three: I haven’t heard a peep from Stiffy Byng about stealing statues or bicycles or bits of paper. Although of course I haven’t actually seen Stiffy yet, but even if she does come up with some fatal task for me, I am incommunicado, if that’s the word I mean, because of item four: according to Bingo, my whole purpose here is to gad about with this Arthur Darling fellow long enough for Bingo to propose to his sister. Therefore I shall be unavailable for petty crimes on behalf of Stiffy Byng, and if she does try to corner me, it will be tough luck for her, because I shall never be alone long enough. I doubt she would care to detail her nefarious schemes in the company of her cousin’s old school friend’s brother. There, Jeeves: the whole situation neatly summed up. I rather think we shall enjoy Totleigh Towers this go-round, don’t you?”
“Indeed, sir,” Jeeves replied, although there was a certain rumminess in his voice. I met his eyes in the mirror as he ran a small comb over the shoulders of my dinner-jacket.
“Jeeves, there is a certain rumminess in your voice.”
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“Say your piece, Jeeves; have you spotted a blemish upon the face of our week-end?”
“Oh, no, sir,” Jeeves said, fastening the bow-tie about my neck. The action required him to stand rather closer to me, and I caught a wave of brilliantine in the nostrils. It was not unpleasant. “I merely wonder if perhaps Mr. Little’s plan may have an unforeseen consequence.”
“It is not unlikely, Jeeves. The best-laid plans often go awry, and Bingo’s plans are hardly so good as that. What is this consequence?”
“It is my experience, sir, that young ladies often prefer the company of gentlemen who make an effort to be agreeable to their relatives, particularly those with whom they are especially close. It appears that Miss Darling and her brother fit that description, and so, by endeavouring to befriend Mr. Darling, I wonder if you may not be drawing his sister’s affections toward you .”
I felt as if I had swallowed something cold. “I hadn’t thought of that, Jeeves.”
“It is merely a consideration, sir. I have no evidence to support such a hypothesis.”
I shook my head. “But you’re right, Jeeves—this would hardly be the first time that a girl Bingo’s wooed has fallen for the Wooster mystique instead.”
“That is true, sir. You do seem to hold quite an appeal for young ladies of Mr. Little’s acquaintance.”
“Tchah!” I scoffed. “But there’s nothing for it, Jeeves. I told Bingo I’d distract Arthur for him. I can hardly go around cold-shouldering the chap now.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“And even if I hadn’t promised Bingo, it would be bally strange to behave so offensively to a fellow I’d only just met.”
“It would indeed, sir.”
“And we can’t leave for London now—not with Aunt Agatha flinging Miss Featherings all over Mayfair.”
“Undoubtedly, sir.”
I chewed worriedly at my lip. Jeeves watched me in the mirror, and his gaze seemed to soften slightly.
“It was only an idea, sir, nothing of consequence. I imagine Miss Darling may prove perfectly amenable to Mr. Little’s overtures, and immune to your own charms.”
He stopped short, as if he had said something he hadn’t intended to say, and glided away to fetch my cufflinks.
“Well, Jeeves,” I said, when he returned, busying himself with my cuffs, “once more unto the breach, then, I suppose, and let’s hope this Miss Darling’s heart beats only for Bingos, and not for Bertrams.”
I went down the stairs with considerably more trepidation than I had gone up them, and found the whole evening-dressed crew in the drawing room—not the one where Bingo and I had sat earlier, but a slightly larger one, with French windows looking out onto a pleasant terrace and sloping green lawns. If there’s one thing Totleigh Towers has in excess, aside from gaudy bits of silver (Sir Watkyn Basset’s) and newts (Gussie’s), it’s drawing rooms.
“Bertie!” Madeline trilled as I stepped across the threshold. “What a delight! We’re so glad to see you, aren’t we, Augustus?” She swanned over and kissed my cheek.
“Hello, Bertie,” chirped Gussie. He looked positively in the pink, or at least as much in the pink as the pale, fish-faced fellow ever looks. I was pleased to see that love agreed with him so well; I would never have expected it.
“Hello, Bertie,” echoed Stiffy Byng, who gave me a not unfriendly but hardly reassuring smile, and, “hello, Bertie,” chorused Stinker Pinker, whose smile was considerably more genuine.
“Wooster,” grunted Sir Watkyn, from behind a newspaper in the corner. Spode was there, to my disappointment, but merely nodded gruffly in my direction; Jeeves and I had tamed that lion some time ago.
“You must meet dear Edith,” Madeline exclaimed, clasping my hands in hers. “Come, Bertie. And thank you,” she added, in a significant whisper, “for coming to celebrate Augustus and me—in spite of everything. In spite of your feelings for me.”
“Oh,” I said helplessly, “rather.”
“You have such a noble spirit, Bertie,” she went on, batting her eyelashes fetchingly, “and that is why you must meet Edith, for she has not had my good fortune in matters of the heart. Edith!” She pulled me toward the window, where Bingo and a girl stood gazing out, although Bingo seemed to be mostly glowering over the girl’s head at a wholly oblivious Arthur Darling, who flanked her other side.
At her name, the filly turned in my direction. She was tallish for a girl, with an athletic figure and dark hair that matched her brother’s, done up in some breed of complicated knot at the back of her head. She wore a pale blue frock that fell in an open swooping sort of thing down her back. Her face was pretty in the way that girls’ faces are, and there was a wide-eyed sort of charm to her. In short, she was like every other beazel with whom Bingo has fallen madly in love—not that Bingo precisely has a type, of course, other than “female, breathing, aged twentyish to thirtyish, within a sixty mile radius.” She did have her brother’s queer manner of looking unblinkingly into one’s eyes, which I again found rather disconcerting.
We all hulloed and what hoed and shook hands and so forth. “Miss Edith Darling is a dear friend of mine,” Madeline explained, taking the girl’s hand, “from—”
And then something peculiar happened. Madeline abruptly went silent, and her face went a bit slack for a moment, as though she had forgotten what she was saying.
“From school,” Edith supplied. Madeline blinked, and the smile returned to her face as though it had never left.
“From school! Edith and I were ever so close as girls, weren’t we?” Madeline beamed at her friend and squeezed her hand. “And now she’s here to celebrate my engagement to Augustus. Ah, that every girl could be so lucky!” She sighed happily.
I glanced at Bingo, but he didn’t seem to have noticed the awkward moment. He was grinning foolishly at Edith. Arthur, too, seemed oblivious, his gaze directed out the window.
I learned soon enough that in addition to our small party, a number of others were expected to converge on Totleigh Towers to fête the happy couple. Honoria Glossop, for one—I briefly quailed, though I breathed again when Madeline mentioned cheerfully that Honoria was recently engaged to one of her father’s Harley Street protégés. Tuppy and my cousin Angela, too, would come down from Brinkley Court, and a few more of Madeline’s friends and one or two of Gussie’s chums from his newt circles, though not all of them would be staying at the house.
“And then we’ll have the garden party on Sunday!” Madeline warbled. “I’m so glad you’ve come, Bertie; it wouldn’t be a proper party without you here.”
At that the gong rang, and we all shuffled in to dinner. I was pleased to note that Jeeves was serving at table that evening. The sight of his solid form standing attentively along the dining room wall reassured me, though I couldn’t have said why I felt in particular need of reassurance.
Madeline had seated me next to the Darling beazel, with Bingo and Arthur across the table and Gussie on my other side. She gave me an encouraging smile as I pulled Edith’s chair out for her, and I felt my heart sink a little. Whatever Bingo may have hoped, Madeline seemed determined that her old school pal and I would waltz down the aisle together. I wondered what she had said to the o.s.p in question about me; perhaps she was already planning one of those ghastly double-weddings. Madeline Basset is the sort of girl who always has the best of intentions and uses them to make a great mess of anything she touches, and thereby does her bit of good in the world.
“Do you come often to Totleigh Towers, Mr. Wooster?” asked Edith, as the wine was poured.
“Oh, rather. That is, when I’m invited.”
“It’s a very fine old house.”
“Oh, rather.”
“Do you know the country about here particularly well?”
“Oh, well enough, I suppose.”
“My brother and I have been trying to explore the countryside during our stay here. There are so many interesting landscapes in the area.”
“Speaking of landscapes,” Bingo broke in eagerly, leaning across the table, “Edie, if you’d like to take a walk after dinner, there’s a particularly fine vista from the willow tree at the bottom of the garden. I’d be happy to show you.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful!” Edith said brightly. “Shall we walk with Richard after dinner, Arthur?” Bingo’s face fell as Arthur responded in the affirmative. “And you, Mr. Wooster,” she added, turning to me, “would you like to join us?”
Bingo gave me a meaningful look, and I hastened to agree, although in fact I had been thinking longingly of my mystery novel and my desire to see Jeeves’s gardener hypothesis tested.
The dinner continued, as dinners generally do, with one course following another. Edith Darling was agreeable company, if rather vacant, and to my relief didn’t seem particularly romantically inclined in my direction, whatever Madeline may have told her about my noble spirit. The fly in the ointment, however, was that she didn’t seem particularly romantically inclined in Bingo’s direction, either.
Every so often I glanced up at Jeeves, standing impassively against the wall of the dining room. My man hadn’t been entirely wrong in his final, more optimistic estimation—Edith (or Edie, as she had asked me to call her, and I had of course replied that she must call me Bertie) seemed perfectly immune to the Wooster charm—but he hadn’t been entirely right, either, for she seemed quite inoculated against the Little charm as well. She didn’t seem to notice his pining glances or the reverent way in which he uttered her name. She was friendly, but not especially interested, and I began to suspect that Bingo’s romantic disappointment was not entirely due to the dampening presence of the filly’s brother. It is never agreeable to watch one’s friends so completely botching their amorous affairs, and yet it is a solemn duty of friendship to bear witness to these embarrassments, and then brace the heartbroken party with several rounds of whiskey-and-sodas at the Drones. I intuited that Bingo and I would be making our way in a Drones-ward direction in short order once we returned to the metrop.
It was during one of those little quiet moments, which happen occasionally when a group of people is gathered—when just enough people have paused to sip their wine, you know, or take a bite, or have just finished their amusing anecdote and paused for breath, and the room goes rather quiet for just a tick—that the second peculiar thing happened. That is, it didn’t seem especially odd to me at the time, to overhear Sir Watkyn Basset muttering something to Spode about a rash of chicken killings in the area, though it did make me eye the roast chicken leg on my plate rather squeamishly. The odd thing was when Edie Darling’s head snapped in his direction and she said, quite clearly and directly, “What did you say?”
Sir Watkyn started and stared at her, as if only now realizing she existed. “Miss Darling?”
Edie paused. The rest of the table was now staring at her as well, though she didn’t seem particularly aware of the fact. “I beg your pardon, Sir Watkyn,” she said slowly. “I thought I heard you say something about killing chickens.”
“Yes—that’s right—on farms all round the village. They think it’s foxes, though nobody’s caught one yet.”
“Good season for a foxhunt,” Spode put in. “Set the dogs on ’em, make short work of the whole affair.”
“Oh, Daddy, don’t let’s talk about the poor little chickens,” Madeline interjected unhappily. Spode reddened.
“Are they happening in any particular area?” Arthur Darling asked, and Sir Watkyn’s stare swung from his sister to him. Madeline made a miserable little sound.
“All round the village,” he said again, perplexed. “It isn’t anything to worry about, Darling, just some foxes. They’ve had an easy winter, and now there’re too many running about. Spode’s right, of course—should arrange a hunt.”
“Oh, don’t,” Madeline said again. “It’s too cruel.”
The room went silent again, though it was undeniably awkward this time. I risked a glance at Arthur, who seemed to be having some sort of silent conversation with his sister across the table. After a moment, Bingo cleared his throat.
“I say,” he said with forced gaiety, “has anyone heard the one about the friar and the lady’s maid?”
Fortunately, at that moment, the hot dessert was brought in.
“Sponge pudding!” enthused Gussie, who alone seemed oblivious to the awkwardness that had enveloped the rest of the party. “My favorite!”
~
After dinner we retired to the library, though Sir Watkyn and Spode excused themselves to Sir Watkyn’s study. I had some hope of being allowed to fade into the background, as it were, and make my excuses. But no such luck, for Bingo made a beeline in my direction, the Darlings trailing after him.
“Well, Bertie,” he said heartily, “shall we all take a turn in the garden?”
He gave me another of those meaningful looks which said, in so many words, yes, Wooster, we shall all take a turn in the garden, and so help me, you shall somehow distract this blighter Darling, for we were at school together. I thought again, longingly, of my novel, and the bed which Jeeves was no doubt turning down at that very moment; but I had promised, after all, so I gave a game nod and followed the little party out the French doors.
“Would anyone else care to join?” I called, halfheartedly, as I ducked out. The two couples were rather preoccupied with making moon-eyes at each other, and there were no takers.
When one lives in the heart of the metrop., it’s easy to forget how very dark the countryside can be at night. The Totleigh gardens were lit only by a few lanterns along the terrace close to the house, and by the light of the stars and moon above them (I gave a brief prayer of thanks that Madeline was not there to lisp to me about God’s daisy-chain). The temp. had dropped, and a faint glisten of dew lay upon the grass as we walked further along the gravel paths that led away from the manor. I couldn’t help glancing sympathetically at Edie’s bare shoulders in her evening dress.
“Would you like my dinner-jacket, Edie?” Bingo asked, in a voice that I’m sure he considered particularly irresistible, but Edie merely smiled and shook her head.
“I’m all right, thank you.”
Crestfallen, Bingo caught my eye and cut his eyes pointedly at Arthur. I took his meaning to be along the lines of draw him off, you idiot.
“Oh, er, Arthur,” I said, casting about for something to say. “Have you much interest in newts?”
I cursed myself silently. I hadn’t exchanged more than six words with Gussie since I’d been at Totleigh, and already his newt-madness had infected me. Bingo gave me a glare over his shoulder that demanded to know what I was playing at.
To my surprise, however, Arthur gave me an interested, puzzled sort of smile. “What in the world is a newt?”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, and then realized I wasn’t quite sure. “It’s an, ah, a small lizard sort of thing. Our pal Gussie is wild for them. He keeps them in his bathtub, you know.”
Arthur was staring at me with that oddly intense gaze of his. “Does it suit them, living in his bathtub?”
“Why—I couldn’t say,” I answered, flummoxed, and then added, “I haven’t asked them.” And then I chuckled at my own joke, which I thought rather amusing. I could practically feel the disgust radiating from Bingo, but he took the opportunity to draw slightly further ahead, Edie at his side. I slowed my own pace, giving Bingo his chance.
Arthur hadn’t laughed at my joke, and in fact looked rather bewildered, but slowed his steps to match my own. “How big is a newt?”
“Oh, about this-ish,” I said, holding my fingers apart in an approximation that I thought was possibly correct. “I really don’t know much about them; Gussie’s the newt-ologist, you know. But I know he catches them all around the grounds here. There’s a pond just down that path where I think some of them live, if you’re interested.”
Arthur did seem to be interested, to my surprise, and he obligingly followed me down the side path that I’d indicated. I was rather pleased with myself; it hadn’t been my best effort, but nonetheless it appeared that I’d won Arthur Darling to my side, or perhaps awakened a latent interest in newts, God help us. I wasn’t especially optimistic about Bingo’s chances with Edie, but at least I could claim that I’d done my part as promised. The Code of the Woosters would have to be satisfied with that.
The path I’d chosen was bordered on both sides by hollyhocks, and far enough from the house that it was not particularly well-lit, though the stars twinkled obligingly above us. It was quiet, the evening silence broken only by the occasional flutter of nearby wings or hiccough of a frog. Arthur’s tall figure radiated a curious warmth as he walked beside me, though he wasn’t especially close, and for some reason I imagined briefly that he was Jeeves, out here walking in the quiet dark with me, close enough that I could feel him warm at my side—
“What is that?” Arthur demanded, taking a sudden step back as something small skittered across the path in front of us. I glanced down in time to catch a glimpse of a hedgehog disappearing into the hollyhocks on the other side.
“Only a hedgie, old thing,” I said, giving him a queer glance. “The gardeners don’t like them, but they’re quite harmless unless you’re a beetle.”
Arthur gave me a baffled sort of stare.
“Never seen a hedgehog before?” I ventured, feeling rather baffled myself. “You must spend all your time in the metrop.”
He laughed a little. “Oh, yes—all of my time.”
“They’re rarer there, though I think you can still see them in some of the parks. Are you from London, then?”
“Yes,” he said, and commenced walking again. “Born and raised. Our family has always lived there, and we don’t leave it very often. Almost never, in fact.”
“Really?” I inquired, for this was strange. “But Edie went to school with Madeline, didn’t she? And Madeline went to school in Brighton.”
“Oh, I mean, Edie left, for school, of course. But the rest of us tend to stay put.”
I nodded, warming to him, for I recognized a kindred spirit when I saw one. “I tend to stay put myself, when I can. Of course one must make the social rounds when called upon, you know. And I have an aunt at Brinkley Court in Worcestershire, so I spend Christmases there and so on. But in general I feel London is the best place for this Wooster.”
“That’s exactly how I feel,” Arthur answered, sounding relieved.
“I’m in Mayfair, as it happens. Berkeley Mansions. Have you got a club in the city? If not, I’d be happy to sponsor you for the Drones.”
Whatever Arthur might have said to that was interrupted by a strangled shriek from somewhere to our east. My first thought was that Bingo, deluded by love and springtime, might have got overconfident and been met with a sharp rebuff, for I have seen girls of Edie’s build do a surprising amount of damage to a delicately brought up fellow when provoked. Arthur’s thoughts, however, tended in the opposite direction.
“Eed,” he gasped, and before I could say anything he bounded away at a surprisingly fast clip along the path we’d come down. The newt pond forgotten, I bounded away after him.
The truth, when we found Bingo and Edie, was rather more nebulous. Bingo had indeed found his preferred romantic willow tree near the statue with the naked winged infants, and must have at some point been seated upon the small bench situated there, though now he stood upon it and peered tremulously at the dark hedges bordering the path. Edie, still earthbound, was staring in the same direction, her head cocked as though listening for something. By the time I arrived, huffing and puffing embarrassingly, Arthur was standing beside her, also scanning the dark wood.
“I thought I saw something,” Bingo said, catching sight of me. “In the hedge.”
“That was you who screamed, then?” I asked, and he glared at me.
“I don’t see anything now,” Edie interjected. “It must have run off.”
“Probably a fox,” Bingo said, coming down from the bench and doing his best to sound reassuring, though he seemed more in need of reassurance than anyone. “Wasn’t that what Sir Watkyn said? Foxes going after the chickens?”
“But there aren’t any chickens here,” Arthur said, his eyes still on the dark hedge. “There’s only us.”
It was a rather extraordinary statement to make. Bertram Wilberforce Wooster is not a man given to superstition, nor fear of things that go bump in the night; but at Arthur’s words the mercury seemed to drop a few degrees down the thermometer, and I gave a little shiver in my dinner-jacket. Bingo stepped a bit closer to me and glanced instinctively back toward the house, the lights of which glowed comfortingly.
“I don’t think we’ll see anything tonight,” Edie said, and I could have sworn there was a note of disappointment in her voice. “Shall we return to the house?”
I could feel Bingo deflate beside me, though he rallied somewhat when Edie accepted his proffered arm, and they drew ahead. Arthur and I fell into step at their backs.
“Rather an adventurous evening, eh?” I said, trying to regain some of the chumminess we’d had before.
“Rather,” Arthur agreed. “No newts, though.”
“That’s probably for the best, old thing,” I said sagely. “But if you’re really curious, you can always go take a look in Gussie’s bathtub. It isn’t as though he uses it, anyway.”
He gave a little chuckle at that, and so did Edie ahead of us, though I hadn’t realized she was listening. The moment of good humour, and the lights of the house as we drew closer, dissipated some of the weirdness of the night. Nonetheless, it was with no small amount of relief that I stepped through the French window and back into the warm glow of Totleigh Towers.
~
“Most mysterious, sir,” said Jeeves, when I related the evening’s events to him. I was in bed, propped up against the pillows, as he folded my evening-clothes.
“Quite mysterious, Jeeves. But not so bad as I expected. Arthur Darling is an all right sort of fellow, if a bit peculiar. A real city bird, you know. And his sister is perfectly immune to the Wooster magnetism, although I shan’t expect Bingo to have any luck in that quarter either. All in all, our worst fears have not come to fruition.”
“Indeed, sir,” Jeeves replied, with a slight bow of the head. “Although I wonder, sir, if there may be another element at play which we have not considered.”
“And what would that be, Jeeves?”
He hesitated, uncharacteristically, and then met my eyes. “Did you happen to notice, sir, that Miss Darling used her dinner fork for her salad this evening?”
“I did not, Jeeves,” I said.
“She also used her steak-knife to butter her bread, sir.”
“Jeeves,” said I, with what I thought was a great deal of forbearance, “I fail to see what Miss Darling’s table manners have to do with anything.”
“I beg your pardon, sir. I shall speak more plainly. My great aunt Clementine, sir, was prior to her retirement a housekeeper at Roedean in Brighton—the same school which Miss Basset and Miss Darling are supposed to have attended.”
“Supposed to have attended, Jeeves?”
“Excuse me, sir. The school which Miss Basset attended, and which Miss Darling is supposed to have attended. Given the anecdotes Aunt Clementine has related, sir, I find it difficult to believe that even the most indifferent alumna of Roedean could make such elementary errors at the dinner table.”
I thought about this for a moment, and then shook my head. “I’m afraid daylight fails to glimmer, Jeeves.”
“Sir,” Jeeves said, patiently, “it is my unfortunate suspicion that Miss Darling and her brother are imposing upon Miss Basset.”
“I don’t think they’re imposing, Jeeves. Madeline invited them here.”
“Forgive me, sir; my meaning was not clear. The situation puts me remarkably in mind of Reverend Sidney and Miss Aline Hemmingway, whom you and Mrs. Gregson had the misfortune of encountering at Westcombe.”
It took a moment for the name to register, and then my man’s meaning was upon me in a flash. Reverend Sidney Hemmingway, better known as “Soapy Sid,” was a con-man of the first water, who along with his wife had stolen my Aunt Agatha’s pearl necklace and nearly bilked me out of three thousand pounds, all while maintaining an appearance of the utmost reverend-ly modesty and gentility. It was only Jeeves’s timely intervention in the matter that had saved my bank account and my Aunt Agatha’s prized pearls, though it had come too late to save her dignity. I still smiled sometimes, guiltily, when I thought of the look upon her face as I produced her pearls, ensconced safely in their jewel-case, only moments after she had ruthlessly castigated her maid, the hotel manager, the Westcombe bobbies and Scotland Yard itself. But Soapy Sid—that part of the tale was not so pleasant to recall. I sank back against the pillows, picturing all of the silver milk jugs and cow-creamers in the house, the valuable paintings adorning the halls, Madeline’s and Stiffy’s jewelry. Totleigh Towers may have been a nest of vipers, but I’d no desire to see those vipers robbed blind.
“Good Lord, Jeeves. Do you really think so?” I breathed.
“I have seen no evidence of criminal activity, sir, but I think it unlikely that Miss Darling is, as she claims, a close school friend of Miss Basset’s.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I asserted. “Madeline herself said they were at school together.”
But then I remembered the odd, empty look upon Madeline’s face when she had introduced Edie and me, and the way in which Edie had reminded her of their acquaintance. I hurriedly related this to Jeeves.
“Do you think Madeline’s under a sort of—a sort of spell, Jeeves?” I asked breathlessly. “Some sort of mesmerism, perhaps?”
Though he did not precisely shrug, Jeeves gave a minute lift of his eyebrow. “It seems unlikely, sir. However, the incident you have related is certainly a singular one, and I confess myself unable to provide a ready explanation for it.”
“Then we must remove the bounders from the premises!” I threw back the counterpane and swung my feet onto the floor, ready to spring into action. I imagine the moment might have appeared quite heroic, if not for my striped red-and-blue pyjamas.
Jeeves cleared his throat gently. “I do beg your pardon, sir. I fear that such an undertaking may be beyond our current powers, considering that you are a guest of Sir Watkyn and Miss Basset, as are Mr. and Miss Darling, and as yet we have no proof of ill intent.”
I deflated slightly. I’d forgotten for a moment that we weren’t at home. “You’re right, Jeeves. We can hardly have them thrown out on the basis of using the wrong fork.”
“Precisely, sir. However, sir, if we were to collect such evidence, I imagine Sir Watkyn would act upon it with the utmost haste. His Lordship is, after all, a former magistrate.”
“And don’t I bally well know it, Jeeves.” I chewed my lip anxiously, considering. “Then there’s only one thing for it,” I said at last. “I told Bingo I’d stick to Arthur Darling, and stick to him I shall, like a bally barnacle. I shall be the Watson to his Holmes, the Sancho to his Quixote, the, er—” I faltered, “well, you take my meaning. If they’re a double act, I shall insert myself as the third wheel. They can’t steal Totleigh Towers from right under the Wooster nose, can they?”
“I should hope not, sir,” Jeeves said, and I imagined he seemed a little moved by my heroic speech.
“And meanwhile, Jeeves, you shall put that great fish-fed brain to work, and think of some way to extract this pernicious pair from Totleigh Towers before the entire Basset fortune goes missing. Perhaps we can fake an urgent telegram from their dear old mother, if they have one, or tell them they’ve inherited a massive fortune from a long-lost relative in India but only if they get on the next steamer at Portsmouth, or something. I’m sure you’ll think of something splendid.”
“I shall do my best, sir, and shall certainly inform you when I have identified a solution. Did you require anything further, sir?”
He had long since finished tidying the room, and now stood respectfully between the bed and the door, gazing at me. I gazed back at him for a moment, taking in the clean lines of his uniform, the calm and tireless countenance, the hands clasped politely behind the back.
“I’m very glad you’re here, Jeeves,” I blurted out, without quite knowing where it came from. His eyes widened infinitesimally, and I hastened to add, “It’s all so bally confusing, I mean. I wouldn’t know quite where I was in all this if not for you.”
Jeeves looked for a moment as if he wanted to say something, but then he merely bowed his head slightly, murmured “Goodnight, sir,” and was gone.
I had thought to submerge myself in my Rex West, but Jeeves's revelations made mystery novels seem positively supernumerary, if that’s the word I mean. Instead, I extinguished the light and lay back against the pillows, certain that I would not sleep a wink that night.
I awoke some time later to what sounded like a strangled shout from somewhere in the countryside, followed by a soft footstep outside my door. I blinked drowsily, certain that this was significant—but then darkness took hold again, and I sank back into the arms of Morpheus.