Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit (24 page)

A
muscle at the side of his mouth twitched indulgently.

‘The
restoration would, of course, have to be accomplished with secrecy, sir. I
would advocate placing the piece of jewellery in the lady’s bedchamber at a
moment when it was unoccupied. Possibly while she was at the dinner table.’

‘But I
should be at the dinner table, too. I can’t say “Oh, excuse me” and dash
upstairs in the middle of the fish course.’

‘I was
about to suggest that you allow me to attend to the matter, sir. My movements
will be less circumscribed.’

‘You
mean you’ll handle the whole binge?’

‘If you
will give me the piece of jewellery, sir, I shall be most happy to do so.’

I was
overcome. I burned with remorse and shame. I saw how mistaken I had been in
supposing that he had been talking through the back of his neck.

‘Golly,
Jeeves! This is pretty feudal.’

‘Not at
all, sir.’

‘You’ve
solved the whole thing. Rem … what’s that expression of yours?’

‘Rem
acu tetigisti,
sir?’

‘That’s
it. It does mean “You have put your finger on the nub”, doesn’t it?’

‘That
would be a rough translation of the Latin, sir. I am happy to have given
satisfaction. But did I understand you to say that there was a further matter
that was troubling you, sir?’

‘Problem
B is mine, Jeeves,’ said Aunt Dahlia, who during the slice of dialogue had been
waiting in the wings, chafing a bit at being withheld from taking the stage. ‘It’s
about Anatole.’

‘Yes,
madam?’

‘Mrs.
Trotter wants him.’

‘Indeed,
madam?’

‘And
she says she won’t let Trotter buy the
Boudoir
unless she gets him. And
you know how vital it is that I sell the
Boudoir.
Sweet spirits of
nitre!’ cried the old relative passionately. ‘If only there was some way of
inserting a bit of backbone into L.G. Trotter and making him stand up to the
woman and defy her!’

‘There
is, madam.’

Aunt
Dahlia leaped about a foot and a quarter. It was as though that calm response
had been a dagger of Oriental design thrust into the fleshy part of her leg.

‘What
did you say, Jeeves? Did you say there was?’

‘Yes,
madam. I think it will be a reasonably simple matter to induce Mr. Trotter to
override the lady’s wishes.’

I
didn’t want to cast a damper over the proceedings, but I had to put in a word
here.

‘Frightfully
sorry to have to dash the cup of joy from your lips, old tortured spirit,’ I
said, ‘but I fear that all this comes under the head of wishful thinking. Pull
yourself together, Jeeves. You speak … is it airily?’

‘Airily
or glibly, sir.’

‘Thank
you, Jeeves. You speak airily or glibly of inducing L.G. Trotter to throw off
the yoke and defy his considerably better half, but are you not too … dash
it, I’ve forgotten the word.’

‘Sanguine,
sir?’

‘That’s
it. Sanguine. Brief though my acquaintance with these twain has been, I have
got L.G. Trotter’s number, all right. His attitude towards Ma Trotter is that
of an exceptionally diffident worm towards a sinewy Plymouth Rock or Orpington.
A word from her, and he curls up into a ball. So where do you get off with that
simple-matter-to-override—wishes stuff?’

I
thought I had him there, but no.

‘If I
might explain. I gather from Mr. Seppings, who has had opportunities of
overhearing the lady’s conversation, that Mrs. Trotter, being socially
ambitious, is extremely anxious to see Mr. Trotter knighted, madam.’

Aunt
Dahlia nodded.

‘Yes,
that’s right. She’s always talking about it. She thinks it would be one in the
eye for Mrs. Alderman Blenkinsop.’

‘Precisely,
madam.’

I was
rather surprised.

‘Do
they knight birds like him?’

‘Oh,
yes, sir. A gentleman of Mr. Trotter’s prominence in the world of publishing is
always in imminent danger of receiving the accolade.’

‘Danger?
Don’t these bozos like being knighted?’

‘Not
when they are of Mr. Trotter’s retiring disposition, sir. He would find it a
very testing ordeal. It involves wearing satin knee-breeches and walking
backwards with a sword between the legs, not at all the sort of thing a
sensitive gentleman of regular habits would enjoy. And he shrinks, no doubt,
from the prospect of being addressed for the remainder of his life as Sir
Lemuel.’

‘His
name’s not Lemuel?’

‘I fear
so, sir.’

‘Couldn’t
he use his second name?’

‘His
second name is Gengulphus.’

‘Golly,
Jeeves,’ I said, thinking of old Uncle Tom Portarlington, ‘there’s some raw
work pulled at the font from time to time, is there not?’

‘There
is, indeed, sir.’

Aunt
Dahlia seemed perplexed, like one who strives in vain to put her finger on the
nub.

‘Is
this all leading up to something, Jeeves?’

‘Yes,
madam. I was about to hazard the suggestion that were Mr. Trotter to become
aware that the alternative to buying
Milady’s Boudoir
was the discovery
by Mrs. Trotter that he had been offered a knighthood and had declined it, you
might find the gentleman more easily moulded than in the past, madam.’

It took
Aunt Dahlia right between the eyes like a sock full of wet sand. She tottered,
and grabbed for support at the upper part of my right arm, giving it the
dickens of a pinch. The anguish caused her next remark to escape me, though as
it was no doubt merely ‘Gosh!’ or ‘Lord love a duck!’ or something of that
sort, I suppose I didn’t miss much. When the mists had cleared from my eyes and
I was myself again, Jeeves was speaking.

‘It
appears that Mrs. Trotter some months ago insisted on Mr. Trotter engaging the
services of a gentleman’s personal gentleman, a young fellow named Worple, and
Worple contrived to secure the rough draft of Mr. Trotter’s letter of refusal
from the wastepaper basket. He had recently become a member of the Junior
Ganymede, and in accordance with Rule Eleven he forwarded the document to the
secretary for inclusion in the club archives. Through the courtesy of the
secretary I was enabled to peruse it after luncheon, and a photo-static copy is
to be dispatched to me through the medium of the post. I think that if you were
to mention this to Mr. Trotter, madam —‘

Aunt
Dahlia uttered a whoop similar in timbre to those which she had been accustomed
to emit in the old Quorn and Pytchley days when encouraging a bevy of hounds to
get on the scent and give it both nostrils.

‘We’ve
got him cold!’

‘So one
is disposed to imagine, madam.’ ‘I’ll tackle him right away.’

‘You
can’t,’ I pointed out. ‘He’s gone to bed. Touch of dyspepsia.’

‘Then
tomorrow directly after breakfast,’ said Aunt Dahlia. ‘Oh, Jeeves!’

Emotion
overcame her, and she grabbed at my arm again. It was like being bitten by an
alligator.

20

At about the hour of nine
next morning a singular spectacle might have been observed on the main
staircase of Brinkley Court. It was Bertram Wooster coming down to breakfast.

It is a
fact well known to my circle that only on very rare occasions do I squash in at
the communal morning meal, preferring to chew the kipper or whatever it may be
in the seclusion of my bedchamber. But a determined man can nerve himself to
almost anything, if necessary, and I was resolved at all cost not to miss the
dramatic moment when Aunt Dahlia tore off her whiskers and told a cowering L.G.
Trotter that she knew all. It would, I felt, be value for money.

Though
slightly on the somnambulistic side, I don’t know when I have felt more
strongly that the lark was on the wing and the snail on the thorn and God in
His Heaven and all right with the world. Thanks to Jeeves’s outstanding acumen,
Aunt Dahlia’s problem was solved, and I was in a position — if I cared to be
rude enough — to laugh in the faces of any inspectors and sergeants who might
blow in. Furthermore, before retiring to rest on the previous night I had taken
the precaution to recover the cosh from the old relative and it was securely on
my person once more. Little wonder that, as I entered the dining-room, I was
within an ace of bursting into song and piping as the linnets do, as I have
heard Jeeves put it.

The
first thing I saw on crossing the threshold was Stilton wolfing ham, the next
Daphne Dolores Morehead finishing off her repast with toast and marmalade.

‘Ah,
Bertie, old man,’ cried the former, waving a fork in the friendliest manner.
‘So there you are, Bertie, old fellow. Come in, Bertie, old chap, come in. Splendid
to see you looking so rosy.’

His
cordiality would have surprised me more, if I hadn’t seen in it a ruse or
stratagem designed to put me off my guard and lull me into a false sense of
security. Keenly alert, I went to the sideboard and helped myself with my left
hand to sausages and bacon, keeping the right hand on the cosh in my side
pocket. This jungle warfare teaches a man to take no chances.

‘Nice
morning,’ I said, having taken my seat and dipped the lips into a cup of
coffee.

‘Lovely,’
agreed the Morehead, who was looking more than ever like a dewy flower at
daybreak. ‘D’Arcy is going to take me for a row on the river.’

‘Yes,’
said Stilton, giving her a burning glance. ‘One feels that Daphne ought to see
the river. You might tell your aunt we shall not be back for lunch. Sandwiches
and hard-boiled eggs are being provided.’

‘By
that nice butler.’

‘By, as
you say, that nice butler, who also thought it might run to a bottle of the
best from the oldest bin. We shall be starting almost immediately.’

‘I’ll
be going and getting ready,’ said the Morehead.

She
rose with a bright smile, and Stilton, full though he was of ham, bounded
gallantly to open the door for her. When he returned to the table, he found me
rather ostentatiously brandishing the cosh. It seemed to surprise him.

‘Hullo!’
he said. ‘What are you doing with that thing?’

‘Oh,
nothing,’ I replied nonchalantly, resting it by my plate. ‘I just thought I
would like to have it handy.’

He
swallowed a chunk of ham in a puzzled way. Then his face cleared.

‘Good
Lord! You didn’t think I was going to set about you?’

I said
that some such idea had crossed my mind, and he uttered an amused laugh.

‘Good
heavens, no! Why, I look on you as my dearest pal, old man.’ It seemed to me
that if yesterday’s session was a specimen of the way he comported himself
towards his dearest pals, the ones who weren’t quite so dear must have a pretty
thin time of it. I said as much, and he laughed again as heartily as if he had
been standing in the dock at Vinton Street police court with His Worship
getting off those nifties of his which convulsed all and sundry.

‘Oh,
that?’ he said, dismissing the incident with an airy wave of the hand. ‘Forget
all that, dear old chap. Put it right out of your mind, old fellow. Perhaps I
was a little cross on the occasion to which you refer, but no longer.’

‘No?’ I
said guardedly.

‘Definitely
not. I see now that I owe you a deep debt of gratitude. But for you, I might
still be engaged to that pill Florence. Thank you, Bertie, old man.’

Well, I
said ‘Not at all’ or ‘Don’t mention it’ or something of that sort, but my head
was swimming. What with getting up for breakfast and hearing this Cheesewright
allude to Florence as a pill, I felt in a sort of dream.

‘I
thought you loved her,’ I said, digging a bewildered fork into my sausage.

He
laughed again. Only a beefy mass of heartiness like G. D’Arcy Cheesewright
could have been capable of so much merriment at such an hour.

‘Who,
me? Good heavens, no! I may have imagined I did once … one of those boyish
fancies … but when she said I had a head like a pumpkin, the scales fell from
my eyes and I came out of the ether. Pumpkin, forsooth! I don’t mind telling
you, Bertie, old chap, that there are others — I mention no names — who have
described my head as majestic. Yes, I have it from a reliable source that it
makes me look a king among men. That will give you a rough idea of what a silly
young geezer that blighted Florence Craye is. It is a profound relief to me
that you have enabled me to get her out of my hair.’

He
thanked me again, and I said ‘Don’t mention it’, or it may have been ‘Not at
all’. I was feeling dizzier than ever.

‘Then
you don’t think,’ I said with a quaver in the v., ‘that later on, when the hot
blood has cooled, there might be a reconciliation?’

‘Not a
hope.’

‘It
happened before.’