Fic: Jeeves and the Act of Faith - Part 1
Title: Jeeves and the Act of Faith
Rating: G
Disclaimer: The boys belong to Wodehouse, not to me. More's the pity.
Warnings: None
A/N: I wanted to try writing a pure Wodehousian story, full of humorous misunderstandings, wacky schemes, biting dogs and the like. I am absolutely not comparing myself to the great Plum, who, as we know, stood alone. I am also taking great liberties with how I think the Church of England chooses its rural deans. I could find no information on the process and, short of calling the Archbishop of Canterbury, I decided to make it up. My apologies to the C of E. My grateful thanks, as always, goes to my beta chaoschick13 , the best whipcracker I know. All mistakes belong to me. The story is about 16,000 words split into three takes.
Chapter 1
There comes a time in a chap’s life when he can look back on everything and say to himself, “Thank God that’s over.” He can relax with his afternoon refresher without having to wonder what’s going to blow ashore, or into his flat, as it were.
But that time has yet to come for Bertram Wooster. I mean to say, I thought it was my turn for a quiet life. All prospective fiancées were married off, well, two of them were and one was so close I was counting the days. Madeline née Bassett was now safely in the care of her primate husband, Roderick Spode, or Lord Sidcup as he now fancied himself. And Florence Craye, she of wondrous profile and frightening demeanor, had hitched herself to Brinkley, my former valet and current member of Parliament. Rummy sort, but she’s Brinkley’s problem now. And old Honoria Glossop had finally gotten herself engaged to a worthy cove who could actually outscrum her.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for marriage as long as it’s happening to someone else. B. Wooster is not the marrying sort. I am shiftless, spineless and hopeless, and I’ve spared no effort in cultivating this reputation.
My man Jeeves has just looked over my shoulder and has informed me in that respectful way of his that I have dropped the reader in media res. I believe that’s what you call it. I suppose one ought not throw out Latin tags like so much flotsam and jetsam unless one knows what one is saying. Someone might get hurt. Well, as I am at the point of confusing myself as well as the reader I’ll push on with the story.
With all fiancées out of the picture, Aunt Agatha at a loss to produce another one, and me shortly to embark on a tropical cruise with Jeeves, I was on top of the world. Mind you, I’d have preferred to rest myself in the confines of the flat, but I owed Jeeves and I owed him big. He was the one who introduced Honoria to her new love and consequently got me released me from my engagement to said Glossop. It was a soup too deep to be contemplated. Someday I shall tell you that tale of terror, but as it gives me cold chills to think of it, that day isn’t now, if you see what I mean.
The cruise would serve a dual purpose, however. It would keep Jeeves happy and allowed me to forgo a ghastly seaside family gathering with Aunt Agatha and her son Thomas.
Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking the aunt dragon would order me to cancel the cruise and hie myself to Brighton. Well, she would have if she’d had the slightest inkling of said cruise. But she didn’t.
I am quite chuffed to say the wheeze you’re about to read is all mine. Jeeves had nothing to do with it and had the grace to tell me it was a good one. So few of mine are, I mean to say. You see, Aunt Agatha believed I couldn’t biff off to Brighton because I’m needed at Oxford, scene of my worst youthful indiscretions. I’m needed there, I told her, because I must sit on some secret and stuffy committee that doles out scholarships to worthy young chaps. It was a great honor, I told her, and one I could hardly give the bum’s rush. After she ticked me off for using vulgar slang, she grudgingly agreed I had no choice and urged me to acquit myself in a manner befitting the Woosters. Then she sighed for some reason.
And that is how Bertram traded Brighton for Bermuda. Yes, I thought it was a good one.
So it was a contented Bertram who sprawled in his favorite armchair on a lazy afternoon, refresher in hand and a kip in the offing. I should have known this state of affairs was too good to last.
“Jeeves,” I said as that paragon of a valet shimmered into the room. “This state of affairs is too good to last.”
Jeeves inclined his head in his grave fashion. “What has occurred to give you this view, sir?”
“Think about it, Jeeves,” I said. “The women who have peppered my past are out of the picture. Aunt Agatha is about to bombard Brighton sans Bertram. That means a sinister situation is simmering.”
“Your alliteration is alarming, sir,” Jeeves said.
“Thank you, Jeeves. I’ve been working on it. A new hobby of mine. Dresses up the conversation, does it not?”
“Like an ill-advised tie, sir.”
Before I could call him on that remark, the door buzzer went off. Jeeves steamed off to answer it and I sat up straight.
“Mrs. Harold Pinker to see you, sir.”
Very briefly, Stephanie Pinker, who used to be Stephanie Byng, married one of my Oxford pals, Harold “Stinker” Pinker, who is now the vicar at Hockley-cum-Meston. Stiffy, while a lovely girl, is a scheming, devious sort who must be watched even when she’s asleep. Marriage to a man of the cloth had not changed Stiffy in the least. But one must be a gentleman.
“What ho, Stiffy,” I cried in welcome. I practically leaped toward the sideboard. Does that rhyme? It does. “Have a gargle?”
“I haven’t time, Bertie,” she said, then sat down in my favorite chair. “I need your help.”
I gave her a cold look. She ignored it.
“Whatever it is, Stiffy, I’m not interested,” I said in a manner befitting a man who has too, too much to do already. Well, I hadn’t anything to do, but that isn’t the point. Whatever Stiffy had in mind couldn’t have been cooked up with the Wooster health in mind. “Get Stinker to help you. The unfortunate chap’s your husband, after all.”
“I can’t. It’s about him.”
“What’s about him?”
“This.”
“This what?”
“Oh, Bertie, do stop being foolish for just once in your life. What I’m trying to say is Harold needs your help.”
I wasn’t buying it. “Then why isn’t he here asking his bosom friend?”
I watched her closely while she fidgeted with her gloves. As you might recall, I am by way of being a shrewd judge of character. I can always tell when people are trying to fib to me, fob me off and, well, I can’t think of any other three-letter words that begin with “f” so suffice it to say, I know a liar when I see one.
“Stinker doesn’t know you’re here, does he?” I had her and she knew it.
But it turned out that she didn’t care.
“No, he doesn’t Bertie, and you’re not going to tell him I was here, either.”
“Why not? He should know you’re flitting around London looking for saps to help you with whatever scheme you’ve cooked up.”
“It’s just a little favor, Bertie,” she said, giving me an auntlike glare.
“How little?”
She smiled, her little teeth showing like a tiny alligator’s might. “I need you to help Harold get the rural deanship that just became available.”
“What’s a rural deanship?” I have no insight into these ecclesiastical matters, despite having once won a prize for Scripture Knowledge back when I was a tot.
“A rural dean, Bertie, oversees the vicars in his area. I want, I mean Harold wants the position.”
That didn’t slip by the old Wooster onion. Stiffy wanted Stinker to be rural dean, not the other way around. But I couldn’t let her know I’d seen through her.
“So what do you want from me?” I asked with admirable nonchalance.
She acted as if she hadn’t heard me. “The bishop and his committee will choose the new dean very shortly. They have to talk to Major Plank as well as Harold’s acquaintances.”
I nodded. That I could do. I could give old Stinker a recommendation even God himself couldn’t help but appreciate.
“Well, Stiffy, that’s not so bad. I could meet the old birds and praise Stinker higher than the seraphim.”
She nodded, a trifle impatient. Honestly, nothing’s good enough for her.
“Of course, you’ll do that, Bertie, but I need something else. I need you to be Major Plank.”
I admit I goggled. At times I look like a landed bass, especially when the famed Wooster silver tongue gets stuck to the roof of my mouth.
“Be Major Plank? Whatever for? Get the real Major Plank. More authentic, what?”
She shook her head. “He’s not here.”
“Well, I know he’s not here. He’s in your unfortunate little hamlet.”
“He’s not in England, Bertie. He went to Spain to harass someone he knows over there.”
I shook my head at her. There was an awful lot of head shaking going on, it seems.
“Wait until he gets back. What’s the rush?”
“He won’t be back for a bit. That’ll be too late.”
“What’s a bit?”
“I’m not sure. Just a bit.”
“Well, get him to write a letter. Surely the bish will take that.”
Stiffy’s squirrel-like cheeks took on a rosy hue. I told you I was shrewd.
“Major Plank doesn’t know anything about this, does he?” I asked, feeling like Sherlock Holmes.
“Not exactly.”
“And Stinker doesn’t know anything about this, does he?” I asked, pressing the witness to answer me. Police work must be jolly fun.
“No, he doesn’t,” she said, a little defensively, I thought. “And he’s not going to know, at least not yet.”
I took a seat, crossed my legs and steepled my fingers together like my solicitor does when he’s trying to explain a tricky point he knows I won’t understand anyway. That’s why I take Jeeves with me to the solicitor’s. “So how does the bish and his little committee even know Stinker wants the job?”
“I wrote a letter for Harold,” Stiffy said, “telling the bishop of his profound interest in serving the wider religious community. And it’s true. He does. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
“A forgery?” I wanted to say tsk, tsk, but I didn’t know how to pronounce it. So I settled for “Hmm.”
“I’m his wife,” Stiffy said, “so what difference does it make if I write it or Harold does? It’s all the same.”
It wasn’t the same, I was quite certain of that, but what do I know about the law? The worst thing I’ve ever done is steal a policeman’s helmet.
“What about Major Plank?” I asked. “Did your skill at faking documents extend to penning a letter from him?”
“So what if I did? You can’t possibly see anything wrong with that. The letter of interest for the job required a handwritten reference. What else was I supposed to do?”
Fortunately, Jeeves had shimmered back into the room with tea for Stiffy. “Jeeves,” I said, putting the crime to him. “What can a double forger expect to get from a magistrate say, like, Sir Watkyn Bassett?”
“About five years, sir, depending on the personage whose signature has been forged.”
I nodded at Jeeves. “You hear that, Stiffy? Five years. At hard labor, no doubt. But cracking rocks should suit you.”
Stiffy gave me her Stiffy look, one I would have quailed under it had there still been fiancées for her to throw at me. But there were not.
“Stiffy, I’ve done a lot for you, legal and otherwise. I have risked arrest and social ostracism. But I will not stoop to impersonating Major Plank.” There. That settled it.
“Bertie,” Stiffy said. “You have to help me.”
“No, I don’t.” I turned to Jeeves. “Isn’t that right, Jeeves?”
“It is not my place to say, sir.”
“Well, it’s mine,” I said grandly. “And I’m not.”
“Bertie.”
I hate it when she uses that singsong voice. Sends chills up my spine, don’t you know. I tossed back the rest of my drink in anticipation of hearing something I didn’t particularly want to hear.
“Bertie, you’ll help me or I’ll tell your Aunt Agatha the real reason you aren’t going to Brighton.”
Sometimes I wish I had Jeeves’s face. Well, not his actual face, his expression, I mean to say. The one that doesn’t crack no matter what is said or done or seen. My face, I’m afraid, looks the way I feel, and at this point I felt awful. And dash it, I never recover quickly enough, not for the likes of a viperess like Stiffy. But I tried.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Stiffy.” Honestly, it was the best I could do.
“Oh, yes, you do. I saw her just the other day. She said you weren’t going to Brighton because you have to go to Oxford to sit on some scholarship committee. She said it was a great honor and she hoped you wouldn’t embarrass yourself by doing something illegal.”
“I...”
“The scholarship committee has already met, Bertie.” For a vicar’s wife she sounded awfully smug. “I asked Harold.”
“It’s a secret committee, a different one,” I bleated. I think I honestly bleated. Some sheeplike sound, at any rate. “Isn’t it, Jeeves?”
“That is what I have been given to understand, sir.”
“You see? There’s a committee,” I said. “Stinker is off his rocker.”
Stiffy shook her head. “No, he isn’t. He’s a member of that scholarship committee, Bertie. So,” she continued in that triumphant way of hers, “you can either help me or you can go to Brighton.”
“But, Stiffy...”
“Think of it, Bertie. Nothing but sand and sun and your Aunt Agatha in a bathing costume. What better way to spend a holiday.”
“But, Stiffy...”
Stiffy got out her chair like a cobra rising from its basket. She pulled herself up to her full height, which made her about as tall as one of my walking sticks. But her self-satisfied air made her as imposing as an Amazon. “Bertie, I’ll meet you at Major Plank’s house right after lunch on Saturday.”
“But, Stiffy...”
“Don’t be late.”
“At Major Plank’s house? Why in Dante’s hell would I go to Major Plank’s house?”
Stiffy gave me a kindly look. For her, at any rate. “You’ll be staying there. No one’s home. He gives the servants time off when he’s away.”
I looked to Jeeves for support. It wasn’t forthcoming.
“How am I supposed to get into his house, Stiffy? And why can’t I stay with you and Stinker? Doesn’t that burg of yours have some sort of establishment with rooms to let?”
“I have the key. Harold and I keep it for him whenever he’s away because he knows he can trust a vicar and a vicar’s wife. Hockley does have pubs with rooms, Bertie, but those people are terrible gossips and won’t be able to live a minute without informing Harold you’re there.” She continued without taking a breath, almost as if she’d known what she was going to say before she even darkened my door. “And you can’t stay with us because Harold doesn’t know you’re coming. Do not come anywhere near Harold, if you know what’s good for you.”
“Obviously I don’t or I wouldn’t have allowed Jeeves to open the door to you.” There. She deserved that one.
“You’re a gentleman, Bertie, and that’s your problem. You don’t know how to play dirty.” She gave me a look that I thought looked speculative, but I couldn’t be sure. “Just as a point of information, Bertie, where did you really want to go? You would have had to disappear somewhere.”
“France.” It was the first place that came to mind.
“Where in France?”
“Paris, of course.”
“Why Paris?”
“Why not Paris?”
The pot containing my clever repartee was about empty. I stood up, too, hoping to tower over her physically if nothing else. It was all I had left.
"Ta, ta, Bertie,” the dragon-in-training said and headed for the door. Jeeves was there, opening it as smoothly as always. But Stiffy wasn’t finished, not by a long shot.
“You know, Bertie, you should have all your ducks in row before you start telling mistruths,” she said as she pulled on her gloves. “Lay the groundwork, so to speak. That’s my advice.”
And then she was gone.
“Jeeves,” I said after I waited for the dust to settle.
“Yes, sir?”
“You know how I’m all for a quiet life?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t think I’m going to get one.”
“It does not appear so, sir.”
“These beazels, Jeeves,” I said and fell back into my chair. “Even when they’re married they do their best to cause trouble, turmoil and terror for old Bertram.”
“They are a determined group, sir.”
“Determined.” Now Jeeves has a problem with understating the facts, but I forgave him for that years ago. No one’s perfect, after all.
“They’re more than determined, Jeeves.” And here I came close to sputtering. “They’re devious, deadly and dissolute. And their married state makes them even more so. I had no idea, not even an inkling, that placing a bit of gold on a woman’s third finger resulted in such nincompoopery, Jeeves. Does the ring give them more than some poor sap’s protection? Not that they need it, if Stiffy’s any indication of the married species. I mean to say, Jeeves, does that ring absolve them of all sins?”
I was raving now and quite liked it. One gets so few chances to rave without being invited to stay for a long stretch in Colney Hatch.
“Well, sir,” Jeeves said. “I believe marriage does give women a certain latitude.”
“Longitude as well,” I said, not wanting to miss a chance to exercise my alliterative muscles. Ill-advised tie, indeed.
“What shall we do, Jeeves?” I asked, by way of making conversation. I knew very well what I had to do. It was either impersonate Major Plank or slink off to Brighton for two agonizing weeks with Aunt Agatha and that blister Thomas. But it would be lovely to have Jeeves’ concurrence, if that’s the word I want.
“It appears, sir, that if you wish to avoid a lengthy sojourn with Mrs. Gregson, you will have to acquiesce to Mrs. Pinker’s wishes.”
“Fall in line, as it were?”
“Like a soldier, sir.”
I scratched my chin, but it didn’t help. My old schoolmaster, Aubrey Upjohn, always did that when deciding whether to apply four or six of his finest whacks on my unprotected backside. Since he always chose six, all that chin-scratching must have been for show.
“Well, Jeeves, I was at school with old Stinker,” I said, weighing the pros and cons of going against Stiffy’s dearest wish.
“You were, sir.”
“And I do not wish to be within shouting distance of Brighton.”
“I can understand that sentiment, sir.”
I tried scratching my head, but that didn’t bring forth any ideas, either.
“A million things can go wrong with this scheme, Jeeves.”
“A great many parts of it have indeed been left to chance, sir.”
“But,” I said, intending to face the thing like a man, “faced with two unpalatable choices, one must choose the least nauseating, Jeeves.”
The great man nodded, as I knew he would.
“I shall pack immediately for the journey to Hockley-cum-Meston, sir.”
“With all speed, Jeeves,” I said. “But before you do that, perhaps you’d better provide me with something in the way of fortification.”
I turned to my right and Jeeves was there, a B and S on a silver salver. I don’t know how he does it.
Chapter 2
We arrived in Hockley-cum-Meston like thieves in the night. That’s because it was at night. Stiffy had sent me a telegram ordering me not to appear in daylight, broad or otherwise, because Plank’s neighbors might get suspicious.
Here’s what she said in case you’ve nothing better to do than read ominous telegrams:
“Bertie stop Arrive at Plank’s at night stop Let no one see you stop Constable will be on patrol stop Avoid him stop Key is under third rock on the right stop Don’t even think of backing out stop Love Stiffy stop.”
“So,” I whispered to Jeeves as we exited the car. “We can’t turn on the lights and we have to grope around like Gussie in a newt pond to find the key. And on top of that we have to avoid an overzealous constable. If we get killed I’ll never forgive Stiffy. Never.”
But Jeeves wasn’t listening to me. He was peering intently under the third rock. It would be just like Stiffy to forget a detail as simple as leaving a key and then ask us why in the world we hadn’t simply broken into the place like common thieves. I readied the speech in my head which is a good place to keep speeches until you’re ready to deliver them. Here’s how it would have gone:
Stiffy: For heaven’s sake, Bertie, why didn’t you just break in?
Me: You’re a fine one to talk about heaven, Stiffy, what with your penchant for petty pilfery.
Stiffy: You should have just broken in, Bertie (Stiffy lacks originality, one of her many faults).
Me: And end up in chokey? I won’t go to chokey for you or any other chumpish churl, and that’s final.
Stiffy: Why are you alliterating?
Me: Because I’m about to biff...
“Sir?”
“Yes, Jeeves,” I said, mentally shaking myself. I couldn’t shake physically, you understand, or Jeeves might suggest I see a doctor. And you know how much I dislike doctors. You don’t? Well, sometime I’ll tell you about it.
“I have the key, sir.”
Well, I stored the speech away in the recesses of the Wooster onion, ready to call it forth when needed. And it would be needed. It was just a question of when. I had a feeling Stiffy would be blackmailing me for years, Stinker’s collar notwithstanding. Three STs in one sentence. That had to be a record. I was just about to mention this to Jeeves, when he put the key in the lock and opened Major Plank’s front door.
“The coast is clear, as they say, sir,” Jeeves said, using his morning voice, the one that doesn’t jar my head after I’ve had a late evening. “I believe it is safe to go inside.”
Jeeves went to retrieve the bags as I cautiously peered into the door. I had good reason to be cautious. Major Plank was the nuttiest of fruitcakes and he couldn’t stick my presence at any price, especially since the Alpine Joe incident, another famous scheme of Stiffy’s that went horribly wrong and would have resulted in my arrest had Jeeves not intervened. And I had had to sacrifice a perfectly good hat to remunerate Jeeves for his help, if remunerate is the word I want.
So even if Plank was purported to be elsewhere, it was still only prudent to check to see if he was really hiding behind the sofa or pretending to be a hatrack. I ventured into the foyer and peered at the hatrack which turned out to be a hatrack.
A light cough behind me made me jump about three feet.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Jeeves said. “I have the luggage.”
I wiped the persp. from my forehead. “I can see that, Jeeves, but did you have to frighten me out of my skin just to tell me?”
“No, sir.”
“Well,” I said, “Let that be a lesson to you. Don’t come up behind the victim of a blackmailing scheme just to tell him you’ve acquired luggage. He won’t care.”
“I shall take that under advisement, sir.”
“Good man,” I said and moved further into the house.
The full moon gave us a good bit of light and allowed me to think I was more than just a neighborhood prowler on a lark. I could simply pretend the lights didn’t work or that I was having a tiff with the electric people.
I knew the general layout of Major Plank’s house, having been in it under false pretenses once, but I had no bally idea where we were supposed to sleep. I turned around to ask Jeeves who was already stowing the luggage tidily against one wall.
“Jeeves,” I said. “I have no bally idea where we’re supposed to sleep. I don’t fancy a kip in the major’s bedroom.”
“Nor would it be wise to do so, sir, especially if Major Plank happens to return before we leave.”
I must have jumped about four feet. Well, perhaps not as my head would have struck the ceiling and didn’t. But I did jump. I was, in fact, getting far too jumpy for words.
“What do you mean, Jeeves? What makes you think Major Plank will return to his humble abode earlier than planned?”
Jeeves cocked his head the way an interested terrier might do. “It has been my experience, sir, that the occurrence we least expect has a disconcerting habit of occurring when we least expect it.”
Years of deciphering and translating the Jeevesian language has made me somewhat of an expert. But even I didn’t understand a word he’d said. “Come again?”
“I mean that we should perhaps plan for that contingency, sir.”
“That awful one? The one where Major Plank returns while we’re ensconced cosily in his house, drinking his tea and so forth?”
“Precisely, sir.”
“How do we do that, Jeeves? It’s not as if we can wait at the end of the drive and yell, ‘what ho, Plank. We’re staying in your abode. Hope you don’t mind, old fruit.”
“Nothing comes to mind as yet, sir.”
That Jeeves didn’t have an immediate plan up his immaculate sleeve didn’t worry me as yet. Some of his best wheezes come to him at the last minute. I yawned, suddenly craving my usual forty winks.
“Jeeves, what shall we do about sleeping arrangements?” I thought for a moment. “It would probably behoove us to use as few rooms as possible. Leave no evidence for the local constabulary, as it were.”
“A sound idea, sir. If you’ll excuse me, I will tour the premises and see what would be best to do.”
“Of course, Jeeves,” I said. I removed my coat and tossed it on the sofa, thought better of it and hung it on the coatrack. No sense in being untidy, I supposed. I looked around the sitting room with the idea of pouring myself a nightcap, but thought better of that, too. Didn’t want to leave fingerprints on the glassware.
Jeeves returned within minutes. In the dim light I couldn’t tell whether he had good news to impart. But I wouldn’t have been able to tell in broad daylight, either, so this was another thing that didn’t worry me.
“Sir,” he said. “I have discovered two small guest rooms. I suggest we occupy those and share the one bathroom situated between them. That would keep the housekeeping and the evidence, as you call it, to a minimum.”
Jeeves showed me to a room that I would have enjoyed snoozing in had the room not been attached to Major Plank’s house. The bed looked comfortable, and the window appeared to overlook the back garden. I was admiring the moonlit view, once again relieved that I wouldn’t be taking any more ghastly strolls in said moonlight with Honoria Glossop, when Jeeves brought in my luggage. He first unpacked a small leather case that was news to me and brought it over to the nightstand.
“Would you care for your usual nightcap, sir?”
“Yes, Jeeves,” I said, “but I don’t think we should break into Plank’s stores. If he shows up early, at least he won’t be able to accuse me of appropriating his spirits.”
“If you will allow me, sir,” Jeeves said and he opened the case.
I’ve never been the demonstrative type. I’m an even-keel type of person, not much given to displays of raw emotion. But as Jeeves unpacked a bottle of my favorite brandy and a glass, I could have hugged the man. But as I said, I am not the type, and such an action would have caused Jeeves to raise his eyebrows a full half inch.
“Wherever did you find such a useful bag of tricks?” I asked Jeeves as he handed me a glass of the needful.
“I saw it in a shop, sir, and thought it a prudent purchase. The kit contains the necessary equipment for preparing all types of drinks, all except for the ice, of course.”
I tossed back the drink and felt more braced than I had since Stiffy had darkened my door. “Well, Jeeves, it was a prudent purchase. Let us never travel without it.”
“An excellent notion, sir.”
Jeeves shimmered over to the luggage and within moments had my nightwear, dressing gown and slippers at the ready. He turned back the bedspread and then turned to me.
“Your personal items are arranged in the bathroom, sir. If you are ready to retire?”
Even if I wasn’t ready to retire I knew I had better consider the offer. I could tell from Jeeves’s tone, not that he got all shirty, you understand, that he wanted the young master bunged into bed. Wandering around a house at night with the lights off, as I have done on several occasions, leads to nothing but trouble.
“More than ready, Jeeves,” I said and in short order found myself under the covers and against the pillows. Had I not been in Major Plank’s home I would have felt right at home, if you see what I mean.
That sentiment hung around into the morning when I awoke to find Jeeves standing beside the bed, tray in hand, the hot and steaming ready and waiting. I sat up and stretched and looked about me in what must have been a confused manner.
“We are in Major Plank’s residence, sir,” Jeeves said as if this were an everyday occurrence. “Your tea, sir.”
“What sort of day is it, Jeeves?” I asked as I accepted a cup of the usual darjeeling.
A few cirrus clouds to the north, sir, but otherwise it is a fine, bracing day.”
“Perfect for facing my death, Jeeves. For that is certainly what Stiffy plans for me. Impersonating Major Plank. The man’s half mad and I’m not.”
“It will be a test of your thespianic skills, sir,” Jeeves said. “I shall bring your breakfast tray in a few moments.”
If Plank intended to be gone for any length of time, I shuddered to think what had been left in the larder to fend for itself and said so to Jeeves.
“I took the liberty of bringing a few essentials along with us,” he said. “If you will excuse me, sir?”
He steamed off and seconds later, or so it seemed, presented a breakfast tray that looked as appetizing as the ones he brought me in London. I tucked in, feeling as chuffed as was possible for a man heading for the gallows.
I breakfasted, bathed and dressed in rather more than an hour. As I had several additional hours to kill before meeting Stiffy, I informed Jeeves of my intention to stroll the grounds.
“I couldn’t advise it, sir.”
“Well, why not? There can’t be any harm in smelling the roses, Jeeves.”
“Mrs. Pinker impressed upon us the importance of not being observed by the neighbors, sir.”
“The nearest neighbors are acres away.”
“True, sir, but country denizens have a habit of looking in on properties said to be uninhabited.”
“Whatever for?”
“To see who might be there, sir.”
It made perfect sense, really. These country folk stick by one another, but as soon as one leaves the country, the rest rally round to snoop through his belongings. What Jeeves said was true. I could fully expect to see some upright citizen peering through the kitchen windows at any moment.
“What did you do with the car, Jeeves? Certainly a cheeky two-seater would prompt a comment or two.”
“I parked the car in the barn, sir. I found a large tarp to cover it to discourage pigeons.”
“Good thinking, Jeeves. I was just saying the other day that pigeons should be discouraged.”
I wandered into Plank’s antler-infested study and sat at his desk. The top of it was covered with drawings of various rugby strategies, and I wondered how Stinker took to having Major Plank offer scrumming advice. I also wondered what the major would do to me if I lost him his peerless prop forward, as I was quite certain that if Stinker got the new job, he’d be too busy for rugby. In fact, that was the only reason Stinker had been anointed Hockley-cum-Meston’s vicar in the first place, so he could put his skills to use on the town’s team. I’d probably be banned from Hockley for the rest of my life, which did have the advantage of keeping me away from Stiffy. Stinker, of course, could always visit me at the Drones.
I opened his desk drawers, found very little of even the remotest interest, and closed them again. I perused the titles on the shelves, hoping to find a mystery of some kind, but all he had were books on Africa by authors who I’m quite sure had never been there, if Plank’s irate notes in the margins were anything to go by.
I skulked through the rest of the house, finding very little to keep me entertained. I thought about all the things I could be doing, such as discussing important matters at the Drones, having a kip in my own bed or even ankling around town. The outdoors beckoned me, and thinking it wouldn’t do any harm, went to the door that led to the garden, opened it and peered outside.
“Bertie!”
I almost closed the door on my neck.
“Bertie, I told you not to let yourself be seen.”
It was Stiffy, and more to the point, it was Stiffy and Bartholomew, her bad-tempered terrier. She carried a small valise which she thrust into my hand.
“Take this,” she snapped at me. Or was it Bartholomew? Difficult to tell.
“What is it?”
Stiffy pushed her way past me and I had to jump to save my ankles from Bartholomew’s teeth.
“It’s your disguise,” she said. “Get it on.”
“Is your hair on fire? What’s the rush?” I asked, opening the valise and pulling out a decrepit gray wig that had adorned better heads in better days.
“The bishop and the committee will be here in an hour.”
I could have keeled over. “What?” I said. “You said they wouldn’t be here until tea. I haven’t even lunched yet.”
“No time for that, Bertie. A committee member called and told me there was a schedule change. Now get dressed.” She tapped her right foot impatiently and Bartholomew seemed to take that as a cue to lunge at my kneecaps.
I went to yell for Jeeves, but he had already materialized at my side.
“Jeeves, you’ll never credit this, but Mrs. Pinker here says the bish and his brood will be here in an hour. Why, I don’t know, but there it is. What are we to do?”
“For heaven’s sake, Bertie. Why must you make everything so difficult? Simply get into your disguise and urge the committee to name Harold as rural dean. It couldn’t be easier.”
Stiffy gave Jeeves what I’m sure she considered a conspiratorial look. “Does he always balk at doing something so simple, Jeeves?”
“Mr. Wooster is normally quite agreeable, even when he finds himself embroiled in a situation not of his own devising, madam.”
I was gratified to see my valet’s words fly right over Stiffy’s head. Well, a toad could have hopped over her head, but I suppose that isn’t the point.
I reached into the valise and extracted a hunting jacket, a pipe and a box of what appeared to be stage makeup and bits of old fur. I kept an eye on Jeeves to make sure he didn’t faint.
“Jeeves,” Stiffy said. “Can you make him look as old as Major Plank? And can you serve coffee?”
Jeeves nodded. “But there is one difficulty, madam.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“The bishop and his committee, all presumably older gentlemen with set ideas, will not think it amiss if Major Plank’s manservant opens the door. However,” and here he addressed himself to Stiffy, “they will expect a maid to bring the coffee tray.”
Stiffy gave both of us a strange look. “Where can we get a maid? They’ll be here any minute.”
If I hadn’t known Jeeves as well as I had and still do, I would have missed it. That tiny quirk of the upper lip that meant he was on my side and that he had just paid someone back for inconveniencing the young master. We didn’t need a maid any more than Major Plank needed another trip to Africa.
“I believe, madam, that there is a selection of uniforms in the kitchen cupboard.”
“Certainly, Stiffy,” I said, my customary joviality returning. “Be a good girl and jump into one of them. And get Jeeves to give you some tray-toting tips.”
“Me?” Stiffy squeaked. Bartholomew growled. “Why me?”
I looked around the room. “Unless Major Plank has a few maidish specimens hanging about, it looks like you’re engaged,” I said, not bothering to try not to gloat.
“I don’t know the first thing about it, Bertie,” she said and I was gratified to see her looking deuced uncomfortable. Now perhaps she’d think twice or even thrice before inducing old Bertram to go along with her scandalous schemes. And then again, perhaps not.
“Oh, all right,” she said and then stalked away, dragging the wretched Bartholomew in her wake.
“You’re a prince among men, Jeeves,” I said.
“Thank you, sir.” He lifted the hunting jacket with his thumb and forefinger. “I believe it would not be untoward if we were to select a jacket from Major Plank’s wardrobe, sir.”
“Because we’ve already broken into his house and slept in his beds, you mean? We’re like Goldilocks without the porridge.”
“An excellent analogy, sir. And now I’m afraid we must transform you into a replica of Major Plank.”
Fifteen minutes later, and I didn’t recognize myself. I knew who I was; I mean to say it couldn’t have been anyone else but me looking at me in the mirror.
I had no idea Jeeves knew so much about stage makeup. He gave me wrinkles around my eyes and gave my mouth a right sour expression. He’d even combed and brushed the wig so that it looked more like hair and less like something caught in a trap and left for three days. The finishing touches were horrid false eyebrows to match that equally horrid wig. Major Plank’s coat was a little short on sleeve material, but if I hunched a bit, it didn’t show too much.
After making sure the coast was clear, I gave Jeeves a meaningful look.
“We don’t really require a maid, do we, Jeeves?”
“No, sir.”
“Stiffy will make an excellent one, though, don’t you think?”
“One can scarcely imagine it, sir.”
And that was the end of the conversation. Stiffy, decked out in a black dress and white pinafore, had returned. Steam appeared to be coming out of her ears, but perhaps it was a trick of the light. Light will do that. Trick you, I mean.
“What ho, Stiffy? How’s the world of work?”
Her look would have felled a stronger man. As it was I did feel a bit weak in the knees.
“Harold had better be the next rural dean, Bertie. If he isn’t, I’m going to kill you.”
*~*Next Part*~*
Rating: G
Disclaimer: The boys belong to Wodehouse, not to me. More's the pity.
Warnings: None
A/N: I wanted to try writing a pure Wodehousian story, full of humorous misunderstandings, wacky schemes, biting dogs and the like. I am absolutely not comparing myself to the great Plum, who, as we know, stood alone. I am also taking great liberties with how I think the Church of England chooses its rural deans. I could find no information on the process and, short of calling the Archbishop of Canterbury, I decided to make it up. My apologies to the C of E. My grateful thanks, as always, goes to my beta chaoschick13 , the best whipcracker I know. All mistakes belong to me. The story is about 16,000 words split into three takes.
Chapter 1
There comes a time in a chap’s life when he can look back on everything and say to himself, “Thank God that’s over.” He can relax with his afternoon refresher without having to wonder what’s going to blow ashore, or into his flat, as it were.
But that time has yet to come for Bertram Wooster. I mean to say, I thought it was my turn for a quiet life. All prospective fiancées were married off, well, two of them were and one was so close I was counting the days. Madeline née Bassett was now safely in the care of her primate husband, Roderick Spode, or Lord Sidcup as he now fancied himself. And Florence Craye, she of wondrous profile and frightening demeanor, had hitched herself to Brinkley, my former valet and current member of Parliament. Rummy sort, but she’s Brinkley’s problem now. And old Honoria Glossop had finally gotten herself engaged to a worthy cove who could actually outscrum her.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for marriage as long as it’s happening to someone else. B. Wooster is not the marrying sort. I am shiftless, spineless and hopeless, and I’ve spared no effort in cultivating this reputation.
My man Jeeves has just looked over my shoulder and has informed me in that respectful way of his that I have dropped the reader in media res. I believe that’s what you call it. I suppose one ought not throw out Latin tags like so much flotsam and jetsam unless one knows what one is saying. Someone might get hurt. Well, as I am at the point of confusing myself as well as the reader I’ll push on with the story.
With all fiancées out of the picture, Aunt Agatha at a loss to produce another one, and me shortly to embark on a tropical cruise with Jeeves, I was on top of the world. Mind you, I’d have preferred to rest myself in the confines of the flat, but I owed Jeeves and I owed him big. He was the one who introduced Honoria to her new love and consequently got me released me from my engagement to said Glossop. It was a soup too deep to be contemplated. Someday I shall tell you that tale of terror, but as it gives me cold chills to think of it, that day isn’t now, if you see what I mean.
The cruise would serve a dual purpose, however. It would keep Jeeves happy and allowed me to forgo a ghastly seaside family gathering with Aunt Agatha and her son Thomas.
Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking the aunt dragon would order me to cancel the cruise and hie myself to Brighton. Well, she would have if she’d had the slightest inkling of said cruise. But she didn’t.
I am quite chuffed to say the wheeze you’re about to read is all mine. Jeeves had nothing to do with it and had the grace to tell me it was a good one. So few of mine are, I mean to say. You see, Aunt Agatha believed I couldn’t biff off to Brighton because I’m needed at Oxford, scene of my worst youthful indiscretions. I’m needed there, I told her, because I must sit on some secret and stuffy committee that doles out scholarships to worthy young chaps. It was a great honor, I told her, and one I could hardly give the bum’s rush. After she ticked me off for using vulgar slang, she grudgingly agreed I had no choice and urged me to acquit myself in a manner befitting the Woosters. Then she sighed for some reason.
And that is how Bertram traded Brighton for Bermuda. Yes, I thought it was a good one.
So it was a contented Bertram who sprawled in his favorite armchair on a lazy afternoon, refresher in hand and a kip in the offing. I should have known this state of affairs was too good to last.
“Jeeves,” I said as that paragon of a valet shimmered into the room. “This state of affairs is too good to last.”
Jeeves inclined his head in his grave fashion. “What has occurred to give you this view, sir?”
“Think about it, Jeeves,” I said. “The women who have peppered my past are out of the picture. Aunt Agatha is about to bombard Brighton sans Bertram. That means a sinister situation is simmering.”
“Your alliteration is alarming, sir,” Jeeves said.
“Thank you, Jeeves. I’ve been working on it. A new hobby of mine. Dresses up the conversation, does it not?”
“Like an ill-advised tie, sir.”
Before I could call him on that remark, the door buzzer went off. Jeeves steamed off to answer it and I sat up straight.
“Mrs. Harold Pinker to see you, sir.”
Very briefly, Stephanie Pinker, who used to be Stephanie Byng, married one of my Oxford pals, Harold “Stinker” Pinker, who is now the vicar at Hockley-cum-Meston. Stiffy, while a lovely girl, is a scheming, devious sort who must be watched even when she’s asleep. Marriage to a man of the cloth had not changed Stiffy in the least. But one must be a gentleman.
“What ho, Stiffy,” I cried in welcome. I practically leaped toward the sideboard. Does that rhyme? It does. “Have a gargle?”
“I haven’t time, Bertie,” she said, then sat down in my favorite chair. “I need your help.”
I gave her a cold look. She ignored it.
“Whatever it is, Stiffy, I’m not interested,” I said in a manner befitting a man who has too, too much to do already. Well, I hadn’t anything to do, but that isn’t the point. Whatever Stiffy had in mind couldn’t have been cooked up with the Wooster health in mind. “Get Stinker to help you. The unfortunate chap’s your husband, after all.”
“I can’t. It’s about him.”
“What’s about him?”
“This.”
“This what?”
“Oh, Bertie, do stop being foolish for just once in your life. What I’m trying to say is Harold needs your help.”
I wasn’t buying it. “Then why isn’t he here asking his bosom friend?”
I watched her closely while she fidgeted with her gloves. As you might recall, I am by way of being a shrewd judge of character. I can always tell when people are trying to fib to me, fob me off and, well, I can’t think of any other three-letter words that begin with “f” so suffice it to say, I know a liar when I see one.
“Stinker doesn’t know you’re here, does he?” I had her and she knew it.
But it turned out that she didn’t care.
“No, he doesn’t Bertie, and you’re not going to tell him I was here, either.”
“Why not? He should know you’re flitting around London looking for saps to help you with whatever scheme you’ve cooked up.”
“It’s just a little favor, Bertie,” she said, giving me an auntlike glare.
“How little?”
She smiled, her little teeth showing like a tiny alligator’s might. “I need you to help Harold get the rural deanship that just became available.”
“What’s a rural deanship?” I have no insight into these ecclesiastical matters, despite having once won a prize for Scripture Knowledge back when I was a tot.
“A rural dean, Bertie, oversees the vicars in his area. I want, I mean Harold wants the position.”
That didn’t slip by the old Wooster onion. Stiffy wanted Stinker to be rural dean, not the other way around. But I couldn’t let her know I’d seen through her.
“So what do you want from me?” I asked with admirable nonchalance.
She acted as if she hadn’t heard me. “The bishop and his committee will choose the new dean very shortly. They have to talk to Major Plank as well as Harold’s acquaintances.”
I nodded. That I could do. I could give old Stinker a recommendation even God himself couldn’t help but appreciate.
“Well, Stiffy, that’s not so bad. I could meet the old birds and praise Stinker higher than the seraphim.”
She nodded, a trifle impatient. Honestly, nothing’s good enough for her.
“Of course, you’ll do that, Bertie, but I need something else. I need you to be Major Plank.”
I admit I goggled. At times I look like a landed bass, especially when the famed Wooster silver tongue gets stuck to the roof of my mouth.
“Be Major Plank? Whatever for? Get the real Major Plank. More authentic, what?”
She shook her head. “He’s not here.”
“Well, I know he’s not here. He’s in your unfortunate little hamlet.”
“He’s not in England, Bertie. He went to Spain to harass someone he knows over there.”
I shook my head at her. There was an awful lot of head shaking going on, it seems.
“Wait until he gets back. What’s the rush?”
“He won’t be back for a bit. That’ll be too late.”
“What’s a bit?”
“I’m not sure. Just a bit.”
“Well, get him to write a letter. Surely the bish will take that.”
Stiffy’s squirrel-like cheeks took on a rosy hue. I told you I was shrewd.
“Major Plank doesn’t know anything about this, does he?” I asked, feeling like Sherlock Holmes.
“Not exactly.”
“And Stinker doesn’t know anything about this, does he?” I asked, pressing the witness to answer me. Police work must be jolly fun.
“No, he doesn’t,” she said, a little defensively, I thought. “And he’s not going to know, at least not yet.”
I took a seat, crossed my legs and steepled my fingers together like my solicitor does when he’s trying to explain a tricky point he knows I won’t understand anyway. That’s why I take Jeeves with me to the solicitor’s. “So how does the bish and his little committee even know Stinker wants the job?”
“I wrote a letter for Harold,” Stiffy said, “telling the bishop of his profound interest in serving the wider religious community. And it’s true. He does. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
“A forgery?” I wanted to say tsk, tsk, but I didn’t know how to pronounce it. So I settled for “Hmm.”
“I’m his wife,” Stiffy said, “so what difference does it make if I write it or Harold does? It’s all the same.”
It wasn’t the same, I was quite certain of that, but what do I know about the law? The worst thing I’ve ever done is steal a policeman’s helmet.
“What about Major Plank?” I asked. “Did your skill at faking documents extend to penning a letter from him?”
“So what if I did? You can’t possibly see anything wrong with that. The letter of interest for the job required a handwritten reference. What else was I supposed to do?”
Fortunately, Jeeves had shimmered back into the room with tea for Stiffy. “Jeeves,” I said, putting the crime to him. “What can a double forger expect to get from a magistrate say, like, Sir Watkyn Bassett?”
“About five years, sir, depending on the personage whose signature has been forged.”
I nodded at Jeeves. “You hear that, Stiffy? Five years. At hard labor, no doubt. But cracking rocks should suit you.”
Stiffy gave me her Stiffy look, one I would have quailed under it had there still been fiancées for her to throw at me. But there were not.
“Stiffy, I’ve done a lot for you, legal and otherwise. I have risked arrest and social ostracism. But I will not stoop to impersonating Major Plank.” There. That settled it.
“Bertie,” Stiffy said. “You have to help me.”
“No, I don’t.” I turned to Jeeves. “Isn’t that right, Jeeves?”
“It is not my place to say, sir.”
“Well, it’s mine,” I said grandly. “And I’m not.”
“Bertie.”
I hate it when she uses that singsong voice. Sends chills up my spine, don’t you know. I tossed back the rest of my drink in anticipation of hearing something I didn’t particularly want to hear.
“Bertie, you’ll help me or I’ll tell your Aunt Agatha the real reason you aren’t going to Brighton.”
Sometimes I wish I had Jeeves’s face. Well, not his actual face, his expression, I mean to say. The one that doesn’t crack no matter what is said or done or seen. My face, I’m afraid, looks the way I feel, and at this point I felt awful. And dash it, I never recover quickly enough, not for the likes of a viperess like Stiffy. But I tried.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Stiffy.” Honestly, it was the best I could do.
“Oh, yes, you do. I saw her just the other day. She said you weren’t going to Brighton because you have to go to Oxford to sit on some scholarship committee. She said it was a great honor and she hoped you wouldn’t embarrass yourself by doing something illegal.”
“I...”
“The scholarship committee has already met, Bertie.” For a vicar’s wife she sounded awfully smug. “I asked Harold.”
“It’s a secret committee, a different one,” I bleated. I think I honestly bleated. Some sheeplike sound, at any rate. “Isn’t it, Jeeves?”
“That is what I have been given to understand, sir.”
“You see? There’s a committee,” I said. “Stinker is off his rocker.”
Stiffy shook her head. “No, he isn’t. He’s a member of that scholarship committee, Bertie. So,” she continued in that triumphant way of hers, “you can either help me or you can go to Brighton.”
“But, Stiffy...”
“Think of it, Bertie. Nothing but sand and sun and your Aunt Agatha in a bathing costume. What better way to spend a holiday.”
“But, Stiffy...”
Stiffy got out her chair like a cobra rising from its basket. She pulled herself up to her full height, which made her about as tall as one of my walking sticks. But her self-satisfied air made her as imposing as an Amazon. “Bertie, I’ll meet you at Major Plank’s house right after lunch on Saturday.”
“But, Stiffy...”
“Don’t be late.”
“At Major Plank’s house? Why in Dante’s hell would I go to Major Plank’s house?”
Stiffy gave me a kindly look. For her, at any rate. “You’ll be staying there. No one’s home. He gives the servants time off when he’s away.”
I looked to Jeeves for support. It wasn’t forthcoming.
“How am I supposed to get into his house, Stiffy? And why can’t I stay with you and Stinker? Doesn’t that burg of yours have some sort of establishment with rooms to let?”
“I have the key. Harold and I keep it for him whenever he’s away because he knows he can trust a vicar and a vicar’s wife. Hockley does have pubs with rooms, Bertie, but those people are terrible gossips and won’t be able to live a minute without informing Harold you’re there.” She continued without taking a breath, almost as if she’d known what she was going to say before she even darkened my door. “And you can’t stay with us because Harold doesn’t know you’re coming. Do not come anywhere near Harold, if you know what’s good for you.”
“Obviously I don’t or I wouldn’t have allowed Jeeves to open the door to you.” There. She deserved that one.
“You’re a gentleman, Bertie, and that’s your problem. You don’t know how to play dirty.” She gave me a look that I thought looked speculative, but I couldn’t be sure. “Just as a point of information, Bertie, where did you really want to go? You would have had to disappear somewhere.”
“France.” It was the first place that came to mind.
“Where in France?”
“Paris, of course.”
“Why Paris?”
“Why not Paris?”
The pot containing my clever repartee was about empty. I stood up, too, hoping to tower over her physically if nothing else. It was all I had left.
"Ta, ta, Bertie,” the dragon-in-training said and headed for the door. Jeeves was there, opening it as smoothly as always. But Stiffy wasn’t finished, not by a long shot.
“You know, Bertie, you should have all your ducks in row before you start telling mistruths,” she said as she pulled on her gloves. “Lay the groundwork, so to speak. That’s my advice.”
And then she was gone.
“Jeeves,” I said after I waited for the dust to settle.
“Yes, sir?”
“You know how I’m all for a quiet life?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t think I’m going to get one.”
“It does not appear so, sir.”
“These beazels, Jeeves,” I said and fell back into my chair. “Even when they’re married they do their best to cause trouble, turmoil and terror for old Bertram.”
“They are a determined group, sir.”
“Determined.” Now Jeeves has a problem with understating the facts, but I forgave him for that years ago. No one’s perfect, after all.
“They’re more than determined, Jeeves.” And here I came close to sputtering. “They’re devious, deadly and dissolute. And their married state makes them even more so. I had no idea, not even an inkling, that placing a bit of gold on a woman’s third finger resulted in such nincompoopery, Jeeves. Does the ring give them more than some poor sap’s protection? Not that they need it, if Stiffy’s any indication of the married species. I mean to say, Jeeves, does that ring absolve them of all sins?”
I was raving now and quite liked it. One gets so few chances to rave without being invited to stay for a long stretch in Colney Hatch.
“Well, sir,” Jeeves said. “I believe marriage does give women a certain latitude.”
“Longitude as well,” I said, not wanting to miss a chance to exercise my alliterative muscles. Ill-advised tie, indeed.
“What shall we do, Jeeves?” I asked, by way of making conversation. I knew very well what I had to do. It was either impersonate Major Plank or slink off to Brighton for two agonizing weeks with Aunt Agatha and that blister Thomas. But it would be lovely to have Jeeves’ concurrence, if that’s the word I want.
“It appears, sir, that if you wish to avoid a lengthy sojourn with Mrs. Gregson, you will have to acquiesce to Mrs. Pinker’s wishes.”
“Fall in line, as it were?”
“Like a soldier, sir.”
I scratched my chin, but it didn’t help. My old schoolmaster, Aubrey Upjohn, always did that when deciding whether to apply four or six of his finest whacks on my unprotected backside. Since he always chose six, all that chin-scratching must have been for show.
“Well, Jeeves, I was at school with old Stinker,” I said, weighing the pros and cons of going against Stiffy’s dearest wish.
“You were, sir.”
“And I do not wish to be within shouting distance of Brighton.”
“I can understand that sentiment, sir.”
I tried scratching my head, but that didn’t bring forth any ideas, either.
“A million things can go wrong with this scheme, Jeeves.”
“A great many parts of it have indeed been left to chance, sir.”
“But,” I said, intending to face the thing like a man, “faced with two unpalatable choices, one must choose the least nauseating, Jeeves.”
The great man nodded, as I knew he would.
“I shall pack immediately for the journey to Hockley-cum-Meston, sir.”
“With all speed, Jeeves,” I said. “But before you do that, perhaps you’d better provide me with something in the way of fortification.”
I turned to my right and Jeeves was there, a B and S on a silver salver. I don’t know how he does it.
Chapter 2
We arrived in Hockley-cum-Meston like thieves in the night. That’s because it was at night. Stiffy had sent me a telegram ordering me not to appear in daylight, broad or otherwise, because Plank’s neighbors might get suspicious.
Here’s what she said in case you’ve nothing better to do than read ominous telegrams:
“Bertie stop Arrive at Plank’s at night stop Let no one see you stop Constable will be on patrol stop Avoid him stop Key is under third rock on the right stop Don’t even think of backing out stop Love Stiffy stop.”
“So,” I whispered to Jeeves as we exited the car. “We can’t turn on the lights and we have to grope around like Gussie in a newt pond to find the key. And on top of that we have to avoid an overzealous constable. If we get killed I’ll never forgive Stiffy. Never.”
But Jeeves wasn’t listening to me. He was peering intently under the third rock. It would be just like Stiffy to forget a detail as simple as leaving a key and then ask us why in the world we hadn’t simply broken into the place like common thieves. I readied the speech in my head which is a good place to keep speeches until you’re ready to deliver them. Here’s how it would have gone:
Stiffy: For heaven’s sake, Bertie, why didn’t you just break in?
Me: You’re a fine one to talk about heaven, Stiffy, what with your penchant for petty pilfery.
Stiffy: You should have just broken in, Bertie (Stiffy lacks originality, one of her many faults).
Me: And end up in chokey? I won’t go to chokey for you or any other chumpish churl, and that’s final.
Stiffy: Why are you alliterating?
Me: Because I’m about to biff...
“Sir?”
“Yes, Jeeves,” I said, mentally shaking myself. I couldn’t shake physically, you understand, or Jeeves might suggest I see a doctor. And you know how much I dislike doctors. You don’t? Well, sometime I’ll tell you about it.
“I have the key, sir.”
Well, I stored the speech away in the recesses of the Wooster onion, ready to call it forth when needed. And it would be needed. It was just a question of when. I had a feeling Stiffy would be blackmailing me for years, Stinker’s collar notwithstanding. Three STs in one sentence. That had to be a record. I was just about to mention this to Jeeves, when he put the key in the lock and opened Major Plank’s front door.
“The coast is clear, as they say, sir,” Jeeves said, using his morning voice, the one that doesn’t jar my head after I’ve had a late evening. “I believe it is safe to go inside.”
Jeeves went to retrieve the bags as I cautiously peered into the door. I had good reason to be cautious. Major Plank was the nuttiest of fruitcakes and he couldn’t stick my presence at any price, especially since the Alpine Joe incident, another famous scheme of Stiffy’s that went horribly wrong and would have resulted in my arrest had Jeeves not intervened. And I had had to sacrifice a perfectly good hat to remunerate Jeeves for his help, if remunerate is the word I want.
So even if Plank was purported to be elsewhere, it was still only prudent to check to see if he was really hiding behind the sofa or pretending to be a hatrack. I ventured into the foyer and peered at the hatrack which turned out to be a hatrack.
A light cough behind me made me jump about three feet.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Jeeves said. “I have the luggage.”
I wiped the persp. from my forehead. “I can see that, Jeeves, but did you have to frighten me out of my skin just to tell me?”
“No, sir.”
“Well,” I said, “Let that be a lesson to you. Don’t come up behind the victim of a blackmailing scheme just to tell him you’ve acquired luggage. He won’t care.”
“I shall take that under advisement, sir.”
“Good man,” I said and moved further into the house.
The full moon gave us a good bit of light and allowed me to think I was more than just a neighborhood prowler on a lark. I could simply pretend the lights didn’t work or that I was having a tiff with the electric people.
I knew the general layout of Major Plank’s house, having been in it under false pretenses once, but I had no bally idea where we were supposed to sleep. I turned around to ask Jeeves who was already stowing the luggage tidily against one wall.
“Jeeves,” I said. “I have no bally idea where we’re supposed to sleep. I don’t fancy a kip in the major’s bedroom.”
“Nor would it be wise to do so, sir, especially if Major Plank happens to return before we leave.”
I must have jumped about four feet. Well, perhaps not as my head would have struck the ceiling and didn’t. But I did jump. I was, in fact, getting far too jumpy for words.
“What do you mean, Jeeves? What makes you think Major Plank will return to his humble abode earlier than planned?”
Jeeves cocked his head the way an interested terrier might do. “It has been my experience, sir, that the occurrence we least expect has a disconcerting habit of occurring when we least expect it.”
Years of deciphering and translating the Jeevesian language has made me somewhat of an expert. But even I didn’t understand a word he’d said. “Come again?”
“I mean that we should perhaps plan for that contingency, sir.”
“That awful one? The one where Major Plank returns while we’re ensconced cosily in his house, drinking his tea and so forth?”
“Precisely, sir.”
“How do we do that, Jeeves? It’s not as if we can wait at the end of the drive and yell, ‘what ho, Plank. We’re staying in your abode. Hope you don’t mind, old fruit.”
“Nothing comes to mind as yet, sir.”
That Jeeves didn’t have an immediate plan up his immaculate sleeve didn’t worry me as yet. Some of his best wheezes come to him at the last minute. I yawned, suddenly craving my usual forty winks.
“Jeeves, what shall we do about sleeping arrangements?” I thought for a moment. “It would probably behoove us to use as few rooms as possible. Leave no evidence for the local constabulary, as it were.”
“A sound idea, sir. If you’ll excuse me, I will tour the premises and see what would be best to do.”
“Of course, Jeeves,” I said. I removed my coat and tossed it on the sofa, thought better of it and hung it on the coatrack. No sense in being untidy, I supposed. I looked around the sitting room with the idea of pouring myself a nightcap, but thought better of that, too. Didn’t want to leave fingerprints on the glassware.
Jeeves returned within minutes. In the dim light I couldn’t tell whether he had good news to impart. But I wouldn’t have been able to tell in broad daylight, either, so this was another thing that didn’t worry me.
“Sir,” he said. “I have discovered two small guest rooms. I suggest we occupy those and share the one bathroom situated between them. That would keep the housekeeping and the evidence, as you call it, to a minimum.”
Jeeves showed me to a room that I would have enjoyed snoozing in had the room not been attached to Major Plank’s house. The bed looked comfortable, and the window appeared to overlook the back garden. I was admiring the moonlit view, once again relieved that I wouldn’t be taking any more ghastly strolls in said moonlight with Honoria Glossop, when Jeeves brought in my luggage. He first unpacked a small leather case that was news to me and brought it over to the nightstand.
“Would you care for your usual nightcap, sir?”
“Yes, Jeeves,” I said, “but I don’t think we should break into Plank’s stores. If he shows up early, at least he won’t be able to accuse me of appropriating his spirits.”
“If you will allow me, sir,” Jeeves said and he opened the case.
I’ve never been the demonstrative type. I’m an even-keel type of person, not much given to displays of raw emotion. But as Jeeves unpacked a bottle of my favorite brandy and a glass, I could have hugged the man. But as I said, I am not the type, and such an action would have caused Jeeves to raise his eyebrows a full half inch.
“Wherever did you find such a useful bag of tricks?” I asked Jeeves as he handed me a glass of the needful.
“I saw it in a shop, sir, and thought it a prudent purchase. The kit contains the necessary equipment for preparing all types of drinks, all except for the ice, of course.”
I tossed back the drink and felt more braced than I had since Stiffy had darkened my door. “Well, Jeeves, it was a prudent purchase. Let us never travel without it.”
“An excellent notion, sir.”
Jeeves shimmered over to the luggage and within moments had my nightwear, dressing gown and slippers at the ready. He turned back the bedspread and then turned to me.
“Your personal items are arranged in the bathroom, sir. If you are ready to retire?”
Even if I wasn’t ready to retire I knew I had better consider the offer. I could tell from Jeeves’s tone, not that he got all shirty, you understand, that he wanted the young master bunged into bed. Wandering around a house at night with the lights off, as I have done on several occasions, leads to nothing but trouble.
“More than ready, Jeeves,” I said and in short order found myself under the covers and against the pillows. Had I not been in Major Plank’s home I would have felt right at home, if you see what I mean.
That sentiment hung around into the morning when I awoke to find Jeeves standing beside the bed, tray in hand, the hot and steaming ready and waiting. I sat up and stretched and looked about me in what must have been a confused manner.
“We are in Major Plank’s residence, sir,” Jeeves said as if this were an everyday occurrence. “Your tea, sir.”
“What sort of day is it, Jeeves?” I asked as I accepted a cup of the usual darjeeling.
A few cirrus clouds to the north, sir, but otherwise it is a fine, bracing day.”
“Perfect for facing my death, Jeeves. For that is certainly what Stiffy plans for me. Impersonating Major Plank. The man’s half mad and I’m not.”
“It will be a test of your thespianic skills, sir,” Jeeves said. “I shall bring your breakfast tray in a few moments.”
If Plank intended to be gone for any length of time, I shuddered to think what had been left in the larder to fend for itself and said so to Jeeves.
“I took the liberty of bringing a few essentials along with us,” he said. “If you will excuse me, sir?”
He steamed off and seconds later, or so it seemed, presented a breakfast tray that looked as appetizing as the ones he brought me in London. I tucked in, feeling as chuffed as was possible for a man heading for the gallows.
I breakfasted, bathed and dressed in rather more than an hour. As I had several additional hours to kill before meeting Stiffy, I informed Jeeves of my intention to stroll the grounds.
“I couldn’t advise it, sir.”
“Well, why not? There can’t be any harm in smelling the roses, Jeeves.”
“Mrs. Pinker impressed upon us the importance of not being observed by the neighbors, sir.”
“The nearest neighbors are acres away.”
“True, sir, but country denizens have a habit of looking in on properties said to be uninhabited.”
“Whatever for?”
“To see who might be there, sir.”
It made perfect sense, really. These country folk stick by one another, but as soon as one leaves the country, the rest rally round to snoop through his belongings. What Jeeves said was true. I could fully expect to see some upright citizen peering through the kitchen windows at any moment.
“What did you do with the car, Jeeves? Certainly a cheeky two-seater would prompt a comment or two.”
“I parked the car in the barn, sir. I found a large tarp to cover it to discourage pigeons.”
“Good thinking, Jeeves. I was just saying the other day that pigeons should be discouraged.”
I wandered into Plank’s antler-infested study and sat at his desk. The top of it was covered with drawings of various rugby strategies, and I wondered how Stinker took to having Major Plank offer scrumming advice. I also wondered what the major would do to me if I lost him his peerless prop forward, as I was quite certain that if Stinker got the new job, he’d be too busy for rugby. In fact, that was the only reason Stinker had been anointed Hockley-cum-Meston’s vicar in the first place, so he could put his skills to use on the town’s team. I’d probably be banned from Hockley for the rest of my life, which did have the advantage of keeping me away from Stiffy. Stinker, of course, could always visit me at the Drones.
I opened his desk drawers, found very little of even the remotest interest, and closed them again. I perused the titles on the shelves, hoping to find a mystery of some kind, but all he had were books on Africa by authors who I’m quite sure had never been there, if Plank’s irate notes in the margins were anything to go by.
I skulked through the rest of the house, finding very little to keep me entertained. I thought about all the things I could be doing, such as discussing important matters at the Drones, having a kip in my own bed or even ankling around town. The outdoors beckoned me, and thinking it wouldn’t do any harm, went to the door that led to the garden, opened it and peered outside.
“Bertie!”
I almost closed the door on my neck.
“Bertie, I told you not to let yourself be seen.”
It was Stiffy, and more to the point, it was Stiffy and Bartholomew, her bad-tempered terrier. She carried a small valise which she thrust into my hand.
“Take this,” she snapped at me. Or was it Bartholomew? Difficult to tell.
“What is it?”
Stiffy pushed her way past me and I had to jump to save my ankles from Bartholomew’s teeth.
“It’s your disguise,” she said. “Get it on.”
“Is your hair on fire? What’s the rush?” I asked, opening the valise and pulling out a decrepit gray wig that had adorned better heads in better days.
“The bishop and the committee will be here in an hour.”
I could have keeled over. “What?” I said. “You said they wouldn’t be here until tea. I haven’t even lunched yet.”
“No time for that, Bertie. A committee member called and told me there was a schedule change. Now get dressed.” She tapped her right foot impatiently and Bartholomew seemed to take that as a cue to lunge at my kneecaps.
I went to yell for Jeeves, but he had already materialized at my side.
“Jeeves, you’ll never credit this, but Mrs. Pinker here says the bish and his brood will be here in an hour. Why, I don’t know, but there it is. What are we to do?”
“For heaven’s sake, Bertie. Why must you make everything so difficult? Simply get into your disguise and urge the committee to name Harold as rural dean. It couldn’t be easier.”
Stiffy gave Jeeves what I’m sure she considered a conspiratorial look. “Does he always balk at doing something so simple, Jeeves?”
“Mr. Wooster is normally quite agreeable, even when he finds himself embroiled in a situation not of his own devising, madam.”
I was gratified to see my valet’s words fly right over Stiffy’s head. Well, a toad could have hopped over her head, but I suppose that isn’t the point.
I reached into the valise and extracted a hunting jacket, a pipe and a box of what appeared to be stage makeup and bits of old fur. I kept an eye on Jeeves to make sure he didn’t faint.
“Jeeves,” Stiffy said. “Can you make him look as old as Major Plank? And can you serve coffee?”
Jeeves nodded. “But there is one difficulty, madam.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“The bishop and his committee, all presumably older gentlemen with set ideas, will not think it amiss if Major Plank’s manservant opens the door. However,” and here he addressed himself to Stiffy, “they will expect a maid to bring the coffee tray.”
Stiffy gave both of us a strange look. “Where can we get a maid? They’ll be here any minute.”
If I hadn’t known Jeeves as well as I had and still do, I would have missed it. That tiny quirk of the upper lip that meant he was on my side and that he had just paid someone back for inconveniencing the young master. We didn’t need a maid any more than Major Plank needed another trip to Africa.
“I believe, madam, that there is a selection of uniforms in the kitchen cupboard.”
“Certainly, Stiffy,” I said, my customary joviality returning. “Be a good girl and jump into one of them. And get Jeeves to give you some tray-toting tips.”
“Me?” Stiffy squeaked. Bartholomew growled. “Why me?”
I looked around the room. “Unless Major Plank has a few maidish specimens hanging about, it looks like you’re engaged,” I said, not bothering to try not to gloat.
“I don’t know the first thing about it, Bertie,” she said and I was gratified to see her looking deuced uncomfortable. Now perhaps she’d think twice or even thrice before inducing old Bertram to go along with her scandalous schemes. And then again, perhaps not.
“Oh, all right,” she said and then stalked away, dragging the wretched Bartholomew in her wake.
“You’re a prince among men, Jeeves,” I said.
“Thank you, sir.” He lifted the hunting jacket with his thumb and forefinger. “I believe it would not be untoward if we were to select a jacket from Major Plank’s wardrobe, sir.”
“Because we’ve already broken into his house and slept in his beds, you mean? We’re like Goldilocks without the porridge.”
“An excellent analogy, sir. And now I’m afraid we must transform you into a replica of Major Plank.”
Fifteen minutes later, and I didn’t recognize myself. I knew who I was; I mean to say it couldn’t have been anyone else but me looking at me in the mirror.
I had no idea Jeeves knew so much about stage makeup. He gave me wrinkles around my eyes and gave my mouth a right sour expression. He’d even combed and brushed the wig so that it looked more like hair and less like something caught in a trap and left for three days. The finishing touches were horrid false eyebrows to match that equally horrid wig. Major Plank’s coat was a little short on sleeve material, but if I hunched a bit, it didn’t show too much.
After making sure the coast was clear, I gave Jeeves a meaningful look.
“We don’t really require a maid, do we, Jeeves?”
“No, sir.”
“Stiffy will make an excellent one, though, don’t you think?”
“One can scarcely imagine it, sir.”
And that was the end of the conversation. Stiffy, decked out in a black dress and white pinafore, had returned. Steam appeared to be coming out of her ears, but perhaps it was a trick of the light. Light will do that. Trick you, I mean.
“What ho, Stiffy? How’s the world of work?”
Her look would have felled a stronger man. As it was I did feel a bit weak in the knees.
“Harold had better be the next rural dean, Bertie. If he isn’t, I’m going to kill you.”
*~*Next Part*~*