Fic: Jeeves and the Act of Faith - Part 2
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 3
I don’t know who they are, but they say time and distance allow a fellow to look back upon an incident and laugh. If that is indeed the case, then I shall require fifty years and several hundred miles before I can chortle at my impersonation of Major Plank.
The bish and his committee, four of the gloomiest old busters I had ever met and that includes Sir Watkyn Bassett, rolled up to the house exactly on time. Stiffy had wanted to order the old gents to park their car out of sight, but Jeeves had reminded her they wouldn’t take kindly to being ordered about by a mere maid. The “mere” is mine, for alliterative purposes.
Well, here’s what happened.
Jeeves met them at the door, and I could hear him from my position in the sitting room as he offered to take their coats. He assured them of my eagerness to meet them and promised a maid would serve coffee.
I stood as they came into the room, hunching a bit to make the youthful Wooster corpus appear old. I needn’t have bothered. All four of those birds were older than Plank by a long shot, and their backs were as straight as that arrow I’ve heard so much about. Cupid’s, perhaps? I’m not sure.
I stuck out my hand in greeting and introduced myself. The bishop, however, was not a man all in favor of the niceties. He left the Wooster paw dangling in midair.
“I’m Bishop Charles and these three are the committee,” he said by way of telling me we had better get down to brass tacks straightaway. It was fine by me. The sooner we were all of out of Plank’s house, the better. It was getting rather crowded.
“Plank,” the bishop said as they all sat down, “we’re here to talk about Pinker.”
Well, really. I felt like saying, “What a surprise; I thought we were going fishing.” But I didn’t. It wouldn’t have moved the thing along at all.
The bish pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. I didn’t have long to wonder what it was because he waved it at me like a flag of surrender.
“I have your letter, Plank. Kindly expand on its contents.”
Expand? I couldn’t expand, expound on or explain a letter I’d never seen. But apparently I could alliterate, even if only in my head. Even Jeeves would have been impressed had he been able to get in there and have a look at it.
From the looks on those screwed-up old faces, who from here on out will be known as the bishop and Old Birds Numbers Two, Three and Four just to keep them straight, I knew I’d better say something.
“I think Stinker, I mean to say Pinker, would be an excellent rural dean,” I said, remembering to gruffen my voice, if gruffen is even a word. Probably not. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before.
“Why?” barked the bishop.
“Well,” I said.
“Well, what?” snapped Old Bird Number Four. “Out with it, Plank. We haven’t got all day.”
For churchmen they certainly weren’t being charitable. Maybe taking the collar makes one a bit crabby, what with having to be fine and upstanding every second of every minute of every day. I was about to take this a bit further, perhaps down the road and back, when one of the old busters barked at me.
“And where’s the coffee your man promised us?” Old Bird Number Three asked. “I am severely parched.”
Jeeves materialized at my side and acknowledged my silent gratitude with a slight bow.
“Shall I have the maid bring the coffee, sir?”
“Yes, Jeeves. That would be splendid.”
He shimmered away again.
“That man of yours,” Old Bird Number Two said, pointing at Jeeves who had just pushed open the kitchen’s swinging door. “Where’d you get him? Looks like someone I knew somewhere.”
“The agency,” I said helpfully. “He’d been given to understanding that I required a valet.” How I remembered Jeeves’s first words to me is one of life’s great mysteries. I had been up all night because I had pinched a policeman’s helmet and landed in court where Pop Bassett the magistrate pinched my wallet for five pounds in retaliation. I recalled being as hungover as a thing that’s hungover when Jeeves pressed the buzzer at my flat. But you probably already know this story, so there’s no sense going into it now.
“Then I don’t know him,” Old Bird Number Two said. “I’ve never met anyone from an agency.”
The bish harumphed. “We are digressing in a most grievous fashion,” he said, thumping the arm of his chair. We’re here to talk about Pinker and so far I’ve heard nothing.”
I was wondering when he’d get around to that.
“Plank,” he said, turning a cold eye on me. “Why should we appoint Pinker as rural dean? Is he organized? Does he preach a sermon people remember even ten minutes after they’ve heard it? Will the other vicars listen to him?”
“Can’t abide vicars who don’t listen,” Old Bird Number Three intoned. “Scourge of the church, they are.”
“Has he got a good wife? One of those quiet types who does as she’s told?” Old Bird Number Four put in. “I don’t hold with wives who get in on the vicar’s business. Should confine themselves to the kitchen, I say.”
Was Stiffy a good wife? Having never had, needed or wanted a wife, I had no idea. But she was as far from the quiet type as a bugle is to a button. As for the vicar’s business, well, you see how that’s turned out.
I was saved from answering by Stiffy entering the room with the coffee tray. The way the cups rattled against their saucers proved to me that she hadn’t nearly enough tray-toting lessons. Well, even Jeeves can’t work miracles.
She plunked the tray down in what appeared to be a rude fashion and let out a huffy little breath. She glared at me as if the entire wheeze was my fault and had nothing to do with her. She stood there, very unmaidlike, if that’s even a word, her hands on her hips. Apparently Jeeves had had no time to give her maid lessons, either. Well, it stands to reason. He’s a valet, not a maid.
Old Bird Number Three cleared his throat before dooming himself. “Well, girl, don’t just stand there. Pour the coffee. Plank, you clearly need to get your household in hand. I’ll send my wife over to show you how to deal with maids.”
“Girl?” Stiffy turned on the victim. “Deal with maids? I’ll have you...”
Well, if Stinker didn’t get to be dean of these holy lands, it wouldn’t be my fault. But I had to fish Stiffy out of the soup.
“Hortense,” I said in voice one would use to address a three-year-old. “Please pour out and return to the kitchen.”
She closed her mouth like an oyster intent on hoarding its pearl and fixed me with a stare that could have withered a Frenchman. Fortunately, I am not French.
“Please excuse Hortense,” I said to the group at large. “She is a bit on the thick side, but I promised her parents, who worked for my parents, that I would always keep her in my employ. I feel it’s the Christian thing to do.”
There was a lot of superior nodding at this. “Well, you heard the man, girl,” Old Bird Number Three said to Stiffy, speaking as if she were deaf. Pour out and leave us to our business.”
Stiffy’s lips were pressed so thin I thought she’d swallowed them. She poured coffee and handed out the cups, passed around the digestives and flounced out of the room.
“I do apologize,” I said grandly. “She exhibits some very odd behaviors in front of guests.”
“Confine her to the scullery,” Old Bird Number Three advised. “My wife did that for a maid and the girl was all the better for it.”
“Plank!” The bishop was looking at his pocketwatch. “We’ve been here ten minutes and you’ve told us nothing. What about Pinker?”
“What about Pinker?” I asked.
The bishop turned red and I feared an attack of apoplexy, whatever that is. He looked a bit like Aunt Agatha does after Jeeves and I foil one of her wedding plans. A bit more red than purple. Or perhaps a reddish purple. At any rate, he wasn’t happy. I probably shouldn’t have gotten off on the Stiffy tangent. But a Wooster can spread oil on troubled ecclesiastical waters when necessary. I did win a prize for Scripture Knowledge after all.
“Pinker is like a modern-day Moses, Bishop Charles, leading his faithful flock away from terrible temptation and into the promised land,” I said in my most pious voice.
“Moses never saw the promised land,” the bishop said.
“Well, no, but he pointed the Israelites in the right direction,” I said, stung. Surely the bish knew what I meant. But maybe he didn’t remember his Exodus.
“So you’re saying, Plank,” Old Bird Number Two said after he slurped his coffee, “that Pinker can direct the troops, so to speak. Takes a firm hand. Can’t abide a vicar that doesn’t take a firm hand.”
“Oh, he has a firm hand, certainly,” I said.
“But is he a fair man?” Old Bird Number Four asked. “Does he let people think they’re having a say in the matter, but then goes and does what he thinks necessary? Put on a good show?”
“Oh, yes. Why I remember him telling me his church committee had wanted to put in new windows. He told them they could, but then cancelled the order. If the good Lord could see through them, he told me, then they were sufficient.”
“Frugal, then. Doesn’t waste the church’s money?” Old Bird Number Two nodded at the bishop. “You were just talking about waste on the way here. Wasteful vicars, the subject was, always wanting to spend money on unnecessaries. Like food.”
“The coffee pot’s empty,” Old Bird Number Three said suddenly. “Plank, call your girl back and have her refill the pot.”
I was saved from bellowing for Stiffy by the timely reappearance of Jeeves.
“Shall I have the maid bring more coffee, sir?”
“Yes, Jeeves,” I said, thinking Stiffy had learned her lesson and would no doubt pour out without going spare. I was alliterating madly now which was either a good sign or a bad one. Probably bad because that’s how these things go. And, as far as I know, Stiffy has never once learned a lesson.
She approached us, tray rattling like those snakes Jeeves once told me about. Native to the American West, many of them, and that’s why we never go there. Jeeves said they rattle as a warning, and I suppose I should have applied the same rule to old Stiffy.
“My wife could teach your girl here to carry in a tray so you wouldn’t know she’s there. Silent as a grave, that’s how she should be,” Old Bird Number Three intoned as Stiffy poured his coffee. “What do you say, Plank? No time like the present. I could have her here tomorrow.”
As Stiffy picked up the fresh plate of digestives, an expression, terrible to behold, fixed itself on her face. She turned to Old Bird Number Three, pointed the plate toward him and pretended to stumble over her own feet. I say pretended because she’s as sure-footed as a mountain goat, if that’s the animal I want. One of those with sure feet, anyway.
The digestives landed on the old buster’s lap, whereupon the old buster got to his feet quicker than I would have expected for a churchman his age.
“I say,” he yelled. “What’s the meaning of this, girl? Don’t you know how to serve a biscuit? My wife...”
“Stuff your wife,” Stiffy yelled back. “Silent as a grave? I’ll show you silent...”
I knew what was coming and it came as a black blur. I leaped into my chair with the speed befitting a man who was used to this kind of thing as Bartholomew pushed open the swinging door and ran at Old Bird Number Three, intent on sinking his teeth into that unfortunate parson’s ankle.
As they say, all hell broke loose. The bish yelled at me to do something and while I was in the process of asking what precisely I was to do, because I was all for doing something, I fell off my chair and landed on the coffee table, upsetting the pot, cups and all. The unbitten old birds made for the door, while the bitten old bird screamed more invectives than I’ve heard in a month of Sundays. A slight exaggeration, I know, but you get my meaning.
Stiffy finally came to what was left of her senses and pulled Bartholomew off Old Bird Number Three’s ankle. She didn’t apologize, of course, because she never has. The bishop glared at me while his compatriot howled and while I didn’t hear everything the bish said, I heard enough to know Stinker’s chances of becoming the next rural dean were right up there with Nero’s.
“Plank,” the bishop said as he looked down to where I was sprawled on the floor, “if this is the kind of treatment we can expect from the man who named Pinker as the village vicar, I have to say it does not bode well for him.”
I didn’t think it boded at all, but that was the bishop’s business.
“Pinker had better hope our next meeting is a far site better than this one,” the bishop continued. “Come,” he said to his howling counterpart. "We’re leaving.”
His trousers in tatters around the ankle area, Old Bird Number Three limped toward the door. “You ought to drown that dog, Plank. A bloody menace. My wife would have had him shot.”
“Well,” Stiffy said, drawing herself up to her miniscule height. “I should have you shot.”
“Plank!” yelled Old Bird Number Three from the door, where Jeeves had suddenly appeared to hand over his coat.
“Yes?”
“Sack that maid. That’s my advice.”
And then they were gone. I got to my feet, Jeeves came into the room and the three of us stood there, surveying the damage. A plate of digestives reduced to crumbs, two shattered coffee cups, a rapidly spreading brown stain on a rug that couldn’t hope to hide it and one panting terrier, still snarling for blood.
“What’s next, Jeeves?” I asked. “Seems to me like the best thing to do is to sweep up the china, turn the rug so the stain doesn’t show, then make a beeline for home.”
“You can’t go anywhere, Bertie,” Stiffy said, grabbing my arm in a pincer-like grip. “You’ve got to meet the bishop again.”
I sank into a chair. “Stiffy,” I said, suddenly overcome with exhaustion and badly in need of an early afternoon refresher. “I’m quite certain Bartholomew here has put paid to any Pinker promotion. And you,” I added, pointing at her, “were of no earthly use at all. You really take the biscuit, Stiffy. And speaking of biscuits, why did you spill them all over that old crank?”
“What’s done is done,” Stiffy said, dismissing my question. “Now you have to get ready to meet the bishop as yourself.”
“And I suppose that’s five minutes from now,” I said. “I suppose I’ll not get lunch, nor even a good stiff belt before I’m sent off like Daniel into the lions’ den.”
Stiffy looked at the clock on the mantel. "You have precisely forty-five minutes, Bertie. Plenty of time.”
“Jeeves,” I said. “Why can’t a man have a quiet life? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s because women won’t allow a man to have one. They enjoy riling and roiling a man until he’s fit for nothing but the loony bin. And that’s what they do to their acquaintances. God only knows what they do to their hapless husbands.”
“Bertie, will you please stop that infernal alliterating. You’ll have us all doing it. It’s very annoying,” Stiffy said as she shifted Bartholomew to her other arm. “Now remove that makeup and get down to the Dog and Duck in plenty of time. That’s where you’re meeting the bishop.”
“Well, I can eat lunch with them,” I said. “Perhaps if they’re stuffing their gullets they’ll confine their questions to subjects I can actually address.”
“You’re doing more than eating lunch with them,” Stiffy said. “You’re standing for it.”
“You mean to say I have to buy lunch for all of them? Whatever for?”
“They’re churchmen.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Churchmen don’t pay for their own lunches, Bertie. Someone else always gives them lunch.”
I nodded sagely. “That must be how the bishop affords such a lovely car. If you don’t have to spring for your own lunch, you can really sock away the shillings. What else do they do? Trouser the winnings from collection plates?”
“Of course not,” she said, but appeared to consider the question. “Harold never does, at any rate.”
Jeeves moved to assist me as I tried to remove Plank’s too-small coat. “And who else is coming, Stiffy? You mentioned acquaintances when you invaded my peaceful London flat. Hopefully you got hold of Tuppy or Bingo or some other hapless fool. At least that would give me a bit of well-deserved relief.”
“Just you.”
I couldn’t have heard her correctly. I distinctly recalled Stiffy saying the bishop need to interview acquaintances, plural. Not acquaintance. Acquaintances. I pointed out this small discrepancy just in case she couldn't count.
“Stiffy, you peril of the seven seas, you told me the bishop needed to speak to Stinker’s compatriots, not a single compatriot. Even I cannot be several people at the same table. Even if I could, the bishop is bound to notice we all look alike.”
“I couldn’t get anyone else, Bertie,” she said, acting as if this really wasn’t a problem at all. “I tried.”
“You couldn’t have tried very hard,” I said. “Didn’t you threaten them like you threatened poor Bertram?”
“I would have,” the little blighter said, “if I’d had anything with which to threaten them. But you’re the only one who ever gives me ammunition. And I even said you’d treat them to lunch, but nothing doing. So you’re on your own.”
I didn’t like the look on her face, pretty as her face actually is. I suppose I should have said I didn’t care for the thoughts that generated that look.
“And Bertie,” she said. “if you don’t use that so-called silver tongue of yours to convince the bishop, well, I just don’t know what I’ll let slip to your Aunt Agatha.”
Yes, I was right to question that look. It boded no good at all for the beleagured Bertram.
Chapter 4
“Jeeves,” I said as the man in question helped me remove the last traces of the faux Major Plank. “Have you any idea, any idea at all, how it will look to this bally committee if only one person shows up to extol the many virtues of Vicar Stinker?”
“It will not reflect well on him, sir, if I many say so.”
“You may say so, Jeeves, now and forever, amen. I’d like to know what Stiffy was thinking, but that would involve examining her grey matter, an activity no one with an ounce of self-preservation would attempt.”
“Such an exam would require an intrepid soul, sir.”
“And I am not such a soul, Jeeves. I mean to say, what is she about? This coffee confab couldn’t have been worse. I can’t for the life of me see what meeting with this bevy of old busters will accomplish. However,” I said with a long-suffering sigh, “a Wooster always keeps his promises.”
“Your alliteration is worsening, sir,” Jeeves said.
“I’m glad you noticed, Jeeves. I have been alliterating aloud and in my head for hours now. It’s quite something.”
“I’m sure it is, sir. Will you be leaving immediately for the Dog and Duck, sir?”
I took a gander at a hideous clock on the mantel. “I suppose I will, Jeeves. Can’t avoid the execution forever. Will you have everything ready for us to flee from this place when I return?”
Jeeves coughed politely behind his hand. That was his own personal signal that told me he was about to disagree.
“Sir, I wonder if it would be prudent to attend the Rev. Pinker’s service tomorrow before you leave. The committee will perhaps think it odd if Major Plank is not in attendance. Perhaps if you did attend, they would be willing to forgive the small mishaps that occurred here today. And while the congregation will merely dismiss you as a curious visitor to their church, the bishop and his committee will see you as Major Plank. You need not remain after services to speak to them, sir. In fact, I would advise you to leave without uttering a word, sir.”
“That would mean staying here another night, Jeeves.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And going to church.”
“The churchmen would undoubtably appreciate seeing Major Plank practice what he preaches, as they say, sir.”
“You mean put on a pious puss, and all that?”
“Precisely, sir.”
“The alliteration is catching, isn’t it, Jeeves?”
“Unfortunately yes, sir.”
“Then it can’t be all bad, despite your poor review of it. I shall take myself off to the Dog and Duck and see what’s to be done for Stinker.”
I pulled on my coat and looked at Jeeves. He was standing there with that ghastly wig in his hand as if he held ghastly wigs in his hand every day.
“Jeeves,” I said. “Another thing occurs to me. Shall I have to dress up as Plank again for Stinker’s sermon?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“Well,” I said, since there was nothing else to say. “Give that old spider a good comb out so it’s ready to place upon my pate.”
“Of course, sir. It shall be ready for you. May I make one suggestion, sir?”
“Of course, Jeeves. My ears are yours.”
“That you remove your left false eyebrow before you leave, sir.”
I brushed my fingers over said eyebrow and felt the fuzzy fake fungus Jeeves had applied over my own brown brows. I peeled it off and handed the thing to Jeeves. It wouldn’t have done at all to appear at the Dog and Duck with that fuzz on my map. As if I didn’t look odd enough already. One of those old birds was sure to wonder about my amazing resemblance to Major Plank. Churchmen are known for the their sharp eyes; that’s how they spot spare pence in the pews after services.
“Well, Jeeves, I’m off. With any luck, and I will need it by the bucketful, the old birds will decide to make Stinker the rural dean, if only so they don’t have to meet me again.”
“There is that possibility, sir, however remote.”
Jeeves is forever looking on the dim side of things. He’s a man of few faults, so I allow him this one, as well as the one I mentioned earlier. Understatement, I think it was. I’ll go back and check when I have the time. As it happens, I don’t right now.
The Dog and Duck was only a country stroll away, and mindful of not wanting to have the two-seater spotted, I legged it for the town center. I didn’t run into anyone, literally or figuratively, which made for a quite lonely walk but allowed me to think. And I needed to do a bit of that, having not had time to do any at all during the churchmen’s visit.
What in the world was I going to tell these birds about Stinker? That his wife was a dangerous little viper with the moral views of a blackmailer? That I had never heard him preach except for that time at Oxford when I had used his shaving things without permission? That he was an excellent prop forward and once played for England? Now Stinker was a good friend, and all, none better, but I supposed moldy old churchmen didn’t care a fig for that. I would have to wing it. Woosters are good at improvisation, that being evident by the survival of my ancestor who fought in the battle of Agincourt. And I was no slouch, having avoided numerous engagements cooked up by Aunt Agatha. Well, I had to give Jeeves credit for much of that, but still.
I arrived at the Dog and Duck before I’d finished my ruminations which was just as well because I had no answers anyway. I looked up at the little place, comforted by the fact that it looked like any rural pub. It would be cool and dark in there, the bitter would be just bitter enough, and the food would be plentiful and inexpensive. Not that I mind shelling out for a friend, but it still irked me not a little that I had to spring for luncheon for such an awful gawd-help-us as that bishop and his committee.
I pushed open the door and went in. There they were, and at least two of them were consulting their pocket watches. Of all the effrontery, if that’s the word I want. Begins with an e, anyway. I wasn’t late and they already had B. Wooster pegged as a johnny-come-lately.
I remembered I wasn’t supposed to recognize them, so I went to the bar and ordered a refresher. Actually, I have to say it was more than a jolly bit of fun watching them as they watched the door, looking for me. But all fun must come to an end, at least that’s what Aunt Agatha says when I tell her I enjoy being a bachelor.
I approached the table, my sincere look firmly in place.
“I’m looking for Bishop Charles?” I said.
“I am Bishop Charles,” said Bishop Charles.
I stuck out my hand. He ignored it - again.
“Bertie Wooster.”
The bish consulted a small notebook. “I expected to see a Bertram Wooster.”
“That’s I. I mean, me.”
“You were given a Christian name. You should use it.”
We were getting off on the wrong foot again. But the good thing was, Bishop Charles didn’t know it.
“Well,” I said, in an attempt at joviality, “you can call me Bertram, then.”
“Sit down, Wooster.”
I sat.
Old Bird Number Three (I recognized him by his tattered trouser leg), gave me a sharp look. “Don’t I know you?”
I considered this. He did know me but he didn’t, if you see what I mean. He wasn’t a bosom friend, so he didn’t really know me. So I wasn’t actually lying to a churchman when I said, “No, you don’t.”
He peered at me again. “I’ve seen you before. Every been in Birmingham?
“Not if I can help it,” I said.
“We’re here to talk about Pinker,” the bishop said, cutting in on our two-step. “And so far we’ve come up with nothing.”
“Who have you talked to?” I asked in perfect innocence.
“Your grammar is deplorable,” Old Bird Number Four said. “To whom have you talked is correct.”
“What I can’t understand,” intoned Old Bird Number Two, “is why Pinker has only one acquaintance to speak on his behalf. What is he, difficult to get on with? I can’t abide vicars who are difficult to get on with. Very unpleasant.”
“Pinker’s very pleasant,” I said, shoving a word in edgewise.
“Then why are you the only one here?” The bish consulted his notebook again. “I also expected to see an Augustus Fink-Nottle and a Hildebrand Glossop. Where are they? I wrote Pinker and told him I need to meet several people. You're the only one who bothers to keep the appointment?” He gave me the once over. “I have to say I’m not impressed. The unreliability of young men is simply astonishing.”
What could I tell him? That Stiffy had likely intercepted his letter? That the vicar’s wife couldn’t blackmail anyone else into attending this little fete? No, that wouldn’t do. And as much as Stiffy annoyed me, a lifetime spent as a gentleman was not easily tossed aside. That would be the same as bandying a beazel’s name around in a pub, even if that beazel’s name was Stiffy. Fortunately, I was saved from answering this leading question.
“What about luncheon?” Old Bird Number Three. “We got nothing at Plank’s house.”
I was about to correct him concerning the coffee and digestives that now littered the floor of said Plank’s house, but again remembered in time that I wasn’t supposed to know that. Instead I excused myself, went to the bar and told the man we wanted something to eat. He agreed that we did and promised to bring some sort of repast to our table. This done, I returned to the chopping block.
“Well, what are we having?” Old Bird Number Three said in what I considered a demanding tone.
“Luncheon,” I said helpfully.
The rest of table groused ungraciously, but agreed there was nothing to do but wait and see.
“In the meantime, let’s talk about Pinker,” the bishop said. “What do you know of him?”
“We were at Oxford together,” I began, only to be interrupted.
“I was at Cambridge,” Old Bird Number Four said. “Much better by far.”
“Quite,” I said, “As I was saying, we were at Oxford together and Stinker, I mean Pinker...”
“Wooster,” the bishop said. “Kindly don’t repeat yourself.”
It’s very difficult to repeat oneself when one isn’t allowed to complete a thought, but I persevered.
“The Rev. Pinker,” I said, steepling my fingers together, “was a pious man right from the get go. Always sermonizing silly students, keeping us on the straight and narrow, you know that sort. Always doing good for someone.”
“A do-gooder? Not sure we want that sort for a rural dean. Wouldn’t be able to say no, to take a firm hand,” Old Bird Number Two said.
I would have rolled my eyes at this but remembered in time that it would have been considered rude. However, I was left with few resources. I rolled my eyes.
The front door of the pub opened and we all turned to look as people will do when the front doors of pubs open. A very tall man with silver hair and sporting a thick silver and black mustache entered the room, cast a sharp eye around the place and made for our table.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said a deep voice that sounded suspiciously familiar but not quite. “I am looking for the Honorable Bishop Charles.”
The honorable bish stuck out his hand and even rose from the table, twice what he did for me. “I am Bishop Charles, sir. What can I do for you?”
The man nodded. “I learned only several hours ago that you would be here. I understand you are investigating the possibility of naming the Rev. Harold Pinker as your rural dean. My name is James Wiltshire, and I have been acquainted with the good reverend for a number of years.”
The bishop practically shoved me over to make room for this Wiltshire.
“Please sit down, Mr. Wiltshire. We’re just about to have luncheon. Wooster, get up there and order something for Mr. Wiltshire.”
I jumped to my feet because that’s what you do when a bishop tells you to get up. I ordered for this Wiltshire character, then reclaimed my chair. This Wiltshire was seated next to me.
You could have knocked me over with an f. Now that I got a good look at this character I could see it was Jeeves. A Jeeves with silver hair and a different voice, but it was my Jeeves nevertheless. He’d apparently come up with some wheeze he hadn’t bothered to share with the young master. I would have to correct this oversight later, but for now I wanted to see how Jeeves would play his hand.
He led with a couple of aces, one of them being to dominate the conversation from the very first. The honorable bish was no match for him. But really, who is? I mean to say, Jeeves stands alone.
“As I said, I have known the Rev. Pinker for some years. He was an able curate, and did not hesitate to accept the vicarage in Hockley-cum-Meston when it was offered to him by Major Plank. Since he has arrived he has instituted a number of new programs at the church. He is eager to expand these programs to other villages in the hope of assisting the less fortunate.”
The bishop beamed like something that beams. The sun, perhaps.
“Now that’s the kind of thing we wanted to hear,” Old Bird Number Three said. “This Wooster here couldn’t tell us anything of the sort. And he claims to have been acquainted with Pinker since their Oxford days.”
“And we learned nothing from Major Plank,” Old Bird Number Four said. “All we got was a lot of foolishness from an ill-trained maid.”
I could only goggle. Fortunately, I’m good at that. Jeeves had these four crustaceans eating out of his hands in just two minutes whereas I, as Plank and myself, could do nothing. It pinched the pride, I can tell you.
The repast arrived and the churchmen fell to. There was no talking for a bit, about Stinker or anyone else as they gobbled down what appeared to the untrained eye to be thick roast beef sandwiches dripping in some sort of yellow sauce that I took to be mustard. I chanced a glance at Jeeves who just happened to chance a glance at the same time, and I thought I saw a sparkle of what could be termed mischief if Jeeves were a mischievous person. Perhaps he had depths even the young master had yet to plumb.
It wasn’t the first time Jeeves had appeared somewhere in disguise. He had once posed as a solicitor and as a Scotland Yard investigator, among other questionable professions. And I had to admit, as he sat there delicately forking edible bits from his sandwich, that he had only ever gone incognito in order to rescue me from some sticky situation. And here he was again. It warmed the heart, if such an organ can be warmed.
As soon as he finished his sandwich, the bish wiped his mouth in a contented fashion and turned to Jeeves-Wiltshire, ignoring the provider of the provender.
“Mr. Wiltshire, can you tell us whether the Rev. Pinker is able enough to supervise the churches that would be under his command, as they say?”
“Indeed, sir,” Jeeves-Wiltshire said smoothly. “While the good reverend does allow room for discussion and does consider the opinions of others, he is a man who makes his own decisions. These decisions are not always popular, but they do result in what’s best for everyone.”
“Would you be kind enough to give us a few examples?” asked Old Bird Number Three.
Jeeves-Wiltshire waxed poetically about mothers’ groups, fund-raising fetes, Bible study and charity work. By the time Jeeves-Wiltshire had finished, the old birds were bobbing their heads in unison. Then a babble broke out amidst the four and within just a few minutes, or so it seemed, the committee had decided that Stinker was just the man for the job. The bishop looked at his pocketwatch and yelped.
“Good heavens, but we must be going.” He held out a hand to Jeeves-Wiltshire. “I am very pleased to have met you, sir. You’ve cleared up the situation admirably. The only thing left to do is attend the Rev. Pinker’s services tomorrow and then inform him of our intentions.”
Jeeves-Wiltshire shook the proffered paw and nodded; of course he had cleared everything up. When did he not?
The bish gave me a rummy look but no paw to shake. “Wooster, if you have any care for the career of a man you consider a friend, I would suggest you stay away from him. You don’t do his reputation any good.”
I opened my mouth to reply to that stinger, but Old Bird Number Two got there first. “And you should stop that infernal alliterating. Sermonizing silly students, indeed. Plank did an awful lot of alliterating, too. Most annoying. I was just too polite to mention it. He’s got enough on his hands with that incompetent maid.”
The bishop got to his feet and rest of us followed suit.
“May I see you to your car, sir?” Jeeves-Wiltshire asked before I could even think to ask the same question.
“Certainly,” the bishop said, glaring at me at the same time. “Again, I’ll say we were fortunate to run into you. The Rev. Pinker will have you to thank when he’s formally installed as rural dean.”
And with that, the five of them left the pub while I was left with the bill. I had already settled up with the keeper of the establishment and was drowning my sorrows in another glass of bitter when Jeeves returned. I turned to him, not a little overwrought. I indicated a small table in a corner, ordered him the same as I had and we sat down to chew the fat.
“Jeeves,” I said, “once again you saved the day, but why you did so without informing the young master of your plans is beyond my scope and ken. What have you to say to that?”
“Sir, I believed the element of surprise would serve your purposes better. Churchmen are not known for their approval of young men. I believed that after meeting you, they would welcome the remarks of someone they considered to be older and more mature in his thinking.”
“Are you saying I’m immature? Why, Jeeves, I never thought you would think such a thing.”
“Of course not, sir. I find your opinions and discussions to be models of youthful thinking and discourse.”
I wasn’t sure if there was a dig there, but decided there wasn’t. Jeeves isn’t the type to gloat.
“So what’s next, Jeeves?” I said, draining my glass. “When Stinker gets his rural deanship, which unless Stiffy has come clean he doesn’t even know about, Plank’s going to lose his prop forward. When it comes out that I had anything to do with it, well, let’s not even contemplate it.”
“I should think that everything will work out in the end, sir,” Jeeves said, finishing his bitter and standing up. “If you are ready, sir, we might return to Major Plank’s home. I would like to rid myself of this disguise and take up my duties once more.”
There was nothing else to do. While I would have liked to remain at the pub for the rest of the afternoon, it wouldn’t do for the locals to see more of me than required.
“How did you get here, Jeeves? You couldn’t have walked it that fast, what with doing your hair and caterpillar.”
“I took the liberty of driving the two-seater, sir. I have parked it just outside the village where a young man is looking after it until we return.”
At least I didn’t have to hoof it back to Plank’s. “Lead on, Jeeves. I have no idea how I’m to kill time the rest of the day and the evening, but I will have to find a way.”
“Perhaps you could take a drive this afternoon, sir. Plutarch said, ‘the whole life of man is but a point of time, let us enjoy it.’”
“Did Plutarch ever disguise himself as a nutter, Jeeves?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir.”
“Then he hasn’t any idea what he’s talking about. He shouldn’t allow himself to be quoted.”
Jeeves coughed lightly. “Plutarch has been dead from some years, sir.”
“But his quotations live on. A curious world we live in, Jeeves.”
“It is, sir.”
And with that, we legged it for the two-seater and motored back to Major Plank’s. The only thing to get through was the sermon. But you never can tell what time has in store for you, can you?
*~*Next Part*~*||*~*Previous 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 3
I don’t know who they are, but they say time and distance allow a fellow to look back upon an incident and laugh. If that is indeed the case, then I shall require fifty years and several hundred miles before I can chortle at my impersonation of Major Plank.
The bish and his committee, four of the gloomiest old busters I had ever met and that includes Sir Watkyn Bassett, rolled up to the house exactly on time. Stiffy had wanted to order the old gents to park their car out of sight, but Jeeves had reminded her they wouldn’t take kindly to being ordered about by a mere maid. The “mere” is mine, for alliterative purposes.
Well, here’s what happened.
Jeeves met them at the door, and I could hear him from my position in the sitting room as he offered to take their coats. He assured them of my eagerness to meet them and promised a maid would serve coffee.
I stood as they came into the room, hunching a bit to make the youthful Wooster corpus appear old. I needn’t have bothered. All four of those birds were older than Plank by a long shot, and their backs were as straight as that arrow I’ve heard so much about. Cupid’s, perhaps? I’m not sure.
I stuck out my hand in greeting and introduced myself. The bishop, however, was not a man all in favor of the niceties. He left the Wooster paw dangling in midair.
“I’m Bishop Charles and these three are the committee,” he said by way of telling me we had better get down to brass tacks straightaway. It was fine by me. The sooner we were all of out of Plank’s house, the better. It was getting rather crowded.
“Plank,” the bishop said as they all sat down, “we’re here to talk about Pinker.”
Well, really. I felt like saying, “What a surprise; I thought we were going fishing.” But I didn’t. It wouldn’t have moved the thing along at all.
The bish pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. I didn’t have long to wonder what it was because he waved it at me like a flag of surrender.
“I have your letter, Plank. Kindly expand on its contents.”
Expand? I couldn’t expand, expound on or explain a letter I’d never seen. But apparently I could alliterate, even if only in my head. Even Jeeves would have been impressed had he been able to get in there and have a look at it.
From the looks on those screwed-up old faces, who from here on out will be known as the bishop and Old Birds Numbers Two, Three and Four just to keep them straight, I knew I’d better say something.
“I think Stinker, I mean to say Pinker, would be an excellent rural dean,” I said, remembering to gruffen my voice, if gruffen is even a word. Probably not. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before.
“Why?” barked the bishop.
“Well,” I said.
“Well, what?” snapped Old Bird Number Four. “Out with it, Plank. We haven’t got all day.”
For churchmen they certainly weren’t being charitable. Maybe taking the collar makes one a bit crabby, what with having to be fine and upstanding every second of every minute of every day. I was about to take this a bit further, perhaps down the road and back, when one of the old busters barked at me.
“And where’s the coffee your man promised us?” Old Bird Number Three asked. “I am severely parched.”
Jeeves materialized at my side and acknowledged my silent gratitude with a slight bow.
“Shall I have the maid bring the coffee, sir?”
“Yes, Jeeves. That would be splendid.”
He shimmered away again.
“That man of yours,” Old Bird Number Two said, pointing at Jeeves who had just pushed open the kitchen’s swinging door. “Where’d you get him? Looks like someone I knew somewhere.”
“The agency,” I said helpfully. “He’d been given to understanding that I required a valet.” How I remembered Jeeves’s first words to me is one of life’s great mysteries. I had been up all night because I had pinched a policeman’s helmet and landed in court where Pop Bassett the magistrate pinched my wallet for five pounds in retaliation. I recalled being as hungover as a thing that’s hungover when Jeeves pressed the buzzer at my flat. But you probably already know this story, so there’s no sense going into it now.
“Then I don’t know him,” Old Bird Number Two said. “I’ve never met anyone from an agency.”
The bish harumphed. “We are digressing in a most grievous fashion,” he said, thumping the arm of his chair. We’re here to talk about Pinker and so far I’ve heard nothing.”
I was wondering when he’d get around to that.
“Plank,” he said, turning a cold eye on me. “Why should we appoint Pinker as rural dean? Is he organized? Does he preach a sermon people remember even ten minutes after they’ve heard it? Will the other vicars listen to him?”
“Can’t abide vicars who don’t listen,” Old Bird Number Three intoned. “Scourge of the church, they are.”
“Has he got a good wife? One of those quiet types who does as she’s told?” Old Bird Number Four put in. “I don’t hold with wives who get in on the vicar’s business. Should confine themselves to the kitchen, I say.”
Was Stiffy a good wife? Having never had, needed or wanted a wife, I had no idea. But she was as far from the quiet type as a bugle is to a button. As for the vicar’s business, well, you see how that’s turned out.
I was saved from answering by Stiffy entering the room with the coffee tray. The way the cups rattled against their saucers proved to me that she hadn’t nearly enough tray-toting lessons. Well, even Jeeves can’t work miracles.
She plunked the tray down in what appeared to be a rude fashion and let out a huffy little breath. She glared at me as if the entire wheeze was my fault and had nothing to do with her. She stood there, very unmaidlike, if that’s even a word, her hands on her hips. Apparently Jeeves had had no time to give her maid lessons, either. Well, it stands to reason. He’s a valet, not a maid.
Old Bird Number Three cleared his throat before dooming himself. “Well, girl, don’t just stand there. Pour the coffee. Plank, you clearly need to get your household in hand. I’ll send my wife over to show you how to deal with maids.”
“Girl?” Stiffy turned on the victim. “Deal with maids? I’ll have you...”
Well, if Stinker didn’t get to be dean of these holy lands, it wouldn’t be my fault. But I had to fish Stiffy out of the soup.
“Hortense,” I said in voice one would use to address a three-year-old. “Please pour out and return to the kitchen.”
She closed her mouth like an oyster intent on hoarding its pearl and fixed me with a stare that could have withered a Frenchman. Fortunately, I am not French.
“Please excuse Hortense,” I said to the group at large. “She is a bit on the thick side, but I promised her parents, who worked for my parents, that I would always keep her in my employ. I feel it’s the Christian thing to do.”
There was a lot of superior nodding at this. “Well, you heard the man, girl,” Old Bird Number Three said to Stiffy, speaking as if she were deaf. Pour out and leave us to our business.”
Stiffy’s lips were pressed so thin I thought she’d swallowed them. She poured coffee and handed out the cups, passed around the digestives and flounced out of the room.
“I do apologize,” I said grandly. “She exhibits some very odd behaviors in front of guests.”
“Confine her to the scullery,” Old Bird Number Three advised. “My wife did that for a maid and the girl was all the better for it.”
“Plank!” The bishop was looking at his pocketwatch. “We’ve been here ten minutes and you’ve told us nothing. What about Pinker?”
“What about Pinker?” I asked.
The bishop turned red and I feared an attack of apoplexy, whatever that is. He looked a bit like Aunt Agatha does after Jeeves and I foil one of her wedding plans. A bit more red than purple. Or perhaps a reddish purple. At any rate, he wasn’t happy. I probably shouldn’t have gotten off on the Stiffy tangent. But a Wooster can spread oil on troubled ecclesiastical waters when necessary. I did win a prize for Scripture Knowledge after all.
“Pinker is like a modern-day Moses, Bishop Charles, leading his faithful flock away from terrible temptation and into the promised land,” I said in my most pious voice.
“Moses never saw the promised land,” the bishop said.
“Well, no, but he pointed the Israelites in the right direction,” I said, stung. Surely the bish knew what I meant. But maybe he didn’t remember his Exodus.
“So you’re saying, Plank,” Old Bird Number Two said after he slurped his coffee, “that Pinker can direct the troops, so to speak. Takes a firm hand. Can’t abide a vicar that doesn’t take a firm hand.”
“Oh, he has a firm hand, certainly,” I said.
“But is he a fair man?” Old Bird Number Four asked. “Does he let people think they’re having a say in the matter, but then goes and does what he thinks necessary? Put on a good show?”
“Oh, yes. Why I remember him telling me his church committee had wanted to put in new windows. He told them they could, but then cancelled the order. If the good Lord could see through them, he told me, then they were sufficient.”
“Frugal, then. Doesn’t waste the church’s money?” Old Bird Number Two nodded at the bishop. “You were just talking about waste on the way here. Wasteful vicars, the subject was, always wanting to spend money on unnecessaries. Like food.”
“The coffee pot’s empty,” Old Bird Number Three said suddenly. “Plank, call your girl back and have her refill the pot.”
I was saved from bellowing for Stiffy by the timely reappearance of Jeeves.
“Shall I have the maid bring more coffee, sir?”
“Yes, Jeeves,” I said, thinking Stiffy had learned her lesson and would no doubt pour out without going spare. I was alliterating madly now which was either a good sign or a bad one. Probably bad because that’s how these things go. And, as far as I know, Stiffy has never once learned a lesson.
She approached us, tray rattling like those snakes Jeeves once told me about. Native to the American West, many of them, and that’s why we never go there. Jeeves said they rattle as a warning, and I suppose I should have applied the same rule to old Stiffy.
“My wife could teach your girl here to carry in a tray so you wouldn’t know she’s there. Silent as a grave, that’s how she should be,” Old Bird Number Three intoned as Stiffy poured his coffee. “What do you say, Plank? No time like the present. I could have her here tomorrow.”
As Stiffy picked up the fresh plate of digestives, an expression, terrible to behold, fixed itself on her face. She turned to Old Bird Number Three, pointed the plate toward him and pretended to stumble over her own feet. I say pretended because she’s as sure-footed as a mountain goat, if that’s the animal I want. One of those with sure feet, anyway.
The digestives landed on the old buster’s lap, whereupon the old buster got to his feet quicker than I would have expected for a churchman his age.
“I say,” he yelled. “What’s the meaning of this, girl? Don’t you know how to serve a biscuit? My wife...”
“Stuff your wife,” Stiffy yelled back. “Silent as a grave? I’ll show you silent...”
I knew what was coming and it came as a black blur. I leaped into my chair with the speed befitting a man who was used to this kind of thing as Bartholomew pushed open the swinging door and ran at Old Bird Number Three, intent on sinking his teeth into that unfortunate parson’s ankle.
As they say, all hell broke loose. The bish yelled at me to do something and while I was in the process of asking what precisely I was to do, because I was all for doing something, I fell off my chair and landed on the coffee table, upsetting the pot, cups and all. The unbitten old birds made for the door, while the bitten old bird screamed more invectives than I’ve heard in a month of Sundays. A slight exaggeration, I know, but you get my meaning.
Stiffy finally came to what was left of her senses and pulled Bartholomew off Old Bird Number Three’s ankle. She didn’t apologize, of course, because she never has. The bishop glared at me while his compatriot howled and while I didn’t hear everything the bish said, I heard enough to know Stinker’s chances of becoming the next rural dean were right up there with Nero’s.
“Plank,” the bishop said as he looked down to where I was sprawled on the floor, “if this is the kind of treatment we can expect from the man who named Pinker as the village vicar, I have to say it does not bode well for him.”
I didn’t think it boded at all, but that was the bishop’s business.
“Pinker had better hope our next meeting is a far site better than this one,” the bishop continued. “Come,” he said to his howling counterpart. "We’re leaving.”
His trousers in tatters around the ankle area, Old Bird Number Three limped toward the door. “You ought to drown that dog, Plank. A bloody menace. My wife would have had him shot.”
“Well,” Stiffy said, drawing herself up to her miniscule height. “I should have you shot.”
“Plank!” yelled Old Bird Number Three from the door, where Jeeves had suddenly appeared to hand over his coat.
“Yes?”
“Sack that maid. That’s my advice.”
And then they were gone. I got to my feet, Jeeves came into the room and the three of us stood there, surveying the damage. A plate of digestives reduced to crumbs, two shattered coffee cups, a rapidly spreading brown stain on a rug that couldn’t hope to hide it and one panting terrier, still snarling for blood.
“What’s next, Jeeves?” I asked. “Seems to me like the best thing to do is to sweep up the china, turn the rug so the stain doesn’t show, then make a beeline for home.”
“You can’t go anywhere, Bertie,” Stiffy said, grabbing my arm in a pincer-like grip. “You’ve got to meet the bishop again.”
I sank into a chair. “Stiffy,” I said, suddenly overcome with exhaustion and badly in need of an early afternoon refresher. “I’m quite certain Bartholomew here has put paid to any Pinker promotion. And you,” I added, pointing at her, “were of no earthly use at all. You really take the biscuit, Stiffy. And speaking of biscuits, why did you spill them all over that old crank?”
“What’s done is done,” Stiffy said, dismissing my question. “Now you have to get ready to meet the bishop as yourself.”
“And I suppose that’s five minutes from now,” I said. “I suppose I’ll not get lunch, nor even a good stiff belt before I’m sent off like Daniel into the lions’ den.”
Stiffy looked at the clock on the mantel. "You have precisely forty-five minutes, Bertie. Plenty of time.”
“Jeeves,” I said. “Why can’t a man have a quiet life? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s because women won’t allow a man to have one. They enjoy riling and roiling a man until he’s fit for nothing but the loony bin. And that’s what they do to their acquaintances. God only knows what they do to their hapless husbands.”
“Bertie, will you please stop that infernal alliterating. You’ll have us all doing it. It’s very annoying,” Stiffy said as she shifted Bartholomew to her other arm. “Now remove that makeup and get down to the Dog and Duck in plenty of time. That’s where you’re meeting the bishop.”
“Well, I can eat lunch with them,” I said. “Perhaps if they’re stuffing their gullets they’ll confine their questions to subjects I can actually address.”
“You’re doing more than eating lunch with them,” Stiffy said. “You’re standing for it.”
“You mean to say I have to buy lunch for all of them? Whatever for?”
“They’re churchmen.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Churchmen don’t pay for their own lunches, Bertie. Someone else always gives them lunch.”
I nodded sagely. “That must be how the bishop affords such a lovely car. If you don’t have to spring for your own lunch, you can really sock away the shillings. What else do they do? Trouser the winnings from collection plates?”
“Of course not,” she said, but appeared to consider the question. “Harold never does, at any rate.”
Jeeves moved to assist me as I tried to remove Plank’s too-small coat. “And who else is coming, Stiffy? You mentioned acquaintances when you invaded my peaceful London flat. Hopefully you got hold of Tuppy or Bingo or some other hapless fool. At least that would give me a bit of well-deserved relief.”
“Just you.”
I couldn’t have heard her correctly. I distinctly recalled Stiffy saying the bishop need to interview acquaintances, plural. Not acquaintance. Acquaintances. I pointed out this small discrepancy just in case she couldn't count.
“Stiffy, you peril of the seven seas, you told me the bishop needed to speak to Stinker’s compatriots, not a single compatriot. Even I cannot be several people at the same table. Even if I could, the bishop is bound to notice we all look alike.”
“I couldn’t get anyone else, Bertie,” she said, acting as if this really wasn’t a problem at all. “I tried.”
“You couldn’t have tried very hard,” I said. “Didn’t you threaten them like you threatened poor Bertram?”
“I would have,” the little blighter said, “if I’d had anything with which to threaten them. But you’re the only one who ever gives me ammunition. And I even said you’d treat them to lunch, but nothing doing. So you’re on your own.”
I didn’t like the look on her face, pretty as her face actually is. I suppose I should have said I didn’t care for the thoughts that generated that look.
“And Bertie,” she said. “if you don’t use that so-called silver tongue of yours to convince the bishop, well, I just don’t know what I’ll let slip to your Aunt Agatha.”
Yes, I was right to question that look. It boded no good at all for the beleagured Bertram.
Chapter 4
“Jeeves,” I said as the man in question helped me remove the last traces of the faux Major Plank. “Have you any idea, any idea at all, how it will look to this bally committee if only one person shows up to extol the many virtues of Vicar Stinker?”
“It will not reflect well on him, sir, if I many say so.”
“You may say so, Jeeves, now and forever, amen. I’d like to know what Stiffy was thinking, but that would involve examining her grey matter, an activity no one with an ounce of self-preservation would attempt.”
“Such an exam would require an intrepid soul, sir.”
“And I am not such a soul, Jeeves. I mean to say, what is she about? This coffee confab couldn’t have been worse. I can’t for the life of me see what meeting with this bevy of old busters will accomplish. However,” I said with a long-suffering sigh, “a Wooster always keeps his promises.”
“Your alliteration is worsening, sir,” Jeeves said.
“I’m glad you noticed, Jeeves. I have been alliterating aloud and in my head for hours now. It’s quite something.”
“I’m sure it is, sir. Will you be leaving immediately for the Dog and Duck, sir?”
I took a gander at a hideous clock on the mantel. “I suppose I will, Jeeves. Can’t avoid the execution forever. Will you have everything ready for us to flee from this place when I return?”
Jeeves coughed politely behind his hand. That was his own personal signal that told me he was about to disagree.
“Sir, I wonder if it would be prudent to attend the Rev. Pinker’s service tomorrow before you leave. The committee will perhaps think it odd if Major Plank is not in attendance. Perhaps if you did attend, they would be willing to forgive the small mishaps that occurred here today. And while the congregation will merely dismiss you as a curious visitor to their church, the bishop and his committee will see you as Major Plank. You need not remain after services to speak to them, sir. In fact, I would advise you to leave without uttering a word, sir.”
“That would mean staying here another night, Jeeves.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And going to church.”
“The churchmen would undoubtably appreciate seeing Major Plank practice what he preaches, as they say, sir.”
“You mean put on a pious puss, and all that?”
“Precisely, sir.”
“The alliteration is catching, isn’t it, Jeeves?”
“Unfortunately yes, sir.”
“Then it can’t be all bad, despite your poor review of it. I shall take myself off to the Dog and Duck and see what’s to be done for Stinker.”
I pulled on my coat and looked at Jeeves. He was standing there with that ghastly wig in his hand as if he held ghastly wigs in his hand every day.
“Jeeves,” I said. “Another thing occurs to me. Shall I have to dress up as Plank again for Stinker’s sermon?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“Well,” I said, since there was nothing else to say. “Give that old spider a good comb out so it’s ready to place upon my pate.”
“Of course, sir. It shall be ready for you. May I make one suggestion, sir?”
“Of course, Jeeves. My ears are yours.”
“That you remove your left false eyebrow before you leave, sir.”
I brushed my fingers over said eyebrow and felt the fuzzy fake fungus Jeeves had applied over my own brown brows. I peeled it off and handed the thing to Jeeves. It wouldn’t have done at all to appear at the Dog and Duck with that fuzz on my map. As if I didn’t look odd enough already. One of those old birds was sure to wonder about my amazing resemblance to Major Plank. Churchmen are known for the their sharp eyes; that’s how they spot spare pence in the pews after services.
“Well, Jeeves, I’m off. With any luck, and I will need it by the bucketful, the old birds will decide to make Stinker the rural dean, if only so they don’t have to meet me again.”
“There is that possibility, sir, however remote.”
Jeeves is forever looking on the dim side of things. He’s a man of few faults, so I allow him this one, as well as the one I mentioned earlier. Understatement, I think it was. I’ll go back and check when I have the time. As it happens, I don’t right now.
The Dog and Duck was only a country stroll away, and mindful of not wanting to have the two-seater spotted, I legged it for the town center. I didn’t run into anyone, literally or figuratively, which made for a quite lonely walk but allowed me to think. And I needed to do a bit of that, having not had time to do any at all during the churchmen’s visit.
What in the world was I going to tell these birds about Stinker? That his wife was a dangerous little viper with the moral views of a blackmailer? That I had never heard him preach except for that time at Oxford when I had used his shaving things without permission? That he was an excellent prop forward and once played for England? Now Stinker was a good friend, and all, none better, but I supposed moldy old churchmen didn’t care a fig for that. I would have to wing it. Woosters are good at improvisation, that being evident by the survival of my ancestor who fought in the battle of Agincourt. And I was no slouch, having avoided numerous engagements cooked up by Aunt Agatha. Well, I had to give Jeeves credit for much of that, but still.
I arrived at the Dog and Duck before I’d finished my ruminations which was just as well because I had no answers anyway. I looked up at the little place, comforted by the fact that it looked like any rural pub. It would be cool and dark in there, the bitter would be just bitter enough, and the food would be plentiful and inexpensive. Not that I mind shelling out for a friend, but it still irked me not a little that I had to spring for luncheon for such an awful gawd-help-us as that bishop and his committee.
I pushed open the door and went in. There they were, and at least two of them were consulting their pocket watches. Of all the effrontery, if that’s the word I want. Begins with an e, anyway. I wasn’t late and they already had B. Wooster pegged as a johnny-come-lately.
I remembered I wasn’t supposed to recognize them, so I went to the bar and ordered a refresher. Actually, I have to say it was more than a jolly bit of fun watching them as they watched the door, looking for me. But all fun must come to an end, at least that’s what Aunt Agatha says when I tell her I enjoy being a bachelor.
I approached the table, my sincere look firmly in place.
“I’m looking for Bishop Charles?” I said.
“I am Bishop Charles,” said Bishop Charles.
I stuck out my hand. He ignored it - again.
“Bertie Wooster.”
The bish consulted a small notebook. “I expected to see a Bertram Wooster.”
“That’s I. I mean, me.”
“You were given a Christian name. You should use it.”
We were getting off on the wrong foot again. But the good thing was, Bishop Charles didn’t know it.
“Well,” I said, in an attempt at joviality, “you can call me Bertram, then.”
“Sit down, Wooster.”
I sat.
Old Bird Number Three (I recognized him by his tattered trouser leg), gave me a sharp look. “Don’t I know you?”
I considered this. He did know me but he didn’t, if you see what I mean. He wasn’t a bosom friend, so he didn’t really know me. So I wasn’t actually lying to a churchman when I said, “No, you don’t.”
He peered at me again. “I’ve seen you before. Every been in Birmingham?
“Not if I can help it,” I said.
“We’re here to talk about Pinker,” the bishop said, cutting in on our two-step. “And so far we’ve come up with nothing.”
“Who have you talked to?” I asked in perfect innocence.
“Your grammar is deplorable,” Old Bird Number Four said. “To whom have you talked is correct.”
“What I can’t understand,” intoned Old Bird Number Two, “is why Pinker has only one acquaintance to speak on his behalf. What is he, difficult to get on with? I can’t abide vicars who are difficult to get on with. Very unpleasant.”
“Pinker’s very pleasant,” I said, shoving a word in edgewise.
“Then why are you the only one here?” The bish consulted his notebook again. “I also expected to see an Augustus Fink-Nottle and a Hildebrand Glossop. Where are they? I wrote Pinker and told him I need to meet several people. You're the only one who bothers to keep the appointment?” He gave me the once over. “I have to say I’m not impressed. The unreliability of young men is simply astonishing.”
What could I tell him? That Stiffy had likely intercepted his letter? That the vicar’s wife couldn’t blackmail anyone else into attending this little fete? No, that wouldn’t do. And as much as Stiffy annoyed me, a lifetime spent as a gentleman was not easily tossed aside. That would be the same as bandying a beazel’s name around in a pub, even if that beazel’s name was Stiffy. Fortunately, I was saved from answering this leading question.
“What about luncheon?” Old Bird Number Three. “We got nothing at Plank’s house.”
I was about to correct him concerning the coffee and digestives that now littered the floor of said Plank’s house, but again remembered in time that I wasn’t supposed to know that. Instead I excused myself, went to the bar and told the man we wanted something to eat. He agreed that we did and promised to bring some sort of repast to our table. This done, I returned to the chopping block.
“Well, what are we having?” Old Bird Number Three said in what I considered a demanding tone.
“Luncheon,” I said helpfully.
The rest of table groused ungraciously, but agreed there was nothing to do but wait and see.
“In the meantime, let’s talk about Pinker,” the bishop said. “What do you know of him?”
“We were at Oxford together,” I began, only to be interrupted.
“I was at Cambridge,” Old Bird Number Four said. “Much better by far.”
“Quite,” I said, “As I was saying, we were at Oxford together and Stinker, I mean Pinker...”
“Wooster,” the bishop said. “Kindly don’t repeat yourself.”
It’s very difficult to repeat oneself when one isn’t allowed to complete a thought, but I persevered.
“The Rev. Pinker,” I said, steepling my fingers together, “was a pious man right from the get go. Always sermonizing silly students, keeping us on the straight and narrow, you know that sort. Always doing good for someone.”
“A do-gooder? Not sure we want that sort for a rural dean. Wouldn’t be able to say no, to take a firm hand,” Old Bird Number Two said.
I would have rolled my eyes at this but remembered in time that it would have been considered rude. However, I was left with few resources. I rolled my eyes.
The front door of the pub opened and we all turned to look as people will do when the front doors of pubs open. A very tall man with silver hair and sporting a thick silver and black mustache entered the room, cast a sharp eye around the place and made for our table.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said a deep voice that sounded suspiciously familiar but not quite. “I am looking for the Honorable Bishop Charles.”
The honorable bish stuck out his hand and even rose from the table, twice what he did for me. “I am Bishop Charles, sir. What can I do for you?”
The man nodded. “I learned only several hours ago that you would be here. I understand you are investigating the possibility of naming the Rev. Harold Pinker as your rural dean. My name is James Wiltshire, and I have been acquainted with the good reverend for a number of years.”
The bishop practically shoved me over to make room for this Wiltshire.
“Please sit down, Mr. Wiltshire. We’re just about to have luncheon. Wooster, get up there and order something for Mr. Wiltshire.”
I jumped to my feet because that’s what you do when a bishop tells you to get up. I ordered for this Wiltshire character, then reclaimed my chair. This Wiltshire was seated next to me.
You could have knocked me over with an f. Now that I got a good look at this character I could see it was Jeeves. A Jeeves with silver hair and a different voice, but it was my Jeeves nevertheless. He’d apparently come up with some wheeze he hadn’t bothered to share with the young master. I would have to correct this oversight later, but for now I wanted to see how Jeeves would play his hand.
He led with a couple of aces, one of them being to dominate the conversation from the very first. The honorable bish was no match for him. But really, who is? I mean to say, Jeeves stands alone.
“As I said, I have known the Rev. Pinker for some years. He was an able curate, and did not hesitate to accept the vicarage in Hockley-cum-Meston when it was offered to him by Major Plank. Since he has arrived he has instituted a number of new programs at the church. He is eager to expand these programs to other villages in the hope of assisting the less fortunate.”
The bishop beamed like something that beams. The sun, perhaps.
“Now that’s the kind of thing we wanted to hear,” Old Bird Number Three said. “This Wooster here couldn’t tell us anything of the sort. And he claims to have been acquainted with Pinker since their Oxford days.”
“And we learned nothing from Major Plank,” Old Bird Number Four said. “All we got was a lot of foolishness from an ill-trained maid.”
I could only goggle. Fortunately, I’m good at that. Jeeves had these four crustaceans eating out of his hands in just two minutes whereas I, as Plank and myself, could do nothing. It pinched the pride, I can tell you.
The repast arrived and the churchmen fell to. There was no talking for a bit, about Stinker or anyone else as they gobbled down what appeared to the untrained eye to be thick roast beef sandwiches dripping in some sort of yellow sauce that I took to be mustard. I chanced a glance at Jeeves who just happened to chance a glance at the same time, and I thought I saw a sparkle of what could be termed mischief if Jeeves were a mischievous person. Perhaps he had depths even the young master had yet to plumb.
It wasn’t the first time Jeeves had appeared somewhere in disguise. He had once posed as a solicitor and as a Scotland Yard investigator, among other questionable professions. And I had to admit, as he sat there delicately forking edible bits from his sandwich, that he had only ever gone incognito in order to rescue me from some sticky situation. And here he was again. It warmed the heart, if such an organ can be warmed.
As soon as he finished his sandwich, the bish wiped his mouth in a contented fashion and turned to Jeeves-Wiltshire, ignoring the provider of the provender.
“Mr. Wiltshire, can you tell us whether the Rev. Pinker is able enough to supervise the churches that would be under his command, as they say?”
“Indeed, sir,” Jeeves-Wiltshire said smoothly. “While the good reverend does allow room for discussion and does consider the opinions of others, he is a man who makes his own decisions. These decisions are not always popular, but they do result in what’s best for everyone.”
“Would you be kind enough to give us a few examples?” asked Old Bird Number Three.
Jeeves-Wiltshire waxed poetically about mothers’ groups, fund-raising fetes, Bible study and charity work. By the time Jeeves-Wiltshire had finished, the old birds were bobbing their heads in unison. Then a babble broke out amidst the four and within just a few minutes, or so it seemed, the committee had decided that Stinker was just the man for the job. The bishop looked at his pocketwatch and yelped.
“Good heavens, but we must be going.” He held out a hand to Jeeves-Wiltshire. “I am very pleased to have met you, sir. You’ve cleared up the situation admirably. The only thing left to do is attend the Rev. Pinker’s services tomorrow and then inform him of our intentions.”
Jeeves-Wiltshire shook the proffered paw and nodded; of course he had cleared everything up. When did he not?
The bish gave me a rummy look but no paw to shake. “Wooster, if you have any care for the career of a man you consider a friend, I would suggest you stay away from him. You don’t do his reputation any good.”
I opened my mouth to reply to that stinger, but Old Bird Number Two got there first. “And you should stop that infernal alliterating. Sermonizing silly students, indeed. Plank did an awful lot of alliterating, too. Most annoying. I was just too polite to mention it. He’s got enough on his hands with that incompetent maid.”
The bishop got to his feet and rest of us followed suit.
“May I see you to your car, sir?” Jeeves-Wiltshire asked before I could even think to ask the same question.
“Certainly,” the bishop said, glaring at me at the same time. “Again, I’ll say we were fortunate to run into you. The Rev. Pinker will have you to thank when he’s formally installed as rural dean.”
And with that, the five of them left the pub while I was left with the bill. I had already settled up with the keeper of the establishment and was drowning my sorrows in another glass of bitter when Jeeves returned. I turned to him, not a little overwrought. I indicated a small table in a corner, ordered him the same as I had and we sat down to chew the fat.
“Jeeves,” I said, “once again you saved the day, but why you did so without informing the young master of your plans is beyond my scope and ken. What have you to say to that?”
“Sir, I believed the element of surprise would serve your purposes better. Churchmen are not known for their approval of young men. I believed that after meeting you, they would welcome the remarks of someone they considered to be older and more mature in his thinking.”
“Are you saying I’m immature? Why, Jeeves, I never thought you would think such a thing.”
“Of course not, sir. I find your opinions and discussions to be models of youthful thinking and discourse.”
I wasn’t sure if there was a dig there, but decided there wasn’t. Jeeves isn’t the type to gloat.
“So what’s next, Jeeves?” I said, draining my glass. “When Stinker gets his rural deanship, which unless Stiffy has come clean he doesn’t even know about, Plank’s going to lose his prop forward. When it comes out that I had anything to do with it, well, let’s not even contemplate it.”
“I should think that everything will work out in the end, sir,” Jeeves said, finishing his bitter and standing up. “If you are ready, sir, we might return to Major Plank’s home. I would like to rid myself of this disguise and take up my duties once more.”
There was nothing else to do. While I would have liked to remain at the pub for the rest of the afternoon, it wouldn’t do for the locals to see more of me than required.
“How did you get here, Jeeves? You couldn’t have walked it that fast, what with doing your hair and caterpillar.”
“I took the liberty of driving the two-seater, sir. I have parked it just outside the village where a young man is looking after it until we return.”
At least I didn’t have to hoof it back to Plank’s. “Lead on, Jeeves. I have no idea how I’m to kill time the rest of the day and the evening, but I will have to find a way.”
“Perhaps you could take a drive this afternoon, sir. Plutarch said, ‘the whole life of man is but a point of time, let us enjoy it.’”
“Did Plutarch ever disguise himself as a nutter, Jeeves?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir.”
“Then he hasn’t any idea what he’s talking about. He shouldn’t allow himself to be quoted.”
Jeeves coughed lightly. “Plutarch has been dead from some years, sir.”
“But his quotations live on. A curious world we live in, Jeeves.”
“It is, sir.”
And with that, we legged it for the two-seater and motored back to Major Plank’s. The only thing to get through was the sermon. But you never can tell what time has in store for you, can you?
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