Fic: Jeeves and the Red Legion
What-ho! I hope I won't offend any Tuppy fans too terribly with this tale.
Poor Bertie, so many bad things happen to him in this story. But Jeeves is always there to save the day in the end. (And feel free to read into this whatever you will...)
As always, I apologize for errors and anything else ahead of time. And I tip my hat to Wodehouse, who created such a lovely world!
“I say! There’s been another one!”
Jeeves shimmered into the bedroom at my outburst, looking properly concerned by whatever had agitated the young master over his eggs and b. I gestured to the folded page of the Times, then thrust it at it, allowing him to read the startling article aloud.
“Another young gentleman was found yesterday, in Shoreditch, much disheveled and disoriented, the victim of a kidnapping by a mysterious agency that calls itself the Red Legion. The perpetrators of this outrage are believed to be Communists and radicals bent on acts of revenge against the upper classes. The gentleman, Mr. Robert Sanderford Leopold, was taken from his club on Saturday, and had almost been given up for dead by his friends and family.”
“It’s Sandy, Jeeves,” I said.
“You know the gentleman, sir?”
“Know of him. He’s one of the founding members of the Dunces Club. He couldn’t snag a membership in the Drones, so he and his chums started a society of their own.”
“As I recall, sir, the other person who was also kidnapped, some weeks ago, was a member of the Regents’ Lodge.”
I nodded. “It’s a sad day when a young man can’t walk the streets of London in the daylight without being worried that some whisker-wearing Lenin is going to cosh him over the head and dump him in the gutter, Jeeves.”
“I do believe that all the victims were abducted at late hours, as they were departing their clubs, sir.”
There was something rummy in his voice. I looked up, trying to decipher---if that’s the word I want---what this rumminess implied.
“Jeeves---you’re not saying this is some kind of a lark, are you? A hoax?”
He coughed politely. “If you will forgive me for saying so, sir, young gentlemen are often in their cups after a particularly robust evening in the company of their fellows. It has not been unknown for a young person---especially one who might have committed some indiscretion while under the influence of stimulants---to seek to ‘cover his tracks’ as it were by concocting a fanciful story to explain his disappearance from the scene.”
I had almost lost him at robust. “You’re saying these fellows made it all up?”
“It does seem strange that neither man was held for ransom, sir, or received substantial injuries. Nor was either was able to give more than a general description of his captors.”
“But then...where does this ‘legion’ fit in?”
Jeeves returned the paper to my tray. “There is a popular dime novel series, published in America, by that name, sir. Perhaps the first gentleman decided to use it to give his story more veracity.”
“Ah---and the second bloke followed the first?”
“Exactly, sir.”
I gave it consideration and found it all well and good. “Jeeves, as usual, you have turned a dark misty midnight into a warm and bright summer’s day.”
“It is kind of you to say so, sir. Would you like me to remove the tray now?”
I waved for him to take it. “Don’t you think you should run down to Scotland Yard, set them straight on the matter?”
“I suspect they have already taken measures, sir.”
And that was the last thought I gave to the Red Legion, until that afternoon at the Drones. Bingo was there, as was Oofy and Catsmeat and Tuppy, along with a new member whose name was something that rhymed with Happy---not nappy or chappy, but…I had it just at the tip of my tongue now---ah yes, Appy. From Apolonious, now that I recall. Really, the things that some families do to their male children are simply dreadful.
Anyway, after several games of indoor cricket, and a few rounds of library rugby, we all found ourselves propping up the bar and swapping tales of the great metrop. Catsmeat brought up the kidnappings, which led to a great deal of head shaking and ‘what’s-this-world-coming-to’ from the assembled party.
“Pshaw!” I said brightly.
“What did you say?” our new comrade in arms asked.
“I said ‘Pshaw’! My man Jeeves---who eats fish three meals a day and always solves the crime before Sherlock Holmes does---says this is nothing more than some chappie’s idea of a ruse, to get himself out of the soup. Probably some fellow who knew his fiancé would give him the heave-ho if he stumbled back to her parents’ house tight as an owl again!”
“So he made up a kidnapping? That would be a lot of trouble to go to,” Oofy said.
“Yes, but think of the rewards if it succeeded,” Bingo put into play, alight with inspiration. “The girl might fall madly in love with the wounded hero again, and her parents would be so happy to see him returned unharmed that they would forget about that awful scene at the Plaza in New York with the chambermaid and the cat.”
We all settled our drinks and stared at Bingo, who turned a bright shade of red.
“I only meant, it might work!”
“I disagree with Jeeves,” Catsmeat said. “Communists are all over the streets and byways these days. Sooner or later, one of us is bound to fall into their snares. Just think, if they could take Oofy here, what a fortune they could ask for!”
“Not that Wooster’s poor either,” Bingo reminded.
“Well I still say ‘Tscah!’” I said, with some authority.
“I thought it was ‘Pshaw!’” Appy remarked, as we all wondered who had sponsored him for the Drones in the first place.
That night, I decided to attend a showing of a new motion picture at the bijou on Piccadilly. Something with a trio of Stooges in the title.
“Jeeves, why don’t you accompany me?” I asked. “It’s been a month or more since we’ve taken in one of these little diversions?”
“Thank you sir, but I much prefer to spend the evening with an improving book.”
“Jeeves, at some point I fear that your brain will explode if you keep stuffing it full of so much improving material. It’s rather like a wardrobe isn’t it---at some point there will be so many ties and trousers and shirts and whatnot that it will blast off its hinges?”
“One hopes not, sir. Do enjoy yourself at the cinema.”
And I did, laughing very heartily at the antics of the three clowns and finding myself in fine spirits when I exited. The air was cool and bracing, perfect for a stroll through the park. I was walking along a long row of tall trees when something bounced out of the hedges and landed at my feet.
I halted, curious to see what it was. It looked to be some manner of a ball, though whether a cricket or a tennis ball, I was uncertain. I had just stooped to pick it up when something with the size and agility of a great orangutan threw itself from the darkness, wrapped itself around my shoulders, and applied a rag to my jaw. I was aware of an unpleasant odor, followed by the odd lifting and floating sensation that I had once experienced when having some dental work done on a painful molar. I suddenly reversed course and fell down a rabbit hole. My last coherent thought was to try to call for Jeeves.
I woke with the most fearsome case of morning head imaginable. For some moments I simply laid still and tried to remember what party I had attended, to have wrought such damage to the old b. Then I recalled what had happened in the park, and sweat began to ooze from every pore.
Jeeves had been wrong. There were kidnappers afoot, and I was their latest victim.
I tried to move, and was foiled in my efforts by what felt like rather stout ropes. There was something over my head, a scratchy blanket that smelled of dogs and horses. In fact, the rural odor was rather strong all around me, and something that I presumed to be hay was scratching my cheek. I heard footsteps and rough voices. Not certain of the proper greeting for one’s kidnappers---should I shout heroic defiance like the Wooster knights of old, or would a jolly what-ho be more likely to endear me to them and spare my willowy frame any unnecessary torture?---I chose to lay still and listen.
“Well, Comrade---it is a glorious day, is it not?”
“Yes, Comrade! Today we take over all of England!”
By Jove, this was steep. Approaching the perpendicular, as Jeeves would say.
“Already,” Comrade One was saying, “we have London under control. And all the villages as well!”
My word. Hadn’t someone summoned the army? The navy? The home guard?
“It is a new revolution! All hail the glorious writings of Karl Larx!”
“That’s Marx, you idiot!”
“Oh. Right-ho.”
“Now, we have only to take over the country houses. Do you think our captive is awake?”
I made snoring noises, hoping to disguise my spying on their treason. One of them nudged me in the stomach with his shoe.
“I don’t think he is. Come, Comrade, let’s have some breakfast. There will be time to shoot this Bourgeoisie pig later in the morning.”
And with that they tramped out. I took a deep breath and realized that unless I could somehow free myself before they returned, I would be one of the first martyrs to the Cause. What Cause, I was unsure of, only that I would be martyred to it.
After much twisting and turning and generally unpleasant chaffing, I finally managed, like Houdini, to liberate myself. I threw off the blanket and met the bored eye of a orange striped cat, who considered me from his perch atop a horse stall. It occurred to me as my eyes traveled round the barn that perhaps I could mount one of the several hunting steeds who were lazily munching on their nosebags, and ride for help. Someone, I recalled, had done such a thing and been considered quite the hero for it.
Only as I pulled the tack down from the wall did it also occur to me that I had no idea how to saddle a bally horse. Certainly I could ride one in full tack, but I had no clue how to begin to apply all the straps and harnesses to an animal. Nor did any of the inmates of the barn seem capable of instructing me. I backed away, holding the saddle in several different positions to determine which end went where, when suddenly, and with unintended malice, I trod on the ginger cat’s tail.
The creature let out a wail five times its size. I dropped the saddle on my foot, which caused me to let out a curse. Wail and curses together wakened the horses, making them aware of an intruder in their midst. They began to whiny and stomp, and one---a rather large bay stallion---burst down the door of his stall and thundered out, knocking me to the ground. A sharp pain went through my chest, but I had no time to succumb to whimpering. As the horse galloped through the open doorway, I decided a strategic retreat was in order. I hurried through the opposite door, which opened onto a large, newly plowed field. There was no option but to leg it cross country, my city shoes slopping deep in the manure-spread mire, until the layers of filth were nearly even with my watch chain. I heard a shout somewhere in the distance, and taking it to be the Red Legion in hot pursuit, I doubled my speed until I reached a copse of trees.
Finding an elm with solid branches, I shimmied up it and gasped for air. Every breath brought new tears, and though I could hear Aunt Agatha’s voice chiding me for unmanly and un-Wooster-like behavior, I allowed myself to shed them. If the Communists had taken London, then that meant Jeeves, like all the other servants of the Oppressors of the People, would soon be packed off to the gulags, if not the guillotine. It was that thought alone which brought me out of my hiding place just as a misty rain began to fall.
I had to get back to London, to do what I could for Jeeves.
Considering it safer to stick to the forest route, I began walking. It seemed that I walked for hours, as the rain began to fall with more forcefulness. Soon I could see my breath in puffs of smoke, which had the effect of making me long desperately for a cigarette. Still, I soldiered on, and at last collapsed against a sturdy elm.
I blinked and pushed my sodden hair out of my eyes.
It was the same elm I’d climbed earlier that morning. I’d been walking in bally circles.
At this point, my stomach set out a call, but---having never been a boy scout and thus having no idea what nuts or berries might be safe to eat and which might be deadly---I scolded it for interfering with the business at hand and began trudging along the edge of the field. It was, I believe, the longest field in England, encompassing more land that several of his majesty’s colonies put together. At last, as the twilight gave way to darkness, I saw an old shepherd’s hut. Finding no old shepherd within, I took up residence for the night, curled in my tattered and torn clothing and wishing I’d had the forethought to have stolen the doggy-smelling blanket from the stable.
Jeeves, of course, would have thought of it. Had Jeeves ever been a boy scout, I wondered? Hard to imagine him in the uniform, with the scarf around his neck, making sure to do his daily good deed.
I tried not to imagine anything else, what might be occurring in London, how the radicals might even now be burning down Berkley Mansions or mixing Molotov cocktails atop my piano. I clung to the image of Jeeves, that he would somehow find a way to survive the revolution, and that I would find a way to return to him.
The next morning, I woke in a curled bundle on the floor. Every joint in the long Wooster frame ached, and time had not been a healer to that sore spot along my ribs that still pinged and panged with every breath. The morning was bitterly cold, and I shivered as I made my way along a stone fence, hoping that it would soon lead me to a road. After an hour or more it did, but the road was one of those lonesome English ones so far from civilization that one expects to run up on some barbarian tribe just getting around to boiling a pith-helmeted explorer for breakfast.
At last, I heard the rumble of an engine. I hobbled onto the road to hail it. The large vehicle---which I now perceived to be a van bearing the sign of Earl Grey Tea---only blew its horn at me and nearly ran me down. I dove for the ditch and found myself chest deep in frigid water. I hauled myself out of the slippery bank by slow degrees, wondering what good it would do to get the tea to London on time if there were only Communists around to drink it anyway.
And then it began to rain again. My teeth set to chattering like castanets. I believe I could have danced a solitary tango, had I not sprained my right ankle in my escape from being flattened by the delivery van. Thus incapacitated, I made slow time.
I also grew feverish and delusional. It seemed to me, the longer I walked, that the trail became more and more familiar. The landmarks seemed homelike, and I imagined myself in happier days, zipping along in the Wooster two seater, chatting merrily with Jeeves over this and that and whatnot. I blinked and through the mist and fog I could see the spires of Brinkley Court rising just above the trees.
My word, those trees did look rather...
My jaw unclenched and landed on my chest. What was it the comrade had said, that the manor houses had not yet been captured? Perhaps I would bring them warning, and we would be able to make a last stand. If worst came to worst, at least we could all go out with the taste of Anatole’s unparalleled cuisine on our lips. I staggered forward, limping more painfully with every step, determined that as the last of the Woosters I would not abandon my class.
The drive to Brinkley is long and winding, a fact that I have often admired and approved of while behind the wheel of my dashing sports car. On foot, half crippled, starved, and covered in various layers of mud and manure, I had less appreciation for the vista. At a distance, I noted that several vehicles were pulled up to the gates---perhaps word of the revolution had already reached Aunt Dahlia’s doorstep. Standing round these vehicles were a number of men in overcoats and umbrellas. I halted, gathered what air remained to me, and sang out a greeting that sounded to my ears rather like a half-strangled cat’s yowl.
Then I fell, my knees slamming into the gravel. My elbows said if the knees enjoyed it so much, they would make a go as well, and directly I was face first in the drive. I heard shouting, and managed to lift my head enough to see a tall, black-clad figure rushing towards me. My heart leapt up, but the rest of me stayed, sadly, rather rooted in the dirt.
“Jeeves!”
“Oh, sir,” he said, and there was both kindness and horror in his words. Had it not been for the company following him to the rescue, I would gladly have thrown my arms around him and sobbed on his shoulder for all the lost glory that was England. As it was, I found I had no voice at all left, to either sob or speak with. Heedless of his own impeccable attire, he slipped one arm around my waist, while a young lad I recognized as one of the grooms rallied round on the other side. That side, as luck would have it, was the one the stallion had found offensive, and when pressure was applied I went out like the proverbial light.
*******
“A…prank, Jeeves?”
"I fear so, sir."
Rarely I have been called upon to deliver such shocking news to Mr. Wooster. I do believe that if I could have told him that Communists had invaded Britain and begun abducting her finest young gentlemen, it would have been easier for him to accept. His eyes---red around the rims and swollen from lack of restful sleep---gazed at me over the rim of the bathtub.
"But who? Why?"
"The culprits were none other than Mr. Hildebrand Glossop and Mr. Apolonious Fullbright, sir." I puttered around the bathroom, collecting the soiled clothing, which I had been forced, quite literally, to cut from Mr. Wooster's body, everything being far beyond cleaning or repair. I had, of course, suggested summoning a doctor, but Mr. Wooster was adamant that he did not require attention beyond a hot bath and sustenance. One of the footmen had just brought up a cup of tea and plate of biscuits from the kitchen, and I had placed them within easy reach, but Mr. Wooster seemed to have already forgotten their presence.
"Tuppy? And Appy? Are you certain?"
"Positive, sir. Their plan, as they confessed it, was to transport you to a barn near Brinkley Court, make statements which they hoped would cause you some uncomfortable moments, then return to free you and have some merriment at your expense. However," I continued as I stuffed the garments into a canvas bag for prompt disposal, "your dexterity at escaping from them was unexpected. When they returned and found you missing, and were unable to track you, they returned to London to summon assistance. They came to the apartment very early this morning, and I had just disembarked at Brinkley Court before your own fortuitous arrival."
"Did the blighters come with you?"
I passed the offensive bundle out to the footman. "No, sir. They were rather afraid of facing your wrath."
"I would bally well hope so, I---"
At this he winced, and slid so far down into the water that I feared he might drown. He pushed up, gasping for air and shivering. "Jeeves," he muttered, "is my Aunt Dahlia in residence?"
"No, sir. She is currently in London, and Mr. Travers has gone to Bath to take the cure."
"There's a small mercy. But I assume the word has gotten out that I've been found?"
"I did ask Mr. Seppings to ring Mr. Glossop and make him aware that you had reached your relative's house in safety, but to provide no other details."
"Yes, well…I suppose that was the right thing to do, but…Jeeves, I'm going to be the laughing stock of the Drones Club. Why in blue blazes didn't I just stay there, and have it out with them, man to man?"
"Sir, if I might be so bold, there is no reason for you to fault yourself. You were under the impression that your life was endangered."
His brows met, and he shook his head, then laced wet fingers across his face. "I'm a silly ass, Jeeves. Silly and stupid and...even a child would have known better."
Carefully, I knelt beside him. Mr. Wooster is not, by nature, the most self-reflective of gentlemen, and when he does reflect, his musing are generally of a light and even humorous nature. This was a darkness I had not seen before, and it worried me, especially combined as it was with his obvious physical distress.
"Sir, I have no doubt that I would have acted the same way, had I been placed in similar circumstances."
"Yes, but you wouldn't have walked around in circles all day, Jeeves. Or dived into a six foot ditch. You'd probably have feasted on nuts and berries, then sent up smoke signals in Morris Code."
I had put my hand on the rim of the tub, and he laid his head upon my sleeve. "Sir," I coaxed, "your tea will grow cold. Please."
He lifted his face. "Tea?"
"Here, sir. Beside you."
He blinked, then shook his head. "Jeeves…do you think you can rustle up some clothes for me?"
"I anticipated there would be some damage to your attire, sir. I have packed a small suitcase."
"Good. Pull forth the raiment and we shall return to London, posthaste."
I was taken completely off-guard by this sudden order. "Sir---I would not advise it. The weather is still inclement and-"
"Jeeves," he snapped, rather peevishly. "Do you think I want to sit here and know that all the servants are giggling downstairs, laughing at me? It won't do---I won't stay under this roof again until there's been a complete change of staff."
"Will you at least wait until Anatole can prepare you some luncheon, sir?"
"No. No, we will leave as soon as you can shove me into my socks, Jeeves. I've wasted too much time already."
It was pointless to argue. I noted that a high color had come to his cheeks, though at the time I assumed it to be the effect of the hot bath. I brought him towels, and as he rose my eyes were once again drawn to a large and vivid bruise on his right side, where he'd been kicked by the horse.
"Sir, I do wish you---"
"Jeeves, please. Just…lay out my things and have them bring the car around."
"Very good, sir," I said, with no real feeling in the words.
I did the best I could to make sure that Mr. Wooster was comfortable and well-bundled against the cold mist that proved to be our companion all the way to London. I was especially distressed that he would not eat before embarking, and made sure to hastily wrap a sandwich and slip it into my overcoat pocket, thinking that the open air might restore his appetite. He allowed me to drive, and after tucking in the blankets I pushed the self-starter and put the sports model in gear. I noted Mr. Wooster biting his lips as we endured the bumps on the driveway, and was grateful when the road became smooth again. I had managed to talk him into swallowing a common pain remedy just before our hurried departure, but I could tell by the tautness of his face that it had brought him little or no relief. He slumped against the seat, pulled his cap down over his eyes, and attempted to doze.
Once, when we were forced to stop to allow a farmer to herd some cows across the road, he rallied a bit.
"I say, Jeeves...do you still carry that small flask of restorative with you? I could jolly well do with some warming up."
I smiled and removed the silver flask (which had been a most thoughtful birthday present from my employer, two years previously) filled with brandy and undid the stopper for him. He drank with some need, betraying the pain he was going to such lengths to hide.
"Perhaps we should stop at the village tavern, sir. There is one just a few miles up the road, where we could procure luncheon. Some coffee would do you good, I think."
He waved a gloved hand as the last cow sauntered leisurely across the road. "No, no, Jeeves---keep driving."
"Yes, sir," I said, baffled by his insistence that we trudge homeward. At any other time, my master enjoys spending a few hours in a quaint pub, conversing with the locals and playing a sharp game of darts. However, I bit my tongue, realizing that any nagging on my part would simply lead to more peckish behavior on his. Before we even reached the village, he seemed to once again fall asleep, and I was extremely careful with my driving, in hopes of not disturbing him.
We at last reached our building in London. I signaled to the doorman, who signaled to another of the staff that I would require the car taken around to the garage. Mr. Wooster stirred when I laid a hand on his knee.
"Wha…."
"Sir. We're home."
"What? Where?"
"We've returned to London, sir. And here is Master Richard to take the car away."
"Car?" He blinked, pushing roughly at his cap. "What car?"
It was then that I realized how unfocused his eyes were. I hoped it was merely the confusion brought on by uncomfortable sleep and brandy taken on an empty stomach. I exited the vehicle and hurried around to his side, opening the door.
"Sir," I said, as gently as possible, "you need to get out. We must go inside."
He looked up at me as if the simple words baffled him, then nodded and stepped out as I folded the blanket. He swayed and caught himself against the door.
"Why is the street rolling?" he asked.
"Afternoon, Mr. Wooster!" the page boy said. He glanced at my young master’s unsteady form. "Drunk already, is he, Mr. Jeeves?"
For that, the impertinent lad got a stern look from me and not a penny for a tip.
"If you would take my arm, sir," I suggested, speaking softly in Mr. Wooster’s ear. He nodded again and caught hold of my right wrist, then braced himself better.
"I'll be fine, Jeeves. Just a long ride."
Slowly, we made our way up the stairs; I could feel him wobble, but somehow he remained on his feet. When we reached the lift, he slapped his right hand to the wooden paneling.
"It's a rummy thing, isn't it, Jeeves?"
"Sir?"
"Friends, Jeeves. Look what they do to a fellow, what? Really, with friends like Tuppy and Appy, then...what's that wheeze?"
"Who needs enemies, sir?"
"That's the one," he said, and staggered again as he stepped from the lift. I caught his left arm, preventing a fall.
"Am...am I tight, Jeeves?" he asked, in the most innocent of voices.
"No, sir---but I fear you are ill, and much more hurt than you imagined."
"You may…no, I shouldn't…we Woosters don't…"
He could no longer put his thoughts in order. I managed to prop him against the wall while drawing out my key, then ushered him inside. He lifted his head, and in the light of the room I saw a new face, one of childish wonder.
"What a rather nice flat. Who owns it?"
"Sir," I said, giving my voice an edge of parental concern. "You must lie down."
He let me remove his coat, which I did with great caution. "Really? A nap, already?"
"Yes," I said, so rattled now that my own manners were slipping. I guided him into the bedroom and succeeded in getting his jacket off as he stared with glazed eyes at the room's trappings. But when I went to unbutton his waistcoat, I accidentally brushed my knuckles over his right ribs, and he gave what I can only call a piteous wail. He slumped against me, shaking like some frightened animal.
"Sir," I said, with all the authority I could muster, "I am going to summon a doctor, whether you wish one or not."
He did not respond. Very gently, I eased him back onto the pillows. He blinked, and studied my face as if it was unfamiliar to him.
"Yes...perhaps you should do that," he said, and was suddenly and mercifully unconscious.
I do not like to dwell on my memories of the next few days. Suffice it to say that the doctor, once summoned, was most candid in his opinion of our having left Brinkley Court with Mr. Wooster in such a condition. Two ribs were fractured, and my young master had developed a raging fever, followed shortly by deep congestion. His appetite, always so hearty, completely abandoned him. With some effort, I persuaded the doctor that Mr. Wooster would be better in my care than in a hospital ward, and he agreed to this, coming around every morning and evening to check the progress of his patient.
I have never spoken of it to Mr. Wooster, but over the course of several hours that first night, I feared for his life. As a child, I had watched one of my mother's relations succumb to a brain fever, had sat and listened to the old woman's twisted ramblings. For long hours, despite the strong sedative the doctor had administered, Mr. Wooster did the much the same, speaking in disjointed, incoherent ways. He related many tales of his youth, always along the lines of "have I ever told you about how Bingo and I stole the vicar's wife's corset from her clothesline and put it on the squire's prize-winning pig?"
But from time to time he would abruptly reach out, grasp my hand and demand, "Do you love me, Jeeves? Nobody else does."
And that, I must confess, broke my heart more than words will ever express. The more I considered it, the more I felt this sudden and violent illness was caused as much by the mental distress his so-called friends had inflicted, as it had been by the exposure, hunger, and pain. I began to resolve myself to somehow punish the young men who---however inadvertently or carelessly---had done this to the one person I truly loved.
The next morning, the doctor announced that the fever had broken, but the congestion lingered. Throughout the day, Mr. Wooster could not draw a breath without coughing, which in turn pulled and tormented his bound ribs. The doctor's medicines were, I fear, rather puny against the task, and did little more than put him into a state of stupor. An idea occurred to me, and I rang up my sister, requesting something that I knew she would have in her cupboard. A short time later, my nephew arrived at the door, bearing a small package.
"Who was that, Jeeves?" Mr. Wooster asked as I returned and pulled the chair closer to the bedside.
"Johnnie---my youngest nephew, sir. I had him bring something which I think might tender you some relief."
"You have a gun in that box, Jeeves? Then put it to my head-" Another relapse of coughing here presented itself, "-and pull the bally trigger."
"It is not a firearm, sir. Rather, an unguent which was a preparation of my mother's, for when we suffered from colds as small children."
He regarded me through swollen lids. "There was a Mrs. Jeeves?"
"Indeed, sir---or how could there have been a young master Reginald?"
He smiled a bit at that, as I opened the front of his pyjama shirt. "Is it going to hurt?" he asked.
"Not at all, sir. As I remember it, the sensation is rather pleasing."
Cautious of the bandage, I began to apply the salve. It's menthol aroma wafted upwards. Mr. Wooster breathed as deeply as possible.
"My that…does feel good, Jeeves. Like heat in a jug."
"It was always most effective in our household, sir."
"I do hope your mother took out a patent and made a pot of gold. Though I suppose if she had, you wouldn't be here, would you?"
Before I could answer, he slipped one hand over mine and held it pressed just beneath his throat. Mr. Wooster has never been what one would describe as a robust man, and I could feel his breastbone as if his skin was only paper beneath my fingers.
"Jeeves, that is...bally good stuff."
"Thank you, sir. I will pass along your compliments to my sister, who has recreated the original formula." The unguent had, as I suspected, relaxed him to the point of slumber. Carefully, I freed my hand and found a piece of flannel, placing it against his chest before redoing the buttons.
Watching him sleep with newfound peace, I knew that he would recover. I sat back and began to plot how I would avenge him.
*******
I’m normally such a hale and hearty chap that it came as a total surprise to me to find that not only had I been as loony as one of Dr. Glossop’s old birds, I’d also been off my feed and---if the look on Jeeves’ face did not lie---knocking rather insistently at Death’s door. No one had answered, fortunately, and I’d legged it back to the land of the living. But I was as weak as the suckling babe, or at least as weak as I suppose one is, since I don’t really recall being one. It took several days of nourishing broth and slow turns around the flat, always on Jeeves’ steady arms (and once, I’m rather embarrassed to say, actually in them) before Bertram could receive company and once again play the charming host. But when Jeeves told me who my first guests would be, I reacted with a bit of the old Wooster bristle.
“Jeeves, I’m astonished at you. Inviting that rum lot to luncheon, after what they did to me.”
I hovered just inside the kitchen door, watching as Jeeves slaved over the stove, moving pots and pans around like a magician working his tricks. All sorts of delightful and exotic aromas were wafting up from the cookware, setting my mouth to watering. Still, a fellow likes to be master in his own house and have some control over who crosses his threshold, and drooling or not, I had not known, until minutes before, that Jeeves had invited Tuppy and Appy to partake of my largesse. I was none to pleased about it.
“They were most insistent on wishing to offer their apologies in person, sir. And I thought that this might be the best way to---as our American cousins say---‘bury the hatchet.’”
“Let bygones be bygones and all that?” I sighed and let the warm smell of spices ease my resentment. Jeeves may not be Anatole, but he’s quite handy in the kitchen, and has a way with the kind of rash and foolhardy dishes that only bachelors with cast-iron stomach can digest. “I suppose you’re right. You usually are. What are you giving us, by the way?”
“A curried mutton for your guests, sir.”
I raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Just for the guests, Jeeves?”
“Indeed, sir. The doctor recommended that you eat nothing stronger than chicken soup for at least another week.”
“But---but---“
At that, the doorbell rang. Jeeves insisted on ushering me back into my chair before inviting those rotten blighters---I mean Tuppy and Appy---inside.
“Bertie, Old Man,” Tuppy said as he tossed Jeeves his coat, “you have no idea how bad we feel about this silly business and---is that curry?”
Trust Tuppy’s nose to lead him directly to his favorite point, that being, ‘what’s on the menu?’ Appy looked more contrite.
“I confess, it was all my idea, Bertie. I thought such a wheeze would make me a legend at the Drones.”
“As the man who nearly killed Wooster. Yes, that would be a fine way to be remembered,” I said, with some asperity---if that’s the right word. I’m certain that it starts with ‘a.’
“Oh, don’t be dramatic---you’re like a bad penny, you always come back,” Tuppy chided. “If you hadn’t been a silly ass and run away-“
“Well if you hadn’t been a rotten cad and left me---“
“Gentlemen,” Jeeves said brightly, “luncheon is served.”
And so I spent the next hour with the devilish minions of the Red Legion, they feasting on Jeeves’ exquisitely rendered mutton while I sipped chicken soup like a proper invalid.
But anger is a rummy thing---it’s dratted hard to keep it all stoked up, especially when you start telling jokes and stories and chatting about when will that wretched Gussie ever get around to walking Madeleine down the aisle and did you hear about that poor sap, whats-his-name, that Florence has cornered and guess what Oofy did at the Gasfitter’s Ball. Before you know it, you’ve summoned up the port and cigars and suddenly you can’t remember why you hated these fine fellows in the first place.
“Well, we’d best be going,” Tuppy said, reeling a bit as he rose to his feet.
“So soon?”
“Yes, I promised I’d take Angela shopping.” He rubbed a hand over his stomach, making a strange face. “And Appy here is going to meet his fiancée’s parents. He has to ask her father, Lord Weatherby, for permission to marry her, right, Appy?”
Appy could only nod in a dazed sort of way. Odd, but he looked a bit green around the gills, though I suppose that is the way most chaps look when faced with the prospect of laying the goods before the prospective father-in-law, especially when said aged relative is one of the scions of England’s oldest and noblest clans.
“Well, good luck, both of you. I’ll see you at the Drones again next week.”
They tottered out, and I stretched myself on the divan. I felt better than I had in many days, which I could only attribute it to Jeeves’ tender care. Really, had the man not been at my side throughout, I suspect I might have lacked the will to live.
Just then, Jeeves shimmered back into the room with a tray laden with all sorts of delicacies, including a slab of dark chocolate cake topped off with whipped cream and lush strawberries.
“Would you care for some dessert, sir?”
“I…” Jeeves, you see, knows I have a great weakness for chocolate. Which was all the more puzzling, considering that I was under orders not to indulge in any rich foods. “I say, are you trying to torture me?”
“Indeed not, sir.”
“But-“
“I will confess to a certain amount of deception, sir. Your restriction on rich foods ended yesterday.”
“It did? Jolly good,” I said, taking up the china plate and diving into the sinful confection. Then, while chewing with bovine-like contentment, I hit a mental bump. “Jeeves---if that was so, then why did you forbid me the curry? You know how much I love it.”
He stood in front of me and something happened to his face. I could see that he was trying to control it, but a rare imp of amusement was slipping loose and tugging at the corner of one lip. His eyes actually twinkled.
“I do, sir---though this recipe would not have agreed with you, containing---as it did---rather copious amounts of castor oil.”
“Castor oil? But that’s what one uses for---“
I dropped the plate. Jeeves had obviously anticipated that reaction, for he caught it gracefully and returned it to my hands.
“There is an ancient proverb, sir, most likely of Spanish origin. It says that revenge is a dish best served cold. Or, in this instance, with strong spices to mask the unpleasant taste.”
Poor Bertie, so many bad things happen to him in this story. But Jeeves is always there to save the day in the end. (And feel free to read into this whatever you will...)
As always, I apologize for errors and anything else ahead of time. And I tip my hat to Wodehouse, who created such a lovely world!
“I say! There’s been another one!”
Jeeves shimmered into the bedroom at my outburst, looking properly concerned by whatever had agitated the young master over his eggs and b. I gestured to the folded page of the Times, then thrust it at it, allowing him to read the startling article aloud.
“Another young gentleman was found yesterday, in Shoreditch, much disheveled and disoriented, the victim of a kidnapping by a mysterious agency that calls itself the Red Legion. The perpetrators of this outrage are believed to be Communists and radicals bent on acts of revenge against the upper classes. The gentleman, Mr. Robert Sanderford Leopold, was taken from his club on Saturday, and had almost been given up for dead by his friends and family.”
“It’s Sandy, Jeeves,” I said.
“You know the gentleman, sir?”
“Know of him. He’s one of the founding members of the Dunces Club. He couldn’t snag a membership in the Drones, so he and his chums started a society of their own.”
“As I recall, sir, the other person who was also kidnapped, some weeks ago, was a member of the Regents’ Lodge.”
I nodded. “It’s a sad day when a young man can’t walk the streets of London in the daylight without being worried that some whisker-wearing Lenin is going to cosh him over the head and dump him in the gutter, Jeeves.”
“I do believe that all the victims were abducted at late hours, as they were departing their clubs, sir.”
There was something rummy in his voice. I looked up, trying to decipher---if that’s the word I want---what this rumminess implied.
“Jeeves---you’re not saying this is some kind of a lark, are you? A hoax?”
He coughed politely. “If you will forgive me for saying so, sir, young gentlemen are often in their cups after a particularly robust evening in the company of their fellows. It has not been unknown for a young person---especially one who might have committed some indiscretion while under the influence of stimulants---to seek to ‘cover his tracks’ as it were by concocting a fanciful story to explain his disappearance from the scene.”
I had almost lost him at robust. “You’re saying these fellows made it all up?”
“It does seem strange that neither man was held for ransom, sir, or received substantial injuries. Nor was either was able to give more than a general description of his captors.”
“But then...where does this ‘legion’ fit in?”
Jeeves returned the paper to my tray. “There is a popular dime novel series, published in America, by that name, sir. Perhaps the first gentleman decided to use it to give his story more veracity.”
“Ah---and the second bloke followed the first?”
“Exactly, sir.”
I gave it consideration and found it all well and good. “Jeeves, as usual, you have turned a dark misty midnight into a warm and bright summer’s day.”
“It is kind of you to say so, sir. Would you like me to remove the tray now?”
I waved for him to take it. “Don’t you think you should run down to Scotland Yard, set them straight on the matter?”
“I suspect they have already taken measures, sir.”
And that was the last thought I gave to the Red Legion, until that afternoon at the Drones. Bingo was there, as was Oofy and Catsmeat and Tuppy, along with a new member whose name was something that rhymed with Happy---not nappy or chappy, but…I had it just at the tip of my tongue now---ah yes, Appy. From Apolonious, now that I recall. Really, the things that some families do to their male children are simply dreadful.
Anyway, after several games of indoor cricket, and a few rounds of library rugby, we all found ourselves propping up the bar and swapping tales of the great metrop. Catsmeat brought up the kidnappings, which led to a great deal of head shaking and ‘what’s-this-world-coming-to’ from the assembled party.
“Pshaw!” I said brightly.
“What did you say?” our new comrade in arms asked.
“I said ‘Pshaw’! My man Jeeves---who eats fish three meals a day and always solves the crime before Sherlock Holmes does---says this is nothing more than some chappie’s idea of a ruse, to get himself out of the soup. Probably some fellow who knew his fiancé would give him the heave-ho if he stumbled back to her parents’ house tight as an owl again!”
“So he made up a kidnapping? That would be a lot of trouble to go to,” Oofy said.
“Yes, but think of the rewards if it succeeded,” Bingo put into play, alight with inspiration. “The girl might fall madly in love with the wounded hero again, and her parents would be so happy to see him returned unharmed that they would forget about that awful scene at the Plaza in New York with the chambermaid and the cat.”
We all settled our drinks and stared at Bingo, who turned a bright shade of red.
“I only meant, it might work!”
“I disagree with Jeeves,” Catsmeat said. “Communists are all over the streets and byways these days. Sooner or later, one of us is bound to fall into their snares. Just think, if they could take Oofy here, what a fortune they could ask for!”
“Not that Wooster’s poor either,” Bingo reminded.
“Well I still say ‘Tscah!’” I said, with some authority.
“I thought it was ‘Pshaw!’” Appy remarked, as we all wondered who had sponsored him for the Drones in the first place.
That night, I decided to attend a showing of a new motion picture at the bijou on Piccadilly. Something with a trio of Stooges in the title.
“Jeeves, why don’t you accompany me?” I asked. “It’s been a month or more since we’ve taken in one of these little diversions?”
“Thank you sir, but I much prefer to spend the evening with an improving book.”
“Jeeves, at some point I fear that your brain will explode if you keep stuffing it full of so much improving material. It’s rather like a wardrobe isn’t it---at some point there will be so many ties and trousers and shirts and whatnot that it will blast off its hinges?”
“One hopes not, sir. Do enjoy yourself at the cinema.”
And I did, laughing very heartily at the antics of the three clowns and finding myself in fine spirits when I exited. The air was cool and bracing, perfect for a stroll through the park. I was walking along a long row of tall trees when something bounced out of the hedges and landed at my feet.
I halted, curious to see what it was. It looked to be some manner of a ball, though whether a cricket or a tennis ball, I was uncertain. I had just stooped to pick it up when something with the size and agility of a great orangutan threw itself from the darkness, wrapped itself around my shoulders, and applied a rag to my jaw. I was aware of an unpleasant odor, followed by the odd lifting and floating sensation that I had once experienced when having some dental work done on a painful molar. I suddenly reversed course and fell down a rabbit hole. My last coherent thought was to try to call for Jeeves.
I woke with the most fearsome case of morning head imaginable. For some moments I simply laid still and tried to remember what party I had attended, to have wrought such damage to the old b. Then I recalled what had happened in the park, and sweat began to ooze from every pore.
Jeeves had been wrong. There were kidnappers afoot, and I was their latest victim.
I tried to move, and was foiled in my efforts by what felt like rather stout ropes. There was something over my head, a scratchy blanket that smelled of dogs and horses. In fact, the rural odor was rather strong all around me, and something that I presumed to be hay was scratching my cheek. I heard footsteps and rough voices. Not certain of the proper greeting for one’s kidnappers---should I shout heroic defiance like the Wooster knights of old, or would a jolly what-ho be more likely to endear me to them and spare my willowy frame any unnecessary torture?---I chose to lay still and listen.
“Well, Comrade---it is a glorious day, is it not?”
“Yes, Comrade! Today we take over all of England!”
By Jove, this was steep. Approaching the perpendicular, as Jeeves would say.
“Already,” Comrade One was saying, “we have London under control. And all the villages as well!”
My word. Hadn’t someone summoned the army? The navy? The home guard?
“It is a new revolution! All hail the glorious writings of Karl Larx!”
“That’s Marx, you idiot!”
“Oh. Right-ho.”
“Now, we have only to take over the country houses. Do you think our captive is awake?”
I made snoring noises, hoping to disguise my spying on their treason. One of them nudged me in the stomach with his shoe.
“I don’t think he is. Come, Comrade, let’s have some breakfast. There will be time to shoot this Bourgeoisie pig later in the morning.”
And with that they tramped out. I took a deep breath and realized that unless I could somehow free myself before they returned, I would be one of the first martyrs to the Cause. What Cause, I was unsure of, only that I would be martyred to it.
After much twisting and turning and generally unpleasant chaffing, I finally managed, like Houdini, to liberate myself. I threw off the blanket and met the bored eye of a orange striped cat, who considered me from his perch atop a horse stall. It occurred to me as my eyes traveled round the barn that perhaps I could mount one of the several hunting steeds who were lazily munching on their nosebags, and ride for help. Someone, I recalled, had done such a thing and been considered quite the hero for it.
Only as I pulled the tack down from the wall did it also occur to me that I had no idea how to saddle a bally horse. Certainly I could ride one in full tack, but I had no clue how to begin to apply all the straps and harnesses to an animal. Nor did any of the inmates of the barn seem capable of instructing me. I backed away, holding the saddle in several different positions to determine which end went where, when suddenly, and with unintended malice, I trod on the ginger cat’s tail.
The creature let out a wail five times its size. I dropped the saddle on my foot, which caused me to let out a curse. Wail and curses together wakened the horses, making them aware of an intruder in their midst. They began to whiny and stomp, and one---a rather large bay stallion---burst down the door of his stall and thundered out, knocking me to the ground. A sharp pain went through my chest, but I had no time to succumb to whimpering. As the horse galloped through the open doorway, I decided a strategic retreat was in order. I hurried through the opposite door, which opened onto a large, newly plowed field. There was no option but to leg it cross country, my city shoes slopping deep in the manure-spread mire, until the layers of filth were nearly even with my watch chain. I heard a shout somewhere in the distance, and taking it to be the Red Legion in hot pursuit, I doubled my speed until I reached a copse of trees.
Finding an elm with solid branches, I shimmied up it and gasped for air. Every breath brought new tears, and though I could hear Aunt Agatha’s voice chiding me for unmanly and un-Wooster-like behavior, I allowed myself to shed them. If the Communists had taken London, then that meant Jeeves, like all the other servants of the Oppressors of the People, would soon be packed off to the gulags, if not the guillotine. It was that thought alone which brought me out of my hiding place just as a misty rain began to fall.
I had to get back to London, to do what I could for Jeeves.
Considering it safer to stick to the forest route, I began walking. It seemed that I walked for hours, as the rain began to fall with more forcefulness. Soon I could see my breath in puffs of smoke, which had the effect of making me long desperately for a cigarette. Still, I soldiered on, and at last collapsed against a sturdy elm.
I blinked and pushed my sodden hair out of my eyes.
It was the same elm I’d climbed earlier that morning. I’d been walking in bally circles.
At this point, my stomach set out a call, but---having never been a boy scout and thus having no idea what nuts or berries might be safe to eat and which might be deadly---I scolded it for interfering with the business at hand and began trudging along the edge of the field. It was, I believe, the longest field in England, encompassing more land that several of his majesty’s colonies put together. At last, as the twilight gave way to darkness, I saw an old shepherd’s hut. Finding no old shepherd within, I took up residence for the night, curled in my tattered and torn clothing and wishing I’d had the forethought to have stolen the doggy-smelling blanket from the stable.
Jeeves, of course, would have thought of it. Had Jeeves ever been a boy scout, I wondered? Hard to imagine him in the uniform, with the scarf around his neck, making sure to do his daily good deed.
I tried not to imagine anything else, what might be occurring in London, how the radicals might even now be burning down Berkley Mansions or mixing Molotov cocktails atop my piano. I clung to the image of Jeeves, that he would somehow find a way to survive the revolution, and that I would find a way to return to him.
The next morning, I woke in a curled bundle on the floor. Every joint in the long Wooster frame ached, and time had not been a healer to that sore spot along my ribs that still pinged and panged with every breath. The morning was bitterly cold, and I shivered as I made my way along a stone fence, hoping that it would soon lead me to a road. After an hour or more it did, but the road was one of those lonesome English ones so far from civilization that one expects to run up on some barbarian tribe just getting around to boiling a pith-helmeted explorer for breakfast.
At last, I heard the rumble of an engine. I hobbled onto the road to hail it. The large vehicle---which I now perceived to be a van bearing the sign of Earl Grey Tea---only blew its horn at me and nearly ran me down. I dove for the ditch and found myself chest deep in frigid water. I hauled myself out of the slippery bank by slow degrees, wondering what good it would do to get the tea to London on time if there were only Communists around to drink it anyway.
And then it began to rain again. My teeth set to chattering like castanets. I believe I could have danced a solitary tango, had I not sprained my right ankle in my escape from being flattened by the delivery van. Thus incapacitated, I made slow time.
I also grew feverish and delusional. It seemed to me, the longer I walked, that the trail became more and more familiar. The landmarks seemed homelike, and I imagined myself in happier days, zipping along in the Wooster two seater, chatting merrily with Jeeves over this and that and whatnot. I blinked and through the mist and fog I could see the spires of Brinkley Court rising just above the trees.
My word, those trees did look rather...
My jaw unclenched and landed on my chest. What was it the comrade had said, that the manor houses had not yet been captured? Perhaps I would bring them warning, and we would be able to make a last stand. If worst came to worst, at least we could all go out with the taste of Anatole’s unparalleled cuisine on our lips. I staggered forward, limping more painfully with every step, determined that as the last of the Woosters I would not abandon my class.
The drive to Brinkley is long and winding, a fact that I have often admired and approved of while behind the wheel of my dashing sports car. On foot, half crippled, starved, and covered in various layers of mud and manure, I had less appreciation for the vista. At a distance, I noted that several vehicles were pulled up to the gates---perhaps word of the revolution had already reached Aunt Dahlia’s doorstep. Standing round these vehicles were a number of men in overcoats and umbrellas. I halted, gathered what air remained to me, and sang out a greeting that sounded to my ears rather like a half-strangled cat’s yowl.
Then I fell, my knees slamming into the gravel. My elbows said if the knees enjoyed it so much, they would make a go as well, and directly I was face first in the drive. I heard shouting, and managed to lift my head enough to see a tall, black-clad figure rushing towards me. My heart leapt up, but the rest of me stayed, sadly, rather rooted in the dirt.
“Jeeves!”
“Oh, sir,” he said, and there was both kindness and horror in his words. Had it not been for the company following him to the rescue, I would gladly have thrown my arms around him and sobbed on his shoulder for all the lost glory that was England. As it was, I found I had no voice at all left, to either sob or speak with. Heedless of his own impeccable attire, he slipped one arm around my waist, while a young lad I recognized as one of the grooms rallied round on the other side. That side, as luck would have it, was the one the stallion had found offensive, and when pressure was applied I went out like the proverbial light.
*******
“A…prank, Jeeves?”
"I fear so, sir."
Rarely I have been called upon to deliver such shocking news to Mr. Wooster. I do believe that if I could have told him that Communists had invaded Britain and begun abducting her finest young gentlemen, it would have been easier for him to accept. His eyes---red around the rims and swollen from lack of restful sleep---gazed at me over the rim of the bathtub.
"But who? Why?"
"The culprits were none other than Mr. Hildebrand Glossop and Mr. Apolonious Fullbright, sir." I puttered around the bathroom, collecting the soiled clothing, which I had been forced, quite literally, to cut from Mr. Wooster's body, everything being far beyond cleaning or repair. I had, of course, suggested summoning a doctor, but Mr. Wooster was adamant that he did not require attention beyond a hot bath and sustenance. One of the footmen had just brought up a cup of tea and plate of biscuits from the kitchen, and I had placed them within easy reach, but Mr. Wooster seemed to have already forgotten their presence.
"Tuppy? And Appy? Are you certain?"
"Positive, sir. Their plan, as they confessed it, was to transport you to a barn near Brinkley Court, make statements which they hoped would cause you some uncomfortable moments, then return to free you and have some merriment at your expense. However," I continued as I stuffed the garments into a canvas bag for prompt disposal, "your dexterity at escaping from them was unexpected. When they returned and found you missing, and were unable to track you, they returned to London to summon assistance. They came to the apartment very early this morning, and I had just disembarked at Brinkley Court before your own fortuitous arrival."
"Did the blighters come with you?"
I passed the offensive bundle out to the footman. "No, sir. They were rather afraid of facing your wrath."
"I would bally well hope so, I---"
At this he winced, and slid so far down into the water that I feared he might drown. He pushed up, gasping for air and shivering. "Jeeves," he muttered, "is my Aunt Dahlia in residence?"
"No, sir. She is currently in London, and Mr. Travers has gone to Bath to take the cure."
"There's a small mercy. But I assume the word has gotten out that I've been found?"
"I did ask Mr. Seppings to ring Mr. Glossop and make him aware that you had reached your relative's house in safety, but to provide no other details."
"Yes, well…I suppose that was the right thing to do, but…Jeeves, I'm going to be the laughing stock of the Drones Club. Why in blue blazes didn't I just stay there, and have it out with them, man to man?"
"Sir, if I might be so bold, there is no reason for you to fault yourself. You were under the impression that your life was endangered."
His brows met, and he shook his head, then laced wet fingers across his face. "I'm a silly ass, Jeeves. Silly and stupid and...even a child would have known better."
Carefully, I knelt beside him. Mr. Wooster is not, by nature, the most self-reflective of gentlemen, and when he does reflect, his musing are generally of a light and even humorous nature. This was a darkness I had not seen before, and it worried me, especially combined as it was with his obvious physical distress.
"Sir, I have no doubt that I would have acted the same way, had I been placed in similar circumstances."
"Yes, but you wouldn't have walked around in circles all day, Jeeves. Or dived into a six foot ditch. You'd probably have feasted on nuts and berries, then sent up smoke signals in Morris Code."
I had put my hand on the rim of the tub, and he laid his head upon my sleeve. "Sir," I coaxed, "your tea will grow cold. Please."
He lifted his face. "Tea?"
"Here, sir. Beside you."
He blinked, then shook his head. "Jeeves…do you think you can rustle up some clothes for me?"
"I anticipated there would be some damage to your attire, sir. I have packed a small suitcase."
"Good. Pull forth the raiment and we shall return to London, posthaste."
I was taken completely off-guard by this sudden order. "Sir---I would not advise it. The weather is still inclement and-"
"Jeeves," he snapped, rather peevishly. "Do you think I want to sit here and know that all the servants are giggling downstairs, laughing at me? It won't do---I won't stay under this roof again until there's been a complete change of staff."
"Will you at least wait until Anatole can prepare you some luncheon, sir?"
"No. No, we will leave as soon as you can shove me into my socks, Jeeves. I've wasted too much time already."
It was pointless to argue. I noted that a high color had come to his cheeks, though at the time I assumed it to be the effect of the hot bath. I brought him towels, and as he rose my eyes were once again drawn to a large and vivid bruise on his right side, where he'd been kicked by the horse.
"Sir, I do wish you---"
"Jeeves, please. Just…lay out my things and have them bring the car around."
"Very good, sir," I said, with no real feeling in the words.
I did the best I could to make sure that Mr. Wooster was comfortable and well-bundled against the cold mist that proved to be our companion all the way to London. I was especially distressed that he would not eat before embarking, and made sure to hastily wrap a sandwich and slip it into my overcoat pocket, thinking that the open air might restore his appetite. He allowed me to drive, and after tucking in the blankets I pushed the self-starter and put the sports model in gear. I noted Mr. Wooster biting his lips as we endured the bumps on the driveway, and was grateful when the road became smooth again. I had managed to talk him into swallowing a common pain remedy just before our hurried departure, but I could tell by the tautness of his face that it had brought him little or no relief. He slumped against the seat, pulled his cap down over his eyes, and attempted to doze.
Once, when we were forced to stop to allow a farmer to herd some cows across the road, he rallied a bit.
"I say, Jeeves...do you still carry that small flask of restorative with you? I could jolly well do with some warming up."
I smiled and removed the silver flask (which had been a most thoughtful birthday present from my employer, two years previously) filled with brandy and undid the stopper for him. He drank with some need, betraying the pain he was going to such lengths to hide.
"Perhaps we should stop at the village tavern, sir. There is one just a few miles up the road, where we could procure luncheon. Some coffee would do you good, I think."
He waved a gloved hand as the last cow sauntered leisurely across the road. "No, no, Jeeves---keep driving."
"Yes, sir," I said, baffled by his insistence that we trudge homeward. At any other time, my master enjoys spending a few hours in a quaint pub, conversing with the locals and playing a sharp game of darts. However, I bit my tongue, realizing that any nagging on my part would simply lead to more peckish behavior on his. Before we even reached the village, he seemed to once again fall asleep, and I was extremely careful with my driving, in hopes of not disturbing him.
We at last reached our building in London. I signaled to the doorman, who signaled to another of the staff that I would require the car taken around to the garage. Mr. Wooster stirred when I laid a hand on his knee.
"Wha…."
"Sir. We're home."
"What? Where?"
"We've returned to London, sir. And here is Master Richard to take the car away."
"Car?" He blinked, pushing roughly at his cap. "What car?"
It was then that I realized how unfocused his eyes were. I hoped it was merely the confusion brought on by uncomfortable sleep and brandy taken on an empty stomach. I exited the vehicle and hurried around to his side, opening the door.
"Sir," I said, as gently as possible, "you need to get out. We must go inside."
He looked up at me as if the simple words baffled him, then nodded and stepped out as I folded the blanket. He swayed and caught himself against the door.
"Why is the street rolling?" he asked.
"Afternoon, Mr. Wooster!" the page boy said. He glanced at my young master’s unsteady form. "Drunk already, is he, Mr. Jeeves?"
For that, the impertinent lad got a stern look from me and not a penny for a tip.
"If you would take my arm, sir," I suggested, speaking softly in Mr. Wooster’s ear. He nodded again and caught hold of my right wrist, then braced himself better.
"I'll be fine, Jeeves. Just a long ride."
Slowly, we made our way up the stairs; I could feel him wobble, but somehow he remained on his feet. When we reached the lift, he slapped his right hand to the wooden paneling.
"It's a rummy thing, isn't it, Jeeves?"
"Sir?"
"Friends, Jeeves. Look what they do to a fellow, what? Really, with friends like Tuppy and Appy, then...what's that wheeze?"
"Who needs enemies, sir?"
"That's the one," he said, and staggered again as he stepped from the lift. I caught his left arm, preventing a fall.
"Am...am I tight, Jeeves?" he asked, in the most innocent of voices.
"No, sir---but I fear you are ill, and much more hurt than you imagined."
"You may…no, I shouldn't…we Woosters don't…"
He could no longer put his thoughts in order. I managed to prop him against the wall while drawing out my key, then ushered him inside. He lifted his head, and in the light of the room I saw a new face, one of childish wonder.
"What a rather nice flat. Who owns it?"
"Sir," I said, giving my voice an edge of parental concern. "You must lie down."
He let me remove his coat, which I did with great caution. "Really? A nap, already?"
"Yes," I said, so rattled now that my own manners were slipping. I guided him into the bedroom and succeeded in getting his jacket off as he stared with glazed eyes at the room's trappings. But when I went to unbutton his waistcoat, I accidentally brushed my knuckles over his right ribs, and he gave what I can only call a piteous wail. He slumped against me, shaking like some frightened animal.
"Sir," I said, with all the authority I could muster, "I am going to summon a doctor, whether you wish one or not."
He did not respond. Very gently, I eased him back onto the pillows. He blinked, and studied my face as if it was unfamiliar to him.
"Yes...perhaps you should do that," he said, and was suddenly and mercifully unconscious.
I do not like to dwell on my memories of the next few days. Suffice it to say that the doctor, once summoned, was most candid in his opinion of our having left Brinkley Court with Mr. Wooster in such a condition. Two ribs were fractured, and my young master had developed a raging fever, followed shortly by deep congestion. His appetite, always so hearty, completely abandoned him. With some effort, I persuaded the doctor that Mr. Wooster would be better in my care than in a hospital ward, and he agreed to this, coming around every morning and evening to check the progress of his patient.
I have never spoken of it to Mr. Wooster, but over the course of several hours that first night, I feared for his life. As a child, I had watched one of my mother's relations succumb to a brain fever, had sat and listened to the old woman's twisted ramblings. For long hours, despite the strong sedative the doctor had administered, Mr. Wooster did the much the same, speaking in disjointed, incoherent ways. He related many tales of his youth, always along the lines of "have I ever told you about how Bingo and I stole the vicar's wife's corset from her clothesline and put it on the squire's prize-winning pig?"
But from time to time he would abruptly reach out, grasp my hand and demand, "Do you love me, Jeeves? Nobody else does."
And that, I must confess, broke my heart more than words will ever express. The more I considered it, the more I felt this sudden and violent illness was caused as much by the mental distress his so-called friends had inflicted, as it had been by the exposure, hunger, and pain. I began to resolve myself to somehow punish the young men who---however inadvertently or carelessly---had done this to the one person I truly loved.
The next morning, the doctor announced that the fever had broken, but the congestion lingered. Throughout the day, Mr. Wooster could not draw a breath without coughing, which in turn pulled and tormented his bound ribs. The doctor's medicines were, I fear, rather puny against the task, and did little more than put him into a state of stupor. An idea occurred to me, and I rang up my sister, requesting something that I knew she would have in her cupboard. A short time later, my nephew arrived at the door, bearing a small package.
"Who was that, Jeeves?" Mr. Wooster asked as I returned and pulled the chair closer to the bedside.
"Johnnie---my youngest nephew, sir. I had him bring something which I think might tender you some relief."
"You have a gun in that box, Jeeves? Then put it to my head-" Another relapse of coughing here presented itself, "-and pull the bally trigger."
"It is not a firearm, sir. Rather, an unguent which was a preparation of my mother's, for when we suffered from colds as small children."
He regarded me through swollen lids. "There was a Mrs. Jeeves?"
"Indeed, sir---or how could there have been a young master Reginald?"
He smiled a bit at that, as I opened the front of his pyjama shirt. "Is it going to hurt?" he asked.
"Not at all, sir. As I remember it, the sensation is rather pleasing."
Cautious of the bandage, I began to apply the salve. It's menthol aroma wafted upwards. Mr. Wooster breathed as deeply as possible.
"My that…does feel good, Jeeves. Like heat in a jug."
"It was always most effective in our household, sir."
"I do hope your mother took out a patent and made a pot of gold. Though I suppose if she had, you wouldn't be here, would you?"
Before I could answer, he slipped one hand over mine and held it pressed just beneath his throat. Mr. Wooster has never been what one would describe as a robust man, and I could feel his breastbone as if his skin was only paper beneath my fingers.
"Jeeves, that is...bally good stuff."
"Thank you, sir. I will pass along your compliments to my sister, who has recreated the original formula." The unguent had, as I suspected, relaxed him to the point of slumber. Carefully, I freed my hand and found a piece of flannel, placing it against his chest before redoing the buttons.
Watching him sleep with newfound peace, I knew that he would recover. I sat back and began to plot how I would avenge him.
*******
I’m normally such a hale and hearty chap that it came as a total surprise to me to find that not only had I been as loony as one of Dr. Glossop’s old birds, I’d also been off my feed and---if the look on Jeeves’ face did not lie---knocking rather insistently at Death’s door. No one had answered, fortunately, and I’d legged it back to the land of the living. But I was as weak as the suckling babe, or at least as weak as I suppose one is, since I don’t really recall being one. It took several days of nourishing broth and slow turns around the flat, always on Jeeves’ steady arms (and once, I’m rather embarrassed to say, actually in them) before Bertram could receive company and once again play the charming host. But when Jeeves told me who my first guests would be, I reacted with a bit of the old Wooster bristle.
“Jeeves, I’m astonished at you. Inviting that rum lot to luncheon, after what they did to me.”
I hovered just inside the kitchen door, watching as Jeeves slaved over the stove, moving pots and pans around like a magician working his tricks. All sorts of delightful and exotic aromas were wafting up from the cookware, setting my mouth to watering. Still, a fellow likes to be master in his own house and have some control over who crosses his threshold, and drooling or not, I had not known, until minutes before, that Jeeves had invited Tuppy and Appy to partake of my largesse. I was none to pleased about it.
“They were most insistent on wishing to offer their apologies in person, sir. And I thought that this might be the best way to---as our American cousins say---‘bury the hatchet.’”
“Let bygones be bygones and all that?” I sighed and let the warm smell of spices ease my resentment. Jeeves may not be Anatole, but he’s quite handy in the kitchen, and has a way with the kind of rash and foolhardy dishes that only bachelors with cast-iron stomach can digest. “I suppose you’re right. You usually are. What are you giving us, by the way?”
“A curried mutton for your guests, sir.”
I raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Just for the guests, Jeeves?”
“Indeed, sir. The doctor recommended that you eat nothing stronger than chicken soup for at least another week.”
“But---but---“
At that, the doorbell rang. Jeeves insisted on ushering me back into my chair before inviting those rotten blighters---I mean Tuppy and Appy---inside.
“Bertie, Old Man,” Tuppy said as he tossed Jeeves his coat, “you have no idea how bad we feel about this silly business and---is that curry?”
Trust Tuppy’s nose to lead him directly to his favorite point, that being, ‘what’s on the menu?’ Appy looked more contrite.
“I confess, it was all my idea, Bertie. I thought such a wheeze would make me a legend at the Drones.”
“As the man who nearly killed Wooster. Yes, that would be a fine way to be remembered,” I said, with some asperity---if that’s the right word. I’m certain that it starts with ‘a.’
“Oh, don’t be dramatic---you’re like a bad penny, you always come back,” Tuppy chided. “If you hadn’t been a silly ass and run away-“
“Well if you hadn’t been a rotten cad and left me---“
“Gentlemen,” Jeeves said brightly, “luncheon is served.”
And so I spent the next hour with the devilish minions of the Red Legion, they feasting on Jeeves’ exquisitely rendered mutton while I sipped chicken soup like a proper invalid.
But anger is a rummy thing---it’s dratted hard to keep it all stoked up, especially when you start telling jokes and stories and chatting about when will that wretched Gussie ever get around to walking Madeleine down the aisle and did you hear about that poor sap, whats-his-name, that Florence has cornered and guess what Oofy did at the Gasfitter’s Ball. Before you know it, you’ve summoned up the port and cigars and suddenly you can’t remember why you hated these fine fellows in the first place.
“Well, we’d best be going,” Tuppy said, reeling a bit as he rose to his feet.
“So soon?”
“Yes, I promised I’d take Angela shopping.” He rubbed a hand over his stomach, making a strange face. “And Appy here is going to meet his fiancée’s parents. He has to ask her father, Lord Weatherby, for permission to marry her, right, Appy?”
Appy could only nod in a dazed sort of way. Odd, but he looked a bit green around the gills, though I suppose that is the way most chaps look when faced with the prospect of laying the goods before the prospective father-in-law, especially when said aged relative is one of the scions of England’s oldest and noblest clans.
“Well, good luck, both of you. I’ll see you at the Drones again next week.”
They tottered out, and I stretched myself on the divan. I felt better than I had in many days, which I could only attribute it to Jeeves’ tender care. Really, had the man not been at my side throughout, I suspect I might have lacked the will to live.
Just then, Jeeves shimmered back into the room with a tray laden with all sorts of delicacies, including a slab of dark chocolate cake topped off with whipped cream and lush strawberries.
“Would you care for some dessert, sir?”
“I…” Jeeves, you see, knows I have a great weakness for chocolate. Which was all the more puzzling, considering that I was under orders not to indulge in any rich foods. “I say, are you trying to torture me?”
“Indeed not, sir.”
“But-“
“I will confess to a certain amount of deception, sir. Your restriction on rich foods ended yesterday.”
“It did? Jolly good,” I said, taking up the china plate and diving into the sinful confection. Then, while chewing with bovine-like contentment, I hit a mental bump. “Jeeves---if that was so, then why did you forbid me the curry? You know how much I love it.”
He stood in front of me and something happened to his face. I could see that he was trying to control it, but a rare imp of amusement was slipping loose and tugging at the corner of one lip. His eyes actually twinkled.
“I do, sir---though this recipe would not have agreed with you, containing---as it did---rather copious amounts of castor oil.”
“Castor oil? But that’s what one uses for---“
I dropped the plate. Jeeves had obviously anticipated that reaction, for he caught it gracefully and returned it to my hands.
“There is an ancient proverb, sir, most likely of Spanish origin. It says that revenge is a dish best served cold. Or, in this instance, with strong spices to mask the unpleasant taste.”