The Aunt and the Ankh
(Author's note: Jeeves and Wooster, PG, very mild slash. Originally written for lyrebard for Yuletide, and posted here.)
I assure you it was not in my plans to find myself, on the night of Madeline Bassett's wedding to the abominable Spode (round two), dressed in a skirt and clinging to the wall outside the window of her nuptial chamber of bliss. Had I been given the choice, I would have greatly preferred to be in the deepest jungles of Borneo, but alas, circumstances did not permit such luxury.
Let me hasten to add that I was not there out of any prurient interest in the activities going on therein. The contents of Roderick Spode's black shorts are of supreme disinterest to me, the besotted cooings of La Bassett to her "sweetie wumpkins" even less so. I suppose 'disinterest' is not precisely the word I mean there - it's one of those tricky ones that sound as though they mean what they ought to mean, but actually mean something quite else. Jeeves could provide me with the mot juste, I'm sure, but I shall instead presume that the one I've used is juste enough, and you know what I'm on about and leave it at that.
But I suppose this is one of those tales when I have to go back to the beginning of the res to get to the in media bit I've just used to whet your interest, or else it won't make a lick of sense. It was a Wednesday morning (perhaps closer to the pip emma than the ack) when Jeeves appeared with the customary breaking of the fast. "There is a note on the tray as well, sir," he told me.
I plucked the envelope from beside the orange juice. "What ho," I said, studying the exterior. "What's this?"
"I daresay it is an invitation to Lord Sidcup and Miss Bassett's forthcoming nuptials, sir."
An eyebrow was arched. "They're giving it another go? After the last disastrous attempt at matrimony?" To tell the truth, I was rather surprised to be invited, considering I had been indirectly instrumental in having Madeline's wedding dress sprayed with sewage the last time. But the girl hadn't the ability to hold a grudge longer than a few weeks, a month at the outside, and it would seem I had, without even trying, made my way back into her good graces - though, I very much doubted, those of her intended.
"So I have been led to understand, sir. However, according to the notice in this morning's papers, the ceremony is to be a private one, with guests invited only to the reception at Totleigh Towers afterwards."
"Well. Perhaps that's prudent. Bully for them, one supposes. Love does spring eternal, as the chappie said."
"Indeed, sir."
I opened the invitation and withdrew it from its envelope. "What the deuce?" The thing was yellow and oddly flaky, the writing on it full of odd curlicues and surrounded with drawings of little birds and fig leaves and blokes facing sideways.
Jeeves glanced at it. "It would seem that Miss Bassett has her heart set on an Egyptian-themed wedding."
"Egyptian? I thought that went out in '23."
"It is a style that is coming back into vogue of late, sir, with the recent discoveries of Ramses Emerson at Deir el-Bahi..."
I waved a hand dismissively. "Pish-tosh. What I mean to say is, will this involve everyone wrapping themselves in togas and gossamer drapes and clasping asps to ye olde bosom?"
"I fear so, sir."
"What on earth could have possessed the girl to such a fit of mad fancy? Moreover, what's come over the fearsome Spode that he's going along with it?"
"I would hesitate to hazard a guess, sir."
"Whatever happened to having a bit of dignity, I ask you?" I asked as I rose in all my morning splendour from beneath the sanctuary of my counterpane.
I fancied Jeeves was casting a disapproving eye at the violet paisley pattern of my pyjamas as he replied "I do not know, sir." I ignored any hint of frost in his tone and drew on my dressing gown posthaste.
"Well, if it's to be fancy dress, at least everyone there will look as ridiculous as everyone else. See to hunting down a suitable costume for me, will you, Jeeves?"
"With all possible speed, sir."
"Dash it all, Jeeves, how is this thing supposed to go?" I held up the dreaded rectangle of unbleached linen. "Does it wrap like a towel, or is this the part that goes on my head?"
"If you will permit me to assist, sir," he said, and worked some of his usual magic with those clever hands of his. When he drew back, I was at least halfway decently covered, and it didn't feel as though my skirt was about to fall off if it should happen to encounter a stiff draught.
"How do you know all of this?" I asked, incredulous as usual before the onslaught of Jeeves' knowledge.
"I have an acquaintance at the British Museum, sir."
"Of course you do. Tell me who I'm mean to be again?" I asked as he assisted me with the striped head-dress and gold medallions and other baubles and bangles and dangly bits that Ancient Egyptian blokes were apparently quite big on.
"The costume is appropriate for a pharaoh of the Old Kingdom, sir, dating to perhaps the Sixth Dynasty. The most famous ruler of that era was Pepi Neferkare, whose name means "Beautiful is the soul of Ra," and who reputedly ruled for ninety-four years..."
"Good old Peppy Nevercarry, right. I have to say, I don't feel very peppy. I feel downright cold."
"The Egyptians, I fancy, had a more forgiving climate."
"Well, quite! What kind of lunatic requires her guests to go about shirtless and draped in gold in March, I ask you?"
"One hopes the hall will be well-heated, sir."
"Tropically so, if our nipples aren't to shatter."
"Indeed, sir." Jeeves' own costume was slightly more decorous than mine, including as it did a strategically-wrapped cloak, but still exposed rather more skin than one is used to seeing outside the confines of the boudoir. Still, he carried it off with aplomb, as though he'd been born to wear linen kilts and carry a mace. The mace, he had indicated, was essential to the costume, as he was meant to be some general or other whose name I'd inevitably forgotten. I only hoped I wouldn't have to borrow it from him to brain any ardent young Cleopatras who might throw themselves (or their asps) at me.
"Now, sir, if you would sit so that I might apply your kohl…"
I gave a longsuffering sigh and did as I was told.
The guest list was a veritable Who's Who of notable individuals in regrettable get-ups. I attempted to blend in, as best as one is able to do when wearing seventeen pounds of gold jewelry and sporting a starched linen head-dress.
"Smashing costume, Bertie!" cried Stiffy Byng - rather, Stiffy Pinker now - bounding over to me before I could pretend to have spotted someone quite important in the corner. She was wearing some sort of diaphanous, gauzy little number that left rather little to the imagination, and had a pair of golden snakes (possibly asps?) coiled about her upper arms. "You look just like King Tut!"
"I think I'm meant to be good old King Peppy," I said, a bit doubtfully. "Jeeves would remember the name," I added, casting about for him optimistically. Alas, he was nowhere to be seen.
Stiffy looked dubious. "Are you sure you heard that right?"
"No," I confessed. "I might have made it up. I say, when did the siren song of the Nile call out to Madeline?"
"Ever since the church fête, when the fortune teller told her she was some Egyptian queen or other reborn. She's gotten quite keen on it since then."
"You don't say," I said, eyeing the swaying palm fronds and hors d'oeuvres involving suspicious amounts of lentils and dates and mysterious things wrapped in oily little leaves. I wouldn't have been surprised if a camel had wandered by with a drinks tray strapped to its hump.
"I don't mind it," she continued blithely. "You look dishy as anything. Almost as nice as Harold. I like the eyeliner." And then she patted me on the backside, in a manner quite inappropriate for a married woman, or indeed an unmarried one. I might have flinched, but she didn't notice, already galloping off to pounce on some other poor unsuspecting guest.
"What ho, Bertie," said a rather droopy Fink-Nottle. He was sporting a drab tunic with an outrageously large, stiff collar that made him look as though his head was being served on a platter with a side of gold-encrusted lettuce. I was beginning to wonder if Madeline had invited all of her former fiancés, just for the fun of it.
"What ho, Gussie," I returned his greeting with all the enthusiasm I could muster. "I take it from your solitary presence here that things have gone awry with Emerald Stoker?"
He gave a sigh so gusty he nearly blew the side-dish off his collar. "Em's father cut off her allowance and ordered her back to New York when she tried to tell him about our engagement. I gather he's none too fond of newts, either."
Lack of fondness for newts on the part of the putative father-in-law had been the undoing of many an engagement of Gussie's. It had often made me wish I'd had the foresight to cultivate some obscure and socially unacceptable hobby in my youth, something I could pull out at necessary intervals to extricate myself from unwanted matches. Competitive blancmange eating, say, or, collecting potatoes that resemble celebrities.
"Chin up, Gussie," I told him. "The hour is always darkest just before the dawn, et cetera." But before I could dispense any further words of encouragement, Madeline made her entrance into the hall, on the arm of her new husband.
She was in a flimsy-looking gossamer robe trimmed with gold, looking like a blonde Theda Bara, but rather bare-er. Not a few eyebrows were raised, and I daresay various other appendages as well. I could only presume that she’d changed after the wedding, since I doubted the good old C of E went in for semi-nude weddings. Spode, on the other hand, looked positively dyspeptic, wrapped up snugly in a sheet as though he were a particularly ugly infant Jesus in swaddling clothes. Both of them had crowns lavishly decorated with potential asps, and Spode carried a crook and flail that he was juggling about, trying to keep one arm free for his bride so she didn't take a header coming down the stairs.
"Thank you all so much for coming," Madeline chirped once they were safely on solid ground once more. "It means so much to Roderick and I to have all our friends and family here to celebrate with us. I call upon the blessing of Neith, goddess of fertility, upon this marriage," she continued in the same sprightly tone, "and ask that she weave happiness upon her loom for all those present. Nurse of Crocodiles, Great Cow who gave birth to Ra, look down over us with mercy and joy." She jingled some little bells on a stick, which was apparently some sort of signal, for the musicians struck up a rather zithery and jangly tune, not well-suited for dancing, though a few brave souls gave it their best effort.
"She’s like a goddess," sighed Gussie hopelessly, then added "After all, what is a crocodile but a sort of overgrown newt?" I knew then that he was once again lost to the dubious charms of the newly-minted Countess of Sidcup. Frankly, I thought it rather unsporting of him to be swayed so easily, and by a married woman, and especially after all she'd put him through, with the steak and kidney pie and so forth. But, the heart has its reasons whereof reason doesn't know a dashed thing, and so forth. Gussie meandered off, still mooning over Madeline, and I escaped to what I hoped was the safety of the drawing room. Alas, it was not the sanctuary I had hoped it to be.
"Bertie, what on earth were you thinking!" declared Aunt Dahlia. The aged relative was gussied up for the occasion in a blue drapey ensemble, more or less suitable for someone of her age and station. As a nod to the Egyptian theme, she'd deigned to wear a jewel-encrusted scarab brooch, but otherwise she'd sensibly avoided the excesses of other guests, as I was beginning to wish I'd done.
"It was Jeeves' choice," I protested. Aunt Dahlia softened at once - she was irrationally fond of Jeeves, and any idea he had was, in her view, likely to be eminently sensible, even if it included parading young Bertram's bare chest about in full view of the unsuspecting public.
"Bertie," she told me, drawing me aside, "did you notice that silver ankh Spode was wearing?"
"His aunt? I saw Mrs. Wintergreen, of course, with Sir Watkyn, but he wasn't wearing her…"
"You are wearing on your aunt, Bertram Wooster. The ankh. The loopy cross about his neck," she clarified.
"Oh, that."
"You didn't notice, did you."
"Well, now that you mention it, I think I recall..."
"You've got one about your own neck as well, you know."
"Do I really?" I glanced down. Sure enough, she was spot on.
"No doubt you were too busy ogling his wife."
"I, uh, no..."
"Do stop dribbling, Bertie, and listen closely. I want that ankh."
"But... why?" I managed to choke out. "You're not going in for all this Egyptian flim-flammery too, are you?"
"Yours is not to wonder why," she trumpeted. "Yours is but to do or die."
The Wooster brow quite naturally furrowed at that. "I say, dying is a bit strong, don't you think, Aunt Dahlia?"
"Perhaps so. Let's amend that to 'yours is but to do or get a boot up the backside,' shall we?"
"Understood."
"Besides, I thought it might make a nice present for Tom. He loves antique silver, don't you know, and this is as antique as it gets."
I wasn't looking forward to the task, but then, it would hardly feel like a weekend in the country if I wasn't asked to steal something. I help out a forlorn hope that, lost in the raptures of newly-wedded bliss, Spode might be easily distracted, or at least in a forgiving sort of mood.
I finally tracked down Jeeves in the company of several other valets, who were admiring his costume. "Jeeves," I announced, "I have need of your services."
"At once, sir." He stepped aside to a discreet distance. "Is there some difficulty with your skirt?"
"No, the skirt remains as firmly fastened as ever." I fancied he looked almost disappointed, but I breezed onwards. "No, I require your assistance in a matter of domestic larceny."
"I see, sir. And whom does Mrs. Travers wish for you to burgle this evening?"
"Jeeves, how did you know…?"
"It is nearly always Mrs. Travers, sir, when domestic larceny is involved."
"Well spotted. Tonight, the victim is the bridegroom."
"Very good, sir. And what will you be relieving Lord Sidcup of, precisely?"
"The ant, around his neck."
Jeeves pondered that for a moment. "Ah," he said eventually. "The ankh, I fancy."
"Yes, well, Aunt Dahlia fancies it too, it seems."
"I noticed it myself, sir. It appears to be quite a lovely example of the Eighteenth Dynasty, but..."
"Never mind that now. How am I going to get it off him?"
"If you will permit me to ponder that question for a few moments, sir, I may be able to provide a solution."
"Very well. I'll leave you and that massive brain of yours to come up with something brilliant."
"Your trust is most gratifying, sir."
I moseyed back into the ballroom with a renewed spring in my mosey. Jeeves would solve the problem, and all would be right with the world once more. I was moseying so cheerfully, in fact, that I almost moseyed into the happy couple themselves.
"Bertie!" gushed Madeline, wheeling on me like a sweet, fluffy hawk who's spotted a particularly tasty vole. "How good of you to come!" Her tone managed to convey both a bubbling effervescence and pity for my permanent loss of her affections.
"Oh, well, couldn't miss it," I said, keeping the old eyes fixed firmly above the neck. "Congratulations and so forth, wishing you every joy, don't you know."
Spode merely harrumphed in my direction. He, apparently, was still not speaking to me. That was just as well - a conversation with Spode generally didn't end on the best of notes. Or begin on it either, or even happen to strike it by accident in the middle.
"And your costume is simply darling! I had no idea you were such a connoisseur of the Old Kingdom!"
"Oh yes, can't get enough of it. Pyramids, mummies, sphinges…"
"Sphinxes?"
"Yes, those. Marvellous fellows."
She admired one of my medallions. "This talisman... it has a very strong energy. I feel strangely drawn to it."
"Do you really?" I glanced down at the thing in question, which looked to me rather like a cow.
"Yes. It's a symbol of Neith, you see, and in my past life, I was a queen, and high priestess of her cult. Perhaps I wore this very necklace!"
"Oh, I shouldn't think so. I think Jeeves got it at a jumble sale."
She pretended she hadn't heard me. "I felt the very same pull to Roderick's ankh when he brought it home as a present for me. Why, I told him, it might have belonged to you when you were a great pharaoh! And so I insisted he should be the one to wear it, naturally."
"Pharaoh Spode, eh?" He did seem the type to enjoy lobbing babies into the Nile, I had to admit.
"Oh yes. It's clear from the vibrancy of his aura that his soul is one of those that is perpetually destined for greatness!" she gushed adoringly. If so, it had rather come down in the world, I thought but wisely didn't say. That old saw about discretion and valour and whatnot. Spode took all of this fulsome praise manfully if silently, though I thought I detected a hint of rosyness about those fleshy cheeks at the mention of the blasted ankh.
"And what about you, Bertie," she continued undaunted. "Who are you meant to be?"
"Oh, King Peppy, don't you know? Reigned for a dashed long time, apparently."
"Pepi Neferkare?" There was an unwholesome glee in her syrupy voice.
"That's the ticket," I said warily.
"Why, you couldn't have known - it's fate at work, clearly!"
"It is?"
"Certainly! In my former incarnation, I was his wife, Neith. And sister," she added as an afterthought.
"I say," I said, not having much else to say. Marrying one's sister was entirely outside the pale, though I supposed pharaohs could get away with that sort of mischief, being practically gods and so forth.
Madeline clung to my arm like a scantily-clad limpet. "It's sweet of you to make such a gesture, Bertie, but it's too late. Roderick and I are married now, and although of course you may always continue to admire me from afar, any hopes you had cherished of our union must now be set aside."
"Right ho," I said, trying to sound appropriately grief-stricken-yet-bearing-up-bravely.
She patted my cheek affectionately. "Dear, dear Bertie. I shall miss you." She fluttered her bejeweled fingers in my direction and departed on the arm of her beetle-browed husband, much to my relief.
As I retrieved a gin and tonic, heavy on the g. and light on the t., I found myself once again in the company of Gussie Fink-Nottle, who was also imbibing rather heavily of the fruit of the juniper. "It's hopeless this time, isn't it, Bertie," he said, despondent. Evidently he too had had conversation with Madeline that evening. The effects on his countenance were all too clear.
"Rather," I agreed. "They've actually tied the knot - it seems unlikely she can back out of it now." He nodded glumly. Thinking to cheer him up, I added "At least you don't have to steal an anky from her husband."
He seemed puzzled. "A hanky?"
"No, ah… the silver jobby around his neck."
"Oh. How are you going to manage that?"
"I haven't the foggiest."
"Well, why not pop into their room, hide there, and snatch it when he takes it off?"
Perhaps it was the g. starting to take hold, but something in the way he said it made it seem an eminently sensible plan. I had the niggling suspicion that he harboured an ulterior motive, to whit, the prospect of disrupting Madeline's wedding night, but that was only because he lacked confidence in my well-honed burglary skills.
And so it was that I found myself, as I mentioned back at the start of this unhappy tale, clinging to the exterior of Totleigh Towers, attempting to violate the sanctity of Madeline's bridal suite. Gussie had assured me that before the couple retired I could secret myself behind the lacquered screen which he assured me would be in the room, and then, once they were safely ensconced, disrobed, and otherwise occupied, it would be a simple matter to retrieve the ankh and make my escape via the window once more. He would be waiting in the garden below to assist in my hasty flight.
In retrospect, I should have guessed it wouldn't be nearly so simple. Somehow, it never is.
Entering the room itself proved quite challenging, and I very nearly ended up in Sir Watkyn's bedchamber by mistake, which would have been difficult in the utmost to explain. However, thanks to Spode's noxious opinion that fresh air, even in the depths of March, was healthy for the lungs, I managed to slip into the as-yet-empty room and conceal myself behind the aforementioned screen, crouching down and making myself as unobtrusive as possible. I wished I had thought to remove the blasted head-dress, at the very least, but it was too late for that now.
It was about the time my legs were cramping up that the happy couple made their appearance. Thanks be to all the merciful powers, I couldn't see anything that was going on in the darkened room, but what I could hear would have chilled the blood of even the staunchest thief. Madeline, as one might have suspected, had a penchant for adorable pet names, and was a squealer of the most ear-shattering variety. Spode, the great ape, was thankfully less demonstrative in his affections, and confined himself to the occasional grunt.
When the bedsprings began to creak and it seemed likely that the blushing bride was being well and thoroughly rodericked, I deemed that no safer time to secure the item was likely to present itself, and so I crawled from the safety of my hiding place, feeling about on the floor in hopes that my quarry would fall into my hand swiftly so that I could make good my escape.
I fumbled about through piles of discarded drapery, trying desperately to ignore the sounds emanating from the region of the bed, until at last, mercifully, my fingers closed around the sticky-outy part of the ankh. As slowly and quietly as possible, I began to creep back toward the open window.
At that moment, however, Madeline let out a particularly piercing shriek, and I jumped involuntarily, as anyone might do under such circumstances. Unfortunately, my jump happened to knock over the screen, and then the shrieking grew rather less ecstatic and more angry. I caught an unfortunate glimpse of the sock-suspenders still fastened about Spode's beefy calves before I managed to throw myself out the window, catching hold of the drainpipe to prevent my imminent demise from either ground- or Spode-related trauma.
Unfortunately, my skirt, which had miraculously, thanks to Jeeves' careful folding, stayed in place so far, chose that moment to snag on a nail and begin to unfurl itself and flap in the breeze like some great beige flag advertising my predicament. With both hands firmly clasping the drainpipe and the ankh between my teeth, there was little I could do to prevent it from making its escape, which shortly it did, fluttering off merrily in the direction of Totleigh-on-the-Wold. If I had thought the night air cool before, it was nothing compared to the chill that now enveloped my nether regions.
Spode was by then bellowing out the window after me, but was thankfully prevented by his own state of relative undress from pursuing me directly. The blasted head-dress actually did some good at first, preventing as it did my immediate identification, but when Madeline stuck her head out the window as well, she immediately recognized its distinctive pattern. "Why," she exclaimed, "is that Bertie?!"
I hit the ground running and made for the shelter of the shrubberies at top speed. We Woosters may not be natural-born athletes, but we are blessed with a singular, overriding instinct to keep our skins in one piece, and that was what spurred me onwards. Fink-Nottle, the worm, was nowhere to be found, no doubt having scarpered at the first sign of trouble.
"Sir!" called a low voice from the shadows. I turned in relief to see Jeeves standing there, offering me his cloak, which I accepted gratefully as a balm to my wounded dignity.
"I should have waited for you, Jeeves," I admitted, absolutely chock full of rue. "You'd have come up with something better."
"Perhaps, sir," was all he said, but the patient smile that played about his lips was sufficient to show forgiveness for my many failings.
"We should hurry to Aunt Dahlia and rid ourselves of this ruddy trinket before we're snaffled. It's probably already too late, Madeline can certainly pick me out of a lineup."
"I believe, sir, that we may proceed cautiously, and with a certain degree of optimism," Jeeves said as he straightened my head-dress and hung the stolen ankh about my neck, where it blended in admirably with the baubles already there. "Lord and Lady Sidcup, I daresay, will be some time before they begin the hunt in earnest. Perhaps Lord Sidcup may even be lured back to the charms of his lady wife."
I shuddered involuntarily at the mention of Madeline's charms, and Jeeves patted me consolingly on the shoulder. "Have no fear, sir. Everything will fall out as it should." When he spoke to me like that, there was nothing I could do but trust him.
The party was in its death throes when we made our way back into the hall. But Aunt Dahlia was there, hovering like a vulture in wait for a tasty carcass. "Did you get it, Bertie?" she asked as soon as I was within pecking distance.
"Excuse me, Mrs. Travers," Jeeves said smoothly, interposing himself between me and the aged relative. "But I believe the item in question is unlikely to be of great interest to you or your husband."
"Why not?" she exclaimed.
He held out his hand to me, and I removed the object under discussion. "If you will observe, Mrs. Travers," Jeeves said, proffering it to her for her inspection.
She considered it for a moment, then nodded. "Quite right, as usual, Jeeves. Thank you for sparing us from a rather embarrassing situation."
"Sparing you?" I blurted. "You weren't the one dashing about the garden in your knickers!"
"And I'm quite pleased about it. Thank you for your efforts, Bertie, but in this case, they've proven unnecessary."
"Could somebody tell me what the deuce is going on here?" I began, but was rudely interrupted by the return of the bride and groom, by all appearances hastily re-robed.
"Wooster!" roared Spode, spotting his quarry.
"Bertie, what on earth!" cried Madeline, visibly distraught.
I remained hiding behind Jeeves. It seemed the safest course of action under the circumstances.
"Lord Sidcup," Jeeves began in his most authoritative yet placating tone. "Mr. Wooster wishes to apologize for his presumption."
"I do?" I peered at Jeeves, who nodded imperceptibly. "I do."
"When he observed that your ankh was of recent vintage, and knowing your wife's concern with authenticity, he was quite naturally distraught on your behalf. Wishing to spare you similar distress on the eve of your wedding, he took it upon himself to attempt to replace the offending piece with his own, which is genuinely ancient."
Madeline turned on her husband, eyes wide as saucers. "Is it true, Roderick? Is it a forgery?"
Spode's face was crimson as a rather large and lumpy beet. "I, uh…. It can't be."
"You told me it was three thousand years old!"
Jeeves passed the offending ankh back to Spode, and continued. "If you examine the item closely, I daresay you will notice that it bears several signs of more recent manufacture. It is a blend of silver and zinc, rather than the customary lead employed by the Egyptians, and is remarkably unmarred by the passage of centuries."
"Roderick, how could you deceive me so?!"
"Madeline, I didn't…"
Discreet as ever, Jeeves took me by the arm and we made our hasty escape to my guest room while the newlyweds began the first quarrel of their married life.
"Top notch work, as usual, Jeeves," I said as I was readying myself for bed that night.
"Thank you, sir. I do my best," he replied, modest as always.
"Is this really an antique?" I asked, removing the matching pendant from around my neck.
"No, sir, but I trusted that Lord Sidcup would not take the time to examine it too closely once he was preoccupied with more pressing matters."
"Genius, Jeeves, purest genius."
He merely smiled as he placed the final ornaments in their proper cases, dignified as ever despite having sacrificed the top half of his costume to preserve my modesty.
"As a gesture of thanks," I continued, "when we return home, I shall henceforth refrain from the paisley pyjamas."
"Thank you, sir," he said, turning to face me. "I confess, I have already taken the liberty of disposing of them."
Even though that left me without a stitch to wear to bed, I could hardly complain.
"Did I tell you the full story of Pepi Neferkare and his faithful general Sasenet, sir?"
"I don't believe you did, Jeeves."
"It was said that, in addition to protecting his charge from harm, the general regularly… amused his king, 'because there was no woman there for him,' sir. If you take my meaning." He waited, as though expecting me to say something.
"Well," I said. "Well, well, well." And then I added another "well," just for good measure. It seemed the only thing to say, under the circumstances. "Nothing new under the sun, I suppose, eh Jeeves?"
"No, sir," he replied, and smiled again.
I assure you it was not in my plans to find myself, on the night of Madeline Bassett's wedding to the abominable Spode (round two), dressed in a skirt and clinging to the wall outside the window of her nuptial chamber of bliss. Had I been given the choice, I would have greatly preferred to be in the deepest jungles of Borneo, but alas, circumstances did not permit such luxury.
Let me hasten to add that I was not there out of any prurient interest in the activities going on therein. The contents of Roderick Spode's black shorts are of supreme disinterest to me, the besotted cooings of La Bassett to her "sweetie wumpkins" even less so. I suppose 'disinterest' is not precisely the word I mean there - it's one of those tricky ones that sound as though they mean what they ought to mean, but actually mean something quite else. Jeeves could provide me with the mot juste, I'm sure, but I shall instead presume that the one I've used is juste enough, and you know what I'm on about and leave it at that.
But I suppose this is one of those tales when I have to go back to the beginning of the res to get to the in media bit I've just used to whet your interest, or else it won't make a lick of sense. It was a Wednesday morning (perhaps closer to the pip emma than the ack) when Jeeves appeared with the customary breaking of the fast. "There is a note on the tray as well, sir," he told me.
I plucked the envelope from beside the orange juice. "What ho," I said, studying the exterior. "What's this?"
"I daresay it is an invitation to Lord Sidcup and Miss Bassett's forthcoming nuptials, sir."
An eyebrow was arched. "They're giving it another go? After the last disastrous attempt at matrimony?" To tell the truth, I was rather surprised to be invited, considering I had been indirectly instrumental in having Madeline's wedding dress sprayed with sewage the last time. But the girl hadn't the ability to hold a grudge longer than a few weeks, a month at the outside, and it would seem I had, without even trying, made my way back into her good graces - though, I very much doubted, those of her intended.
"So I have been led to understand, sir. However, according to the notice in this morning's papers, the ceremony is to be a private one, with guests invited only to the reception at Totleigh Towers afterwards."
"Well. Perhaps that's prudent. Bully for them, one supposes. Love does spring eternal, as the chappie said."
"Indeed, sir."
I opened the invitation and withdrew it from its envelope. "What the deuce?" The thing was yellow and oddly flaky, the writing on it full of odd curlicues and surrounded with drawings of little birds and fig leaves and blokes facing sideways.
Jeeves glanced at it. "It would seem that Miss Bassett has her heart set on an Egyptian-themed wedding."
"Egyptian? I thought that went out in '23."
"It is a style that is coming back into vogue of late, sir, with the recent discoveries of Ramses Emerson at Deir el-Bahi..."
I waved a hand dismissively. "Pish-tosh. What I mean to say is, will this involve everyone wrapping themselves in togas and gossamer drapes and clasping asps to ye olde bosom?"
"I fear so, sir."
"What on earth could have possessed the girl to such a fit of mad fancy? Moreover, what's come over the fearsome Spode that he's going along with it?"
"I would hesitate to hazard a guess, sir."
"Whatever happened to having a bit of dignity, I ask you?" I asked as I rose in all my morning splendour from beneath the sanctuary of my counterpane.
I fancied Jeeves was casting a disapproving eye at the violet paisley pattern of my pyjamas as he replied "I do not know, sir." I ignored any hint of frost in his tone and drew on my dressing gown posthaste.
"Well, if it's to be fancy dress, at least everyone there will look as ridiculous as everyone else. See to hunting down a suitable costume for me, will you, Jeeves?"
"With all possible speed, sir."
"Dash it all, Jeeves, how is this thing supposed to go?" I held up the dreaded rectangle of unbleached linen. "Does it wrap like a towel, or is this the part that goes on my head?"
"If you will permit me to assist, sir," he said, and worked some of his usual magic with those clever hands of his. When he drew back, I was at least halfway decently covered, and it didn't feel as though my skirt was about to fall off if it should happen to encounter a stiff draught.
"How do you know all of this?" I asked, incredulous as usual before the onslaught of Jeeves' knowledge.
"I have an acquaintance at the British Museum, sir."
"Of course you do. Tell me who I'm mean to be again?" I asked as he assisted me with the striped head-dress and gold medallions and other baubles and bangles and dangly bits that Ancient Egyptian blokes were apparently quite big on.
"The costume is appropriate for a pharaoh of the Old Kingdom, sir, dating to perhaps the Sixth Dynasty. The most famous ruler of that era was Pepi Neferkare, whose name means "Beautiful is the soul of Ra," and who reputedly ruled for ninety-four years..."
"Good old Peppy Nevercarry, right. I have to say, I don't feel very peppy. I feel downright cold."
"The Egyptians, I fancy, had a more forgiving climate."
"Well, quite! What kind of lunatic requires her guests to go about shirtless and draped in gold in March, I ask you?"
"One hopes the hall will be well-heated, sir."
"Tropically so, if our nipples aren't to shatter."
"Indeed, sir." Jeeves' own costume was slightly more decorous than mine, including as it did a strategically-wrapped cloak, but still exposed rather more skin than one is used to seeing outside the confines of the boudoir. Still, he carried it off with aplomb, as though he'd been born to wear linen kilts and carry a mace. The mace, he had indicated, was essential to the costume, as he was meant to be some general or other whose name I'd inevitably forgotten. I only hoped I wouldn't have to borrow it from him to brain any ardent young Cleopatras who might throw themselves (or their asps) at me.
"Now, sir, if you would sit so that I might apply your kohl…"
I gave a longsuffering sigh and did as I was told.
The guest list was a veritable Who's Who of notable individuals in regrettable get-ups. I attempted to blend in, as best as one is able to do when wearing seventeen pounds of gold jewelry and sporting a starched linen head-dress.
"Smashing costume, Bertie!" cried Stiffy Byng - rather, Stiffy Pinker now - bounding over to me before I could pretend to have spotted someone quite important in the corner. She was wearing some sort of diaphanous, gauzy little number that left rather little to the imagination, and had a pair of golden snakes (possibly asps?) coiled about her upper arms. "You look just like King Tut!"
"I think I'm meant to be good old King Peppy," I said, a bit doubtfully. "Jeeves would remember the name," I added, casting about for him optimistically. Alas, he was nowhere to be seen.
Stiffy looked dubious. "Are you sure you heard that right?"
"No," I confessed. "I might have made it up. I say, when did the siren song of the Nile call out to Madeline?"
"Ever since the church fête, when the fortune teller told her she was some Egyptian queen or other reborn. She's gotten quite keen on it since then."
"You don't say," I said, eyeing the swaying palm fronds and hors d'oeuvres involving suspicious amounts of lentils and dates and mysterious things wrapped in oily little leaves. I wouldn't have been surprised if a camel had wandered by with a drinks tray strapped to its hump.
"I don't mind it," she continued blithely. "You look dishy as anything. Almost as nice as Harold. I like the eyeliner." And then she patted me on the backside, in a manner quite inappropriate for a married woman, or indeed an unmarried one. I might have flinched, but she didn't notice, already galloping off to pounce on some other poor unsuspecting guest.
"What ho, Bertie," said a rather droopy Fink-Nottle. He was sporting a drab tunic with an outrageously large, stiff collar that made him look as though his head was being served on a platter with a side of gold-encrusted lettuce. I was beginning to wonder if Madeline had invited all of her former fiancés, just for the fun of it.
"What ho, Gussie," I returned his greeting with all the enthusiasm I could muster. "I take it from your solitary presence here that things have gone awry with Emerald Stoker?"
He gave a sigh so gusty he nearly blew the side-dish off his collar. "Em's father cut off her allowance and ordered her back to New York when she tried to tell him about our engagement. I gather he's none too fond of newts, either."
Lack of fondness for newts on the part of the putative father-in-law had been the undoing of many an engagement of Gussie's. It had often made me wish I'd had the foresight to cultivate some obscure and socially unacceptable hobby in my youth, something I could pull out at necessary intervals to extricate myself from unwanted matches. Competitive blancmange eating, say, or, collecting potatoes that resemble celebrities.
"Chin up, Gussie," I told him. "The hour is always darkest just before the dawn, et cetera." But before I could dispense any further words of encouragement, Madeline made her entrance into the hall, on the arm of her new husband.
She was in a flimsy-looking gossamer robe trimmed with gold, looking like a blonde Theda Bara, but rather bare-er. Not a few eyebrows were raised, and I daresay various other appendages as well. I could only presume that she’d changed after the wedding, since I doubted the good old C of E went in for semi-nude weddings. Spode, on the other hand, looked positively dyspeptic, wrapped up snugly in a sheet as though he were a particularly ugly infant Jesus in swaddling clothes. Both of them had crowns lavishly decorated with potential asps, and Spode carried a crook and flail that he was juggling about, trying to keep one arm free for his bride so she didn't take a header coming down the stairs.
"Thank you all so much for coming," Madeline chirped once they were safely on solid ground once more. "It means so much to Roderick and I to have all our friends and family here to celebrate with us. I call upon the blessing of Neith, goddess of fertility, upon this marriage," she continued in the same sprightly tone, "and ask that she weave happiness upon her loom for all those present. Nurse of Crocodiles, Great Cow who gave birth to Ra, look down over us with mercy and joy." She jingled some little bells on a stick, which was apparently some sort of signal, for the musicians struck up a rather zithery and jangly tune, not well-suited for dancing, though a few brave souls gave it their best effort.
"She’s like a goddess," sighed Gussie hopelessly, then added "After all, what is a crocodile but a sort of overgrown newt?" I knew then that he was once again lost to the dubious charms of the newly-minted Countess of Sidcup. Frankly, I thought it rather unsporting of him to be swayed so easily, and by a married woman, and especially after all she'd put him through, with the steak and kidney pie and so forth. But, the heart has its reasons whereof reason doesn't know a dashed thing, and so forth. Gussie meandered off, still mooning over Madeline, and I escaped to what I hoped was the safety of the drawing room. Alas, it was not the sanctuary I had hoped it to be.
"Bertie, what on earth were you thinking!" declared Aunt Dahlia. The aged relative was gussied up for the occasion in a blue drapey ensemble, more or less suitable for someone of her age and station. As a nod to the Egyptian theme, she'd deigned to wear a jewel-encrusted scarab brooch, but otherwise she'd sensibly avoided the excesses of other guests, as I was beginning to wish I'd done.
"It was Jeeves' choice," I protested. Aunt Dahlia softened at once - she was irrationally fond of Jeeves, and any idea he had was, in her view, likely to be eminently sensible, even if it included parading young Bertram's bare chest about in full view of the unsuspecting public.
"Bertie," she told me, drawing me aside, "did you notice that silver ankh Spode was wearing?"
"His aunt? I saw Mrs. Wintergreen, of course, with Sir Watkyn, but he wasn't wearing her…"
"You are wearing on your aunt, Bertram Wooster. The ankh. The loopy cross about his neck," she clarified.
"Oh, that."
"You didn't notice, did you."
"Well, now that you mention it, I think I recall..."
"You've got one about your own neck as well, you know."
"Do I really?" I glanced down. Sure enough, she was spot on.
"No doubt you were too busy ogling his wife."
"I, uh, no..."
"Do stop dribbling, Bertie, and listen closely. I want that ankh."
"But... why?" I managed to choke out. "You're not going in for all this Egyptian flim-flammery too, are you?"
"Yours is not to wonder why," she trumpeted. "Yours is but to do or die."
The Wooster brow quite naturally furrowed at that. "I say, dying is a bit strong, don't you think, Aunt Dahlia?"
"Perhaps so. Let's amend that to 'yours is but to do or get a boot up the backside,' shall we?"
"Understood."
"Besides, I thought it might make a nice present for Tom. He loves antique silver, don't you know, and this is as antique as it gets."
I wasn't looking forward to the task, but then, it would hardly feel like a weekend in the country if I wasn't asked to steal something. I help out a forlorn hope that, lost in the raptures of newly-wedded bliss, Spode might be easily distracted, or at least in a forgiving sort of mood.
I finally tracked down Jeeves in the company of several other valets, who were admiring his costume. "Jeeves," I announced, "I have need of your services."
"At once, sir." He stepped aside to a discreet distance. "Is there some difficulty with your skirt?"
"No, the skirt remains as firmly fastened as ever." I fancied he looked almost disappointed, but I breezed onwards. "No, I require your assistance in a matter of domestic larceny."
"I see, sir. And whom does Mrs. Travers wish for you to burgle this evening?"
"Jeeves, how did you know…?"
"It is nearly always Mrs. Travers, sir, when domestic larceny is involved."
"Well spotted. Tonight, the victim is the bridegroom."
"Very good, sir. And what will you be relieving Lord Sidcup of, precisely?"
"The ant, around his neck."
Jeeves pondered that for a moment. "Ah," he said eventually. "The ankh, I fancy."
"Yes, well, Aunt Dahlia fancies it too, it seems."
"I noticed it myself, sir. It appears to be quite a lovely example of the Eighteenth Dynasty, but..."
"Never mind that now. How am I going to get it off him?"
"If you will permit me to ponder that question for a few moments, sir, I may be able to provide a solution."
"Very well. I'll leave you and that massive brain of yours to come up with something brilliant."
"Your trust is most gratifying, sir."
I moseyed back into the ballroom with a renewed spring in my mosey. Jeeves would solve the problem, and all would be right with the world once more. I was moseying so cheerfully, in fact, that I almost moseyed into the happy couple themselves.
"Bertie!" gushed Madeline, wheeling on me like a sweet, fluffy hawk who's spotted a particularly tasty vole. "How good of you to come!" Her tone managed to convey both a bubbling effervescence and pity for my permanent loss of her affections.
"Oh, well, couldn't miss it," I said, keeping the old eyes fixed firmly above the neck. "Congratulations and so forth, wishing you every joy, don't you know."
Spode merely harrumphed in my direction. He, apparently, was still not speaking to me. That was just as well - a conversation with Spode generally didn't end on the best of notes. Or begin on it either, or even happen to strike it by accident in the middle.
"And your costume is simply darling! I had no idea you were such a connoisseur of the Old Kingdom!"
"Oh yes, can't get enough of it. Pyramids, mummies, sphinges…"
"Sphinxes?"
"Yes, those. Marvellous fellows."
She admired one of my medallions. "This talisman... it has a very strong energy. I feel strangely drawn to it."
"Do you really?" I glanced down at the thing in question, which looked to me rather like a cow.
"Yes. It's a symbol of Neith, you see, and in my past life, I was a queen, and high priestess of her cult. Perhaps I wore this very necklace!"
"Oh, I shouldn't think so. I think Jeeves got it at a jumble sale."
She pretended she hadn't heard me. "I felt the very same pull to Roderick's ankh when he brought it home as a present for me. Why, I told him, it might have belonged to you when you were a great pharaoh! And so I insisted he should be the one to wear it, naturally."
"Pharaoh Spode, eh?" He did seem the type to enjoy lobbing babies into the Nile, I had to admit.
"Oh yes. It's clear from the vibrancy of his aura that his soul is one of those that is perpetually destined for greatness!" she gushed adoringly. If so, it had rather come down in the world, I thought but wisely didn't say. That old saw about discretion and valour and whatnot. Spode took all of this fulsome praise manfully if silently, though I thought I detected a hint of rosyness about those fleshy cheeks at the mention of the blasted ankh.
"And what about you, Bertie," she continued undaunted. "Who are you meant to be?"
"Oh, King Peppy, don't you know? Reigned for a dashed long time, apparently."
"Pepi Neferkare?" There was an unwholesome glee in her syrupy voice.
"That's the ticket," I said warily.
"Why, you couldn't have known - it's fate at work, clearly!"
"It is?"
"Certainly! In my former incarnation, I was his wife, Neith. And sister," she added as an afterthought.
"I say," I said, not having much else to say. Marrying one's sister was entirely outside the pale, though I supposed pharaohs could get away with that sort of mischief, being practically gods and so forth.
Madeline clung to my arm like a scantily-clad limpet. "It's sweet of you to make such a gesture, Bertie, but it's too late. Roderick and I are married now, and although of course you may always continue to admire me from afar, any hopes you had cherished of our union must now be set aside."
"Right ho," I said, trying to sound appropriately grief-stricken-yet-bearing-up-bravely.
She patted my cheek affectionately. "Dear, dear Bertie. I shall miss you." She fluttered her bejeweled fingers in my direction and departed on the arm of her beetle-browed husband, much to my relief.
As I retrieved a gin and tonic, heavy on the g. and light on the t., I found myself once again in the company of Gussie Fink-Nottle, who was also imbibing rather heavily of the fruit of the juniper. "It's hopeless this time, isn't it, Bertie," he said, despondent. Evidently he too had had conversation with Madeline that evening. The effects on his countenance were all too clear.
"Rather," I agreed. "They've actually tied the knot - it seems unlikely she can back out of it now." He nodded glumly. Thinking to cheer him up, I added "At least you don't have to steal an anky from her husband."
He seemed puzzled. "A hanky?"
"No, ah… the silver jobby around his neck."
"Oh. How are you going to manage that?"
"I haven't the foggiest."
"Well, why not pop into their room, hide there, and snatch it when he takes it off?"
Perhaps it was the g. starting to take hold, but something in the way he said it made it seem an eminently sensible plan. I had the niggling suspicion that he harboured an ulterior motive, to whit, the prospect of disrupting Madeline's wedding night, but that was only because he lacked confidence in my well-honed burglary skills.
And so it was that I found myself, as I mentioned back at the start of this unhappy tale, clinging to the exterior of Totleigh Towers, attempting to violate the sanctity of Madeline's bridal suite. Gussie had assured me that before the couple retired I could secret myself behind the lacquered screen which he assured me would be in the room, and then, once they were safely ensconced, disrobed, and otherwise occupied, it would be a simple matter to retrieve the ankh and make my escape via the window once more. He would be waiting in the garden below to assist in my hasty flight.
In retrospect, I should have guessed it wouldn't be nearly so simple. Somehow, it never is.
Entering the room itself proved quite challenging, and I very nearly ended up in Sir Watkyn's bedchamber by mistake, which would have been difficult in the utmost to explain. However, thanks to Spode's noxious opinion that fresh air, even in the depths of March, was healthy for the lungs, I managed to slip into the as-yet-empty room and conceal myself behind the aforementioned screen, crouching down and making myself as unobtrusive as possible. I wished I had thought to remove the blasted head-dress, at the very least, but it was too late for that now.
It was about the time my legs were cramping up that the happy couple made their appearance. Thanks be to all the merciful powers, I couldn't see anything that was going on in the darkened room, but what I could hear would have chilled the blood of even the staunchest thief. Madeline, as one might have suspected, had a penchant for adorable pet names, and was a squealer of the most ear-shattering variety. Spode, the great ape, was thankfully less demonstrative in his affections, and confined himself to the occasional grunt.
When the bedsprings began to creak and it seemed likely that the blushing bride was being well and thoroughly rodericked, I deemed that no safer time to secure the item was likely to present itself, and so I crawled from the safety of my hiding place, feeling about on the floor in hopes that my quarry would fall into my hand swiftly so that I could make good my escape.
I fumbled about through piles of discarded drapery, trying desperately to ignore the sounds emanating from the region of the bed, until at last, mercifully, my fingers closed around the sticky-outy part of the ankh. As slowly and quietly as possible, I began to creep back toward the open window.
At that moment, however, Madeline let out a particularly piercing shriek, and I jumped involuntarily, as anyone might do under such circumstances. Unfortunately, my jump happened to knock over the screen, and then the shrieking grew rather less ecstatic and more angry. I caught an unfortunate glimpse of the sock-suspenders still fastened about Spode's beefy calves before I managed to throw myself out the window, catching hold of the drainpipe to prevent my imminent demise from either ground- or Spode-related trauma.
Unfortunately, my skirt, which had miraculously, thanks to Jeeves' careful folding, stayed in place so far, chose that moment to snag on a nail and begin to unfurl itself and flap in the breeze like some great beige flag advertising my predicament. With both hands firmly clasping the drainpipe and the ankh between my teeth, there was little I could do to prevent it from making its escape, which shortly it did, fluttering off merrily in the direction of Totleigh-on-the-Wold. If I had thought the night air cool before, it was nothing compared to the chill that now enveloped my nether regions.
Spode was by then bellowing out the window after me, but was thankfully prevented by his own state of relative undress from pursuing me directly. The blasted head-dress actually did some good at first, preventing as it did my immediate identification, but when Madeline stuck her head out the window as well, she immediately recognized its distinctive pattern. "Why," she exclaimed, "is that Bertie?!"
I hit the ground running and made for the shelter of the shrubberies at top speed. We Woosters may not be natural-born athletes, but we are blessed with a singular, overriding instinct to keep our skins in one piece, and that was what spurred me onwards. Fink-Nottle, the worm, was nowhere to be found, no doubt having scarpered at the first sign of trouble.
"Sir!" called a low voice from the shadows. I turned in relief to see Jeeves standing there, offering me his cloak, which I accepted gratefully as a balm to my wounded dignity.
"I should have waited for you, Jeeves," I admitted, absolutely chock full of rue. "You'd have come up with something better."
"Perhaps, sir," was all he said, but the patient smile that played about his lips was sufficient to show forgiveness for my many failings.
"We should hurry to Aunt Dahlia and rid ourselves of this ruddy trinket before we're snaffled. It's probably already too late, Madeline can certainly pick me out of a lineup."
"I believe, sir, that we may proceed cautiously, and with a certain degree of optimism," Jeeves said as he straightened my head-dress and hung the stolen ankh about my neck, where it blended in admirably with the baubles already there. "Lord and Lady Sidcup, I daresay, will be some time before they begin the hunt in earnest. Perhaps Lord Sidcup may even be lured back to the charms of his lady wife."
I shuddered involuntarily at the mention of Madeline's charms, and Jeeves patted me consolingly on the shoulder. "Have no fear, sir. Everything will fall out as it should." When he spoke to me like that, there was nothing I could do but trust him.
The party was in its death throes when we made our way back into the hall. But Aunt Dahlia was there, hovering like a vulture in wait for a tasty carcass. "Did you get it, Bertie?" she asked as soon as I was within pecking distance.
"Excuse me, Mrs. Travers," Jeeves said smoothly, interposing himself between me and the aged relative. "But I believe the item in question is unlikely to be of great interest to you or your husband."
"Why not?" she exclaimed.
He held out his hand to me, and I removed the object under discussion. "If you will observe, Mrs. Travers," Jeeves said, proffering it to her for her inspection.
She considered it for a moment, then nodded. "Quite right, as usual, Jeeves. Thank you for sparing us from a rather embarrassing situation."
"Sparing you?" I blurted. "You weren't the one dashing about the garden in your knickers!"
"And I'm quite pleased about it. Thank you for your efforts, Bertie, but in this case, they've proven unnecessary."
"Could somebody tell me what the deuce is going on here?" I began, but was rudely interrupted by the return of the bride and groom, by all appearances hastily re-robed.
"Wooster!" roared Spode, spotting his quarry.
"Bertie, what on earth!" cried Madeline, visibly distraught.
I remained hiding behind Jeeves. It seemed the safest course of action under the circumstances.
"Lord Sidcup," Jeeves began in his most authoritative yet placating tone. "Mr. Wooster wishes to apologize for his presumption."
"I do?" I peered at Jeeves, who nodded imperceptibly. "I do."
"When he observed that your ankh was of recent vintage, and knowing your wife's concern with authenticity, he was quite naturally distraught on your behalf. Wishing to spare you similar distress on the eve of your wedding, he took it upon himself to attempt to replace the offending piece with his own, which is genuinely ancient."
Madeline turned on her husband, eyes wide as saucers. "Is it true, Roderick? Is it a forgery?"
Spode's face was crimson as a rather large and lumpy beet. "I, uh…. It can't be."
"You told me it was three thousand years old!"
Jeeves passed the offending ankh back to Spode, and continued. "If you examine the item closely, I daresay you will notice that it bears several signs of more recent manufacture. It is a blend of silver and zinc, rather than the customary lead employed by the Egyptians, and is remarkably unmarred by the passage of centuries."
"Roderick, how could you deceive me so?!"
"Madeline, I didn't…"
Discreet as ever, Jeeves took me by the arm and we made our hasty escape to my guest room while the newlyweds began the first quarrel of their married life.
"Top notch work, as usual, Jeeves," I said as I was readying myself for bed that night.
"Thank you, sir. I do my best," he replied, modest as always.
"Is this really an antique?" I asked, removing the matching pendant from around my neck.
"No, sir, but I trusted that Lord Sidcup would not take the time to examine it too closely once he was preoccupied with more pressing matters."
"Genius, Jeeves, purest genius."
He merely smiled as he placed the final ornaments in their proper cases, dignified as ever despite having sacrificed the top half of his costume to preserve my modesty.
"As a gesture of thanks," I continued, "when we return home, I shall henceforth refrain from the paisley pyjamas."
"Thank you, sir," he said, turning to face me. "I confess, I have already taken the liberty of disposing of them."
Even though that left me without a stitch to wear to bed, I could hardly complain.
"Did I tell you the full story of Pepi Neferkare and his faithful general Sasenet, sir?"
"I don't believe you did, Jeeves."
"It was said that, in addition to protecting his charge from harm, the general regularly… amused his king, 'because there was no woman there for him,' sir. If you take my meaning." He waited, as though expecting me to say something.
"Well," I said. "Well, well, well." And then I added another "well," just for good measure. It seemed the only thing to say, under the circumstances. "Nothing new under the sun, I suppose, eh Jeeves?"
"No, sir," he replied, and smiled again.