The telephone rang again. Rory went to it.
‘Hullo?’ He started violently. ‘The who? Good God! All right. He’s out now, but I’ll tell him when I see him.’ He hung up. There was a grave look on his face. ‘Moke,’ he said, ‘perhaps you’ll believe me another time and not scoff and mock when I advance my theories. That was the police.’
‘The police?’
‘They want to talk to Bill.’
‘What about?’
‘They didn’t say. Well, dash it, they wouldn’t, would they? Official Secrets Acts and all that sort of thing. But they’re closing in on him, old girl, closing in on him.’
‘Probably all they want is to get him to present the prizes at the police sports or something.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Rory. ‘Still, hold that thought if it makes you happier. Take the bags upstairs, you were saying? I’ll do it instanter. Come along and encourage me with word and gesture.’
4
* * *
FOR SOME MOMENTS after they had gone the peace of the summer evening was broken only by the dull, bumping sound of a husband carrying suitcases upstairs. This died away, and once more a drowsy stillness stole over Rowcester Abbey. Then, faintly at first but growing louder, there came from the distance the chugging of a car. It stopped, and there entered through the french window a young man. He tottered in, breathing heavily like a hart that pants for cooling streams when heated in the chase, and having produced his cigarette case lit a cigarette in an overwrought way, as if he had much on his mind.
Or what one may loosely call his mind. William, ninth Earl of Rowcester, though intensely amiable and beloved by all who knew him, was far from being a mental giant. From his earliest years his intimates had been aware that, while his heart was unquestionably in the right place, there was a marked shortage of the little grey cells, and it was generally agreed that whoever won the next Nobel prize, it would not be Bill Rowcester. At the Drones Club, of which he had been a member since leaving school, it was estimated that in the matter of intellect he ranked somewhere in between Freddie Widgeon and Pongo Twistleton, which is pretty low down on the list. There were some, indeed, who held his IQ to be inferior to that of Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps.
Against this must be set the fact that, like all his family, he was extremely good-looking, though those who considered him so might have revised their views, had they seen him now. For in addition to wearing a very loud check coat with bulging, voluminous pockets and a crimson tie with blue horseshoes on it which smote the beholder like a blow, he had a large black patch over his left eye and on his upper lip a ginger moustache of the outsize or soupstrainer type. In the clean-shaven world in which we live today it is not often that one sees a moustache of this almost tropical luxuriance, and it is not often, it may be added, that one wants to.
A black patch and a ginger moustache are grave defects, but that the ninth earl was not wholly dead to a sense of shame was shown by the convulsive start, like the leap of an adagio dancer, which he gave a moment later when, wandering about the room, he suddenly caught sight of himself in an old-world mirror that hung on the wall.
‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed, recoiling.
With nervous fingers he removed the patch, thrust it into his pocket, tore the fungoid growth from his lip and struggled out of the check coat. This done, he went to the window, leaned out and called in a low, conspiratorial voice.
‘Jeeves!’
There was no answer.
‘Hi, Jeeves, where are you?’
Again silence.
Bill gave a whistle, then another. He was still whistling, his body half-way through the french window, when the door behind him opened, revealing a stately form.
The man who entered – or perhaps one should say shimmered into – the room was tall and dark and impressive. He might have been one of the better-class ambassadors or the youngish High Priest of some refined and dignified religion. His eyes gleamed with the light of intelligence, and his finely chiselled face expressed a feudal desire to be of service. His whole air was that of a gentleman’s gentleman who, having developed his brain over a course of years by means of a steady fish diet, is eager to place that brain at the disposal of the young master. He was carrying over one arm a coat of sedate colour and a tie of conservative pattern.
‘You whistled, m’lord?’ he said.
Bill spun round.
‘How the dickens did you get over there, Jeeves?’
‘I ran the car into the garage, m’lord, and then made my way to the servants’ quarters. Your coat, m’lord.’
‘Oh, thanks. I see you’ve changed.’
‘I deemed it advisable, m’lord. The gentleman was not far behind us as we rounded into the straight and may at any moment be calling. Were he to encounter on the threshold a butler in a check suit and a false moustache, it is possible that his suspicions might be aroused. I am glad to see that your lordship has removed that somewhat distinctive tie. Excellent for creating atmosphere on the race-course, it is scarcely vogue in private life.’
Bill eyed the repellent object with a shudder.
‘I’ve always hated that beastly thing, Jeeves. All those foul horseshoes. Shove it away somewhere. And the coat.’
‘Very good, m’lord. This coffer should prove adequate as a temporary receptacle.’ Jeeves took the coat and tie, and crossed the room to where a fine old oak dower chest stood, an heirloom long in the Rowcester family. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘’Tis not so deep as a well nor so wide as a church door, but ’tis enough, ’twill serve.’
He folded the distressing objects carefully, placed them inside and closed the lid. And even this simple act he performed with a quiet dignity which would have impressed any spectator less agitated than Bill Rowcester. It was like seeing the plenipotentiary of a great nation lay a wreath on the tomb of a deceased monarch.
But Bill, as we say, was agitated. He was brooding over an earlier remark that had fallen from this great man’s lips.
‘What do you mean, the gentleman may at any moment be calling?’ he asked. The thought of receiving a visit from that red-faced man with the loud voice who had bellowed abuse at him all the way from Epsom Downs to Southmoltonshire was not an unmixedly agreeable one.
‘It is possible that he observed and memorized the number of our car, m’lord. He was in a position to study our licence plate for some considerable time, your lordship will recollect.’
Bill sank limply into a chair and brushed a bead of perspiration from his forehead. This contingency, as Jeeves would have called it, had not occurred to him. Placed before him now, it made him feel filleted.
‘Oh, golly, I never thought of that. Then he would get the owner’s name and come racing along here, wouldn’t he?’
‘So one would be disposed to imagine, m’lord.’
‘Hell’s bells, Jeeves!’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
Bill applied the handkerchief to his forehead again.
‘What do I do if he does?’
‘I would advise your lordship to assume a nonchalant air and disclaim all knowledge of the matter.’
‘With a light laugh, you mean?’
‘Precisely, m’lord.’
Bill tried a light laugh. ‘How did that sound, Jeeves?’
‘Barely adequate, m’lord.’
‘More like a death rattle?’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
‘I shall need a few rehearsals.’
‘Several, m’lord. It will be essential to carry conviction.’
Bill kicked petulantly at a footstool.
‘How do you expect me to carry conviction, feeling the way I do?’
‘I can readily appreciate that your lordship is disturbed.’
‘I’m all of a twitter. Have you ever seen a jelly hit by a cyclone?’
‘No, m’lord, I have never been present on such an occasion.’
‘It quivers. So do I.’
‘After such an ordeal your lordship would be uns
trung.’
‘Ordeal is the right word, Jeeves. Apart from the frightful peril one is in, it was so dashed ignominious having to leg it like that.’
‘I should hardly describe our recent activities as legging it, m’lord. “Strategic retreat” is more the mot juste. This is a recognized military manoeuvre, practised by all the greatest tacticians when the occasion seemed to call for such a move. I have no doubt that General Eisenhower has had recourse to it from time to time.’
‘But I don’t suppose he had a fermenting punter after him, shouting “Welsher!” at the top of his voice.’
‘Possibly not, m’lord.’
Bill brooded. ‘It was that word “Welsher” that hurt, Jeeves.’
‘I can readily imagine it, m’lord. Objected to as irrelevant, incompetent and immaterial, as I believe the legal expression is. As your lordship several times asseverated during our precarious homeward journey, you have every intention of paying the gentleman.’
‘Of course I have. No argument about that. Naturally I intend to brass up to the last penny. It’s a case of … what, Jeeves?’
‘Noblesse oblige, m’lord.’
‘Exactly. The honour of the Rowcesters is at stake. But I must have time, dash it, to raise three thousand pounds two and six.’
‘Three thousand and five pounds two and six, m’lord. Your lordship is forgetting the gentleman’s original five-pound note.’
‘So I am. You trousered it and came away with it in your pocket.’
‘Precisely, m’lord. Thus bringing the sum total of your obligations to this Captain Biggar –’
‘Was that his name?’
‘Yes, m’lord. Captain C.G. Brabazon-Biggar, United Rovers Club, Northumberland Avenue, London WC2. In my capacity as your lordship’s clerk I wrote the name and address on the ticket which he now has in his possession. The note which he handed to me and which I duly accepted as your lordship’s official representative raises your commitments to three thousand and five pounds two shillings and sixpence.’
‘Oh, gosh!’
‘Yes, m’lord. It is not an insignificant sum. Many a poor man would be glad of three thousand and five pounds two shillings and sixpence.’
Bill winced. ‘I would be grateful, Jeeves, if you could see your way not to keep on intoning those words.’
‘Very good, m’lord.’
‘They are splashed on my soul in glorious Technicolor.’
‘Quite so, m’lord.’
‘Who was it who said that when he or she was dead, the word something would be found carved on his or her heart?’
‘Queen Mary, m’lord, the predecessor of the great Queen Elizabeth. The word was “Calais”, and the observation was intended to convey her chagrin at the loss of that town.’
‘Well, when I die, which will be very shortly if I go on feeling as I do now, just cut me open, Jeeves –’
‘Certainly, m’lord.’
‘– and I’ll bet you a couple of bob you’ll find carved on my heart the words “Three thousand and five pounds two and six”.’
Bill rose and paced the room with fevered steps.
‘How does one scrape together a sum like that, Jeeves?’
‘It will call for thrift, m’lord.’
‘You bet it will. It’ll take years.’
‘And Captain Biggar struck me as an impatient gentleman.’
‘You needn’t rub it in, Jeeves.’
‘Very good, m’lord.’
‘Let’s keep our minds on the present.’
‘Yes, m’lord. Remember that man’s life lies all within this present, as ’twere but a hair’s breadth of time. As for the rest, the past is gone, the future yet unseen.’
‘Eh?’
‘Marcus Aurelius, m’lord.’
‘Oh? Well, as I was saying, let us glue our minds on what is going to happen if this Biggar suddenly blows in here. Do you think he’ll recognize me?’
‘I am inclined to fancy not, m’lord. The moustache and the patch formed a very effective disguise. After all, in the past few months we have encountered several gentlemen of your lordship’s acquaintance –’
‘And not one of them spotted me.’
‘No, m’lord. Nevertheless, facing the facts, I fear we must regard this afternoon’s episode as a set-back. It is clearly impossible for us to function at the Derby tomorrow.’
‘I was looking forward to cleaning up on the Derby.’
‘I, too, m’lord. But after what has occurred, one’s entire turf activities must, I fear, be regarded as suspended indefinitely.’
‘You don’t think we could risk one more pop?’
‘No, m’lord.’
‘I see what you mean, of course. Show up at Epsom tomorrow, and the first person we’d run into would be this Captain Biggar –’
‘Straddling, like Apollyon, right across the way. Precisely, m’lord.’
Bill passed a hand through his disordered hair.
‘If only I had frozen on to the money we made at Newmarket!’
‘Yes, m’lord. Of all sad words of tongue or pen the saddest are these – It might have been. Whittier.’
‘You warned me not to let our capital fall too low.’
‘I felt that we were not equipped to incur any heavy risk. That was why I urged your lordship so vehemently to lay Captain Biggar’s second wager off. I had misgivings. True, the probability of the double bearing fruit at such odds was not great, but when I saw Whistler’s Mother pass us on her way to the starting post, I was conscious of a tremor of uneasiness. Those long legs, that powerful rump …’
‘Don’t, Jeeves!’
‘Very good, m’lord.’
‘I’m trying not to think of Whistler’s Mother.’
‘I quite understand, m’lord.’
‘Who the dickens was Whistler, anyway?’
‘A figure, landscape and portrait painter of considerable distinction, m’lord, born in Lowell, Massachusetts, in 1834. His Portrait of my Mother, painted in 1872, is particularly esteemed by the cognoscenti and was purchased by the French Government for the Luxembourg Gallery, Paris, in 1892. His works are individual in character and notable for subtle colour harmony.’
Bill breathed a little stertorously.
‘It’s subtle, is it?’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
‘I see. Thanks for telling me. I was worrying myself sick about his colour harmony.’ Bill became calmer. ‘Jeeves, if the worst comes to the worst and Biggar does catch me bending, can I gain a bit of time by pleading the Gaming Act?’
‘I fear not, m’lord. You took the gentleman’s money. A cash transaction.’
‘It would mean choky, you feel?’
‘I fancy so, m’lord.’
‘Would you be jugged, too, as my clerk?’
‘In all probability, m’lord. I am not quite certain on the point. I should have to consult my solicitor.’
‘But I would be for it?’
‘Yes, m’lord. The sentences, however, are not, I believe, severe.’
‘But think of the papers. The ninth Earl of Rowcester, whose ancestors held the field at Agincourt, skipped from the field at Epsom with a slavering punter after him. It’ll be jam for the newspaper boys.’
‘Unquestionably the circumstance of your lordship having gone into business as a Silver Ring bookmaker would be accorded wide publicity.’
Bill, who had been pacing the floor again, stopped in mid-stride and regarded the speaker with an accusing eye.
‘And who was it suggested that I should go into business as a Silver Ring bookie? You, Jeeves. I don’t want to be harsh, but you must own that the idea came from you. You were the –’
‘Fons et origo mali, m’lord? That, I admit, is true. But if your lordship will recall, we were in something of a quandary. We had agreed that your lordship’s impending marriage made it essential to augment your lordship’s slender income, and we went through the Classified Trades section of the telephone directory in quest
of a possible profession which your lordship might adopt. It was merely because nothing of a suitable nature had presented itself by the time we reached the T’s that I suggested Turf Accountant faute de mieux.’
‘Faute de what?’
‘Mieux, m’lord. A French expression. We should say “for want of anything better”.’
‘What asses these Frenchmen are! Why can’t they talk English?’
‘They are possibly more to be pitied than censured, m’lord. Early upbringing no doubt has a good deal to do with it. As I was saying, it seemed to me a happy solution of your lordship’s difficulties. In the United States of America, I believe, bookmakers are considered persons of a somewhat low order and are, indeed, suppressed by the police, but in England it is very different. Here they are looked up to and courted. There is a school of thought which regards them as the new aristocracy. They make a great deal of money, and have the added gratification of not paying income tax.’
Bill sighed wistfully.
‘We made a lot of money up to Newmarket.’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
‘And where is it now?’
‘Where, indeed, m’lord?’
‘I shouldn’t have spent so much doing up the place.’
‘No, m’lord.’
‘And it was a mistake to pay my tailor’s bill.’
‘Yes, m’lord. One feels that your lordship did somewhat overdo it there. As the old Roman observed, ne quid nimis.’
‘Yes, that was rash. Still, no good beefing about it now, I suppose.’
‘No, m’lord. The moving finger writes, and having writ –’
‘Hoy!’
‘– moves on, nor all your piety and wit can lure it back to cancel half a line nor all your tears wash out one word of it. You were saying, m’lord?’
‘I was only going to ask you to cheese it.’
‘Certainly, m’lord.’
‘Not in the mood.’
‘Quite so, m’lord. It was only the appositeness of the quotation – from the works of the Persian poet Omar Khayyám – that led me to speak. I wonder if I might ask a question, m’lord?’
‘Yes, Jeeves?’
‘Is Miss Wyvern aware of your lordship’s professional connection with the turf?’
The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 3: The Mating Season / Ring for Jeeves / Very Good, Jeeves Page 4
