A delicate and embarrassing situation.
And yet, amazing though you will find the statement, what was causing me to goggle at him with saucer eyes was not this look that told me that my fears had been well founded, but the fact that the face attached to it was topped by a policeman’s helmet. The burly frame, moreover, was clad in a policeman’s uniform, and on the feet one noted the regulation official boots or beetle crushers which go to complete the panoply of the awful majesty of the Law.
In a word, Stilton Cheesewright had suddenly turned into a country copper, and I could make nothing of it.
8
* * *
I STARED AT the man.
‘Stap my vitals, Stilton,’ I cried, in uncontrollable astonishment. ‘Why the fancy dress?’
He, too, had a question to ask.
‘What the hell are you doing here, you bloodstained Wooster?’
I held up a hand. This was no time for side issues.
‘Why are you got up like a policeman?’
‘I am a policeman.’
‘A policeman?’
‘Yes.’
‘When you say “policeman”,’ I queried, groping, ‘do you mean “policeman”?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re a policeman?’
‘Yes, blast you. Are you deaf? I’m a policeman.’
I grasped it now. He was a policeman. And, my mind flashing back to yesterday’s encounter in the jewellery bin, I realized what had made his manner furtive and evasive when I had asked him what he did at Steeple Bumpleigh. He had shrunk from revealing the truth, fearing lest I might be funny at his expense – as, indeed, I would have been, extraordinarily funny. Even now, though the gravity of the situation forbade their utterance, I was thinking of at least three priceless cracks I could make.
‘What about it? Why shouldn’t I be a policeman?’
‘Oh rather.’
‘Half the men you know go into the police nowadays.’
I nodded. This was undoubtedly true. Since they started that College at Hendon, the Force has become congested with one’s old buddies. I remember Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps describing to me with gestures his emotions on being pinched in Leicester Square one Boat-Race Night by his younger brother George. And much the same thing happened to Freddie Widgeon at Hurst Park in connection with his cousin Cyril.
‘Yes,’ I said, spotting a flaw, ‘but in London.’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘With the idea of getting into Scotland Yard and rising to great heights in their profession.’
‘That’s what I’m going to do.’
‘Get into Scotland Yard?’
‘Yes.’
‘Rise to great heights?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I shall watch your future progress with considerable interest,’ I said.
But I spoke dubiously. At Eton, Stilton had been Captain of the Boats, and he had also rowed assiduously for Oxford. His entire formative years, therefore, as you might say, had been spent in dipping an oar into the water, giving it a shove and hauling it out again. Only a pretty dumb brick would fritter away his golden youth doing that sort of thing – which, in addition to being silly, is also the deuce of a sweat – and Stilton Cheesewright was a pretty dumb brick. A fine figure of a young fellow as far northwards as the neck, but above that solid concrete. I could not see him as a member of the Big Four. Far more likely that he would end up as one of those Scotland Yard bunglers who used, if you remember, always to be getting into Sherlock Holmes’s hair.
However, I didn’t say so. As a matter of fact, I didn’t say anything, for I was too busy pondering on this new and unforeseen development. I was profoundly thankful that Jeeves had voted against my giving Florence a birthday present. Such a gift, if Stilton heard of it, would have led to his tearing me limb from limb or, at the best, summoning me for failing to abate a smoky chimney. You can’t be too careful how you stir up policemen.
I had succeeded in sidetracking his question for a space, but I knew that the respite would be merely temporary. They train these cops to stick to the point. I was not surprised, therefore, when he now repeated it. I’m not saying I didn’t wish he hadn’t. All I’m saying is that I wasn’t surprised.
‘Well, to blazes with all that. You haven’t told me what you are doing in Steeple Bumpleigh.’
I temporized.
‘Oh, just making a passing sojourn,’ I said nonchalantly, the old, careless Bertram Wooster.
‘You mean you’ve come to stay?’
‘For a while. Somewhere over yonder is my little nest. I hope you will frequently drop in, when off duty.’
‘And what made you suddenly decide to come taking little nests in these parts?’
I went into my routine.
‘Jeeves wanted to do a bit of fishing.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. He tells me it is admirable here. You find the hook, and the fish do the rest.’
For quite a while he had been staring at me in an unpleasant, boiled sort of way, the brows drawn, the eyes bulging in their sockets. The austerity of his gaze now became intensified. Except for the fact that he hadn’t taken out a notebook and a stub of pencil, he might have been questioning some rat of the underworld as to where he had been on the night of June the twenty-fifth.
‘I see. That is your statement, is it? Jeeves wanted to do a bit of fishing?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Oh? Well, I’ll tell you what you wanted to do, young blasted Wooster. A bit of snake in the grassing.’
I affected not to have grabbed the gist, though in reality I had got it nicely.
‘Snake in the whatting?’
‘Grassing.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘Then I’ll make it clearer. You’ve come here to sneak round Florence.’
‘My dear chap!’
He ground a tooth or two. It was plain that he was in dangerous mood.
‘I may as well tell you,’ he resumed, ‘that I was not at all satisfied with your evidence – with what you said when I saw you yesterday. You stated that you had known Florence –’
‘Just one moment, Stilton. Sorry to interrupt, but do we bandy a woman’s name?’
‘Yes, we do, and ruddy well keep on bandying it.’
‘Oh, right ho. I just wanted to know.’
‘You stated that you had known Florence only slightly. “Pretty well” was the exact expression you used, and it seemed to me that your manner was suspicious. So when I got back, I saw her and questioned her about you. She confessed that you and she had once been engaged.’
I moistened the lips with the tip of the tongue. I am never at my best tête à tête with the constabulary. They always seem somehow to quell my manly spirit. It may be the helmet that does it, or possibly the boots. And, of course, when one of the gendarmerie is accusing you of trying to pinch his girl, the embarrassment deepens. At moment of going to press, with Stilton’s eyes boring holes through me, I had begun to feel like Eugene Aram just before they put the gyves on his wrists. I don’t know if you remember the passage? ‘Ti-tum-ti-tum ti-tumty turn, ti-tumty tumty mist (I think it’s mist), and Eugene Aram walked between, with gyves upon his wrist.’
I cleared the throat, and endeavoured to speak with a winning frankness.
‘Why, yes. That’s right. It all comes back to me. We were. Long ago.’
‘Not so long ago.’
‘Well, it seems like long ago.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Positively.’
‘The whole thing’s over, eh?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Nothing between you now?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘Then how do you account for the fact that she gives you a copy of her novel and writes “To Bertie, with love from Florence” in it?’
I tottered. And at the same time, I’m bound to confess, I found myse
lf feeling a new respect for Stilton. At first, if you recollect, when he had spoken of rising to great heights at Scotland Yard, I had thought lightly of his chances. It seemed to me now that he must have the makings of a very hot detective indeed.
‘You had the book with you when you came into that jeweller’s shop. You left it on the counter, and I looked inside.’
I revised my views about his sleuthing powers. Not so hot, after all. Sherlock Holmes, if you remember, always said that it was a mistake for a detective to explain his methods.
‘Well?’
I laughed lightly. At least, I tried to. As a matter of fact, the thing came out more like a death rattle.
‘Oh, that was rather amusing.’
‘All right. Go on. Make me laugh.’
‘I was in the book shop, and she came in –’
‘You had an assignation with her in a book shop?’
‘No, no. Just an accidental meeting.’
‘I see. And you’ve come down here to arrange another.’
‘Good Lord, no.’
‘Do you seriously expect me to believe that you aren’t trying to steal her from me?’
‘Nothing could be farther from my thoughts, old man.’
‘Don’t call me “old man”.’
‘Right ho, if you don’t like it. The whole thing, officer, is one of those absurd misunderstandings. As I was starting to tell you, I was in this book shop –’
Here he interrupted me, damning the book shop with a good deal of heartiness.
‘I’m not interested in the book shop. The point is that you have come down here to make a snake in the grass of yourself, and I’m not going to have it. I have just one thing to say to you, Wooster. Get out!’
‘But –’
‘Push off. Remove your beastly presence. Pop back to your London residence and stay there. And do it quick.’
‘But I can’t.’
‘What do you mean?’
Well, as I said before, my lips were sealed. But the Woosters are swift thinkers.
‘Old Boko,’ I explained. ‘I am acting for him in a rather delicate matter. As you possibly may know, my Uncle Percy is endeavouring to put the bee on his union with Nobby, and I have promised the young couple that I will plead for them. This will, of course, involve my remaining in statu – what is it?’
‘Pah!’
‘No, not pah. Quo. That’s the word I’m trying to think of. You can’t plead with an uncle by marriage unless you’re in statu quo.’
It seemed to me a pretty good and reasonable explanation, and I was distressed, accordingly, to observe that he was sneering unpleasantly.
‘I don’t believe a word of it. You plead? What’s the good of you pleading? As if anything you could say would have any weight with anybody. I repeat – clear out. Otherwise –’
He didn’t mention what would happen otherwise, but the menacing way in which he hopped on his bicycle and pedalled off spoke louder than words. I don’t think I have ever seen anyone pedal with a more sinister touch to the ankle work.
I was still looking after him, feeling a little weak, when from the opposite or Wee Nooke direction there came the ting of another bicycle bell and, swivelling round, I perceived Florence approaching. As perfect an instance of one damn’ thing after another as I have ever experienced.
In sharp contradistinction to those of Stilton, her eyes were shining with a welcoming light. She hopped off as she reached the car, and flashed a bright smile at me.
‘Oh, here you are, Bertie. I have just been putting a few flowers in Wee Nooke for you.’
I thanked her, but with a sinking heart. I hadn’t liked that smile, and I didn’t like the idea of her sweating about strewing flowers in my path. The note struck seemed to me altogether too matey. Then I reminded myself that if she was betrothed to Stilton there could be no real cause for alarm. After all, her father had married my aunt, which made us sort of cousins, and there was nothing necessarily sinister in a bit of cousinly bustling about. Blood, I mean to say, when you come right down to it, being thicker than water.
‘Frightfully decent of you,’ I said. ‘I’ve just been having a chat with Stilton.’
‘Stilton?’
‘Your affianced.’
‘Oh, D’Arcy? Why do you call him Stilton?’
‘Boyish nickname. We were at school together.’
‘Oh? Then perhaps you can tell me if he was always such a perfect imbecile as he is today.’
I didn’t like this. It didn’t seem the language of love.
‘In what sense do you use the word “imbecile”?’
‘I use it as the only possible description of a man who, with a wealthy uncle willing and anxious to do everything for him, deliberately elects to become a common constable.’
‘Why did he?’ I asked. ‘Become a common constable, I mean.’
‘He says that every man ought to stand on his own feet and earn a living.’
‘Conscientious.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘You don’t think it does him credit?’
‘No, I don’t. I think he’s a perfect idiot.’
There was a pause. It was plain that his behaviour rankled, and it seemed to me what was required here was a strong boost for the young copper. For I need scarcely say that, now that I was face to face again with this girl, all thought of carrying on with the promotion of that Save Stilton Cheesewright campaign was farther from my mind than ever.
‘I should have thought you would have been rather bucked about it all. As giving evidence of Soul, I mean.’
‘Soul?’
‘It shows he’s got a great soul.’
‘I should be extremely surprised to find that he has any soul above those great, clodhopping boots he wears. He is just pigheaded. I have reasoned with him over and over again. His uncle wants him to stand for Parliament and is prepared to pay all his expenses and to finance him generously for the rest of his life, but no, he just looks mulish and talks about earning his living. I am sick and tired of the whole thing, and I really don’t know what I shall do about it. Well, goodbye, Bertie, I must be getting along,’ she concluded abruptly, as if she found the subject too painful to dwell on, and was off – just at the very moment when I had remembered that it was her birthday and that I had a brooch in my pocket to deliver to her from Aunt Agatha.
I could have called her back, I suppose, but somehow didn’t feel in the mood. Her words had left me shaking in every limb. The revelation of the flimsiness of the foundations on which the Florence-Stilton romance appeared to be founded had appalled me, and I had to remain in statu quo and smoke a couple of cigarettes before I felt strong enough to resume my journey.
Then, feeling a little better and trying to tell myself that this was just a passing tiff and that matters would speedily adjust themselves, I pushed on and in another couple of minutes was coming to anchor abaft Wee Nooke.
9
* * *
WEE NOOKE PROVED TO be a decentish little shack, situated in agreeable surroundings. A bit Ye Olde, but otherwise all right. It had a thatched roof and a lot of those windows with small leaded panes, and there was a rockery in the front garden. It looked, in short, as I subsequently learned was the case, as if it had formerly been inhabited by an elderly female of good family who kept cats.
I had walked in and deposited the small suitcase in the hall, when, as I stood gazing about me and inhaling the fug which always seems to linger about these antique interiors, I became aware that there was more in this joint than met the eye. In a word, I suddenly found myself speculating on the possibility of it not only being fuggy, but haunted.
What started this train of thought was the fact that odd noises were in progress somewhere near at hand, here a bang and there a crash, suggesting the presence of a poltergeist or what not.
The sounds seemed to proceed from the other side of a door at the end of the hall, and I was hastening thither to investigate, for I was dashed if I was going
to have poltergeists lounging about the place as if it belonged to them, when I took a toss over a pail which had been placed in the fairway. And I had just picked myself up, rubbing the spot, when the door opened and there entered a small boy with a face like a ferret. He was wearing the uniform of a Boy Scout, and I had no difficulty, in spite of the fact that his features were liberally encrusted with dirt, in identifying him as Florence’s little brother Edwin – the child at whom Boko Fittleworth was accustomed to throw china ornaments.
‘Oh, hullo, Bertie,’ he said, grinning all over his loathsome face.
‘Hullo, you frightful young squirt,’ I responded civilly. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Tidying up.’
I touched on a point of absorbing interest.
‘Was it you who left that bally pail there?’
‘Where?’
‘In the middle of the hall.’
‘Coo! Yes, I remember now. I put it there to be out of the way.’
‘I see. Well, you’ll be amused to learn that I’ve nearly broken my leg.’
He started. A fanatic gleam came into his eyes. He looked like a boy confronted with an unexpected saucer of ice cream.
‘I say! Have you really? This is a bit of bunce. I can give you first aid.’
‘No, you jolly well can’t.’
‘But if you’ve bust your leg –’
‘I haven’t bust my leg.’
‘You said you had.’
‘A mere figure of speech.’
‘Well, you may have sprained your ankle.’
‘I haven’t sprained my ankle.’
‘I can do first aid for contusions.’
‘I haven’t any contusions. Stand back!’ I cried, for I was prepared to defend myself with iron resolution.
There was a pause. His manner was that of one who finds the situation at a deadlock. My spirited attitude had plainly disconcerted him.
‘Can’t I bandage you?’
‘You’ll get a thick ear, if you try.’
‘You may get gangrene.’
The Jeeves Omnibus Vol. 2: Right Ho, Jeeves / Joy in the Morning / Carry On, Jeeves Page 30
