‘It is a situation that will require careful thought, sir.’
‘You mean you have not had any ideas yet?’
‘I have only this moment heard what transpired, sir.’
‘True. I was forgetting that. Have you had speech with Miss Stoker this morning?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, I can see no point in your going to the Hall and tackling Chuffy. I have given this matter a good deal of thought, Jeeves, and it is plain to me that Miss Stoker is the one who will require the persuasive word, the nicely reasoned argument – in short, the old oil. Last night Chuffy wounded her deepest feelings, and it’s going to take a lot of spadework to bring her round. In comparison, the problem of Chuffy is simple. I shouldn’t be surprised if even now he was kicking himself soundly for having behaved so like a perfect chump. One day of quiet meditation, at the outside, should be enough to convince him that he wronged the girl. To go and reason with Chuffy is simply a waste of time. Leave him alone, and Nature will effect the cure. You had better go straight back to the yacht and see what you can do at the other end.’
‘It was not with the intention of interviewing his lordship that I came ashore, sir. Once more I must reiterate that, until you informed me just now, I was not aware that anything in the nature of a rift had occurred. My motive in coming here was to hand you a note from Mr Stoker.’
I was puzzled.
‘A note?’
‘Here it is, sir.’
I opened it, still fogged, and read contents. I can’t say I felt much clearer when I had done so.
‘Rummy, Jeeves.’
‘Sir?’
‘This is a letter of invitation.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Absolutely. Bidding me to the feast. “Dear Mr Wooster,” writes Pop Stoker, “I shall be frightfully bucked if you will come and mangle a spot of garbage on the boat tonight. Don’t dress.” I give you the gist of the thing. Peculiar, Jeeves.’
‘Certainly unforeseen, sir.’
‘I forgot to tell you that among my visitors last night was this same Stoker. He bounded in, shouting that his daughter was on the premises, and searched the house.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Well, of course, he didn’t find any daughter, because she was already on her way back to the yacht, and he seemed conscious of having made rather an ass of himself. His manner on departing was chastened. He actually spoke to me civilly – a thing I’d have taken eleven to four on that he didn’t know how to do. But does that explain this sudden gush of hospitality? I don’t think so. Last night he seemed apologetic rather than matey. There was no indication whatever that he wished to start one of those great friendships.’
‘I think it is possible that a conversation which I had this morning with the gentleman, sir –’
‘Ah! It was you, was it, who caused this pro-Bertram sentiment?’
‘Immediately after breakfast, sir, Mr Stoker sent for me and inquired if I had once been in your employment. He said that he fancied that he recalled having seen me at your apartment in New York. On my replying in the affirmative, he proceeded to question me with regard to certain incidents in the past.’
‘The cats in the bedroom?’
‘And the hot-water bottle episode.’
‘The purloined hat?’
‘And also the matter of your sliding down pipes, sir.’
‘And you said –?’
‘I explained that Sir Roderick Glossop had taken a biased view of these occurrences, sir and proceeded to relate their inner history.’
‘And he –?’
‘– seemed pleased, sir. He appeared to think that he had misjudged you. He said that he ought to have known better than to believe information proceeding from Sir Roderick – to whom he alluded as a bald-headed old son of a something which for the moment has escaped my memory. It was, I imagine, shortly after this that he must have written this letter inviting you to dinner, sir.’
I was pleased with the man. When Bertram Wooster finds the old feudal spirit flourishing, he views it with approval and puts that approval into words.
‘Thank you, Jeeves.’
‘Not at all, sir.’
‘You have done well. Regarding the matter from one aspect, of course, it is negligible whether Pop Stoker thinks I’m a loony or not. I mean to say, a fellow closely connected by ties of blood with a man who used to walk about on his hands is scarcely in a position, where the question of sanity is concerned, to put on the dog and set himself up as an –’
‘Arbiter elegentiarum, sir?’
‘Quite. It matters little to me, therefore, from one point of view, what old Stoker thinks about my upper storey. One shrugs the shoulders. But, setting that aside, I admit that this change of heart is welcome. It has come at the right time. I shall accept his invitation. I regard it as –’
‘The amende honorable, sir?’
‘I was going to say olive branch.’
‘Or olive branch. The two terms are virtually synonymous. The French phrase I would be inclined to consider perhaps slightly the more exact in the circumstances – carrying with it, as it does, the implication of remorse, of the desire to make restitution. But if you prefer the expression “olive branch”, by all means employ it, sir.’
‘Thank you, Jeeves.’
‘Not at all, sir.’
‘I suppose you know that you have made me completely forget what I was saying?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir. I should not have interrupted. If I recollect, you were observing that it was your intention to accept Mr Stoker’s invitation.’
‘Ah, yes. Very well, then. I shall accept his invitation – whether as an olive branch or an amende honorable is wholly immaterial and doesn’t matter a single, solitary damn, Jeeves –’
‘No, sir.’
‘And shall I tell you why I shall accept his invitation? Because it will enable me to get together with Miss Stoker and plead Chuff’s cause.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘Not that it’s going to be easy. I hardly know what line to take.’
‘If I might make the suggestion, sir, I should imagine that the young lady would respond most satisfactorily to the statement that his lordship was in poor health.’
‘She knows he’s as fit as a fiddle.’
‘Poor health induced since her parting from him by distress of mind.’
‘Ah! I get you. Distraught?’
‘Precisely, sir.’
‘Contemplating self-destruction?’
‘Exactly, sir.’
‘Her gentle heart would be touched by that, you think?’
‘Very conceivably, sir.’
‘Then that is the vein I shall work. I see this invitation says dinner at seven. A bit on the early side, what?’
‘I presume that the arrangements have been made with a view to the convenience of Master Dwight, sir. This would be the birthday-party of which I informed you yesterday.’
‘Of course, yes. With nigger minstrel entertainment to follow. They are coming all right, I take it?’
‘Yes, sir. The Negroes will be present.’
‘I wonder if there would be any chance of a word with the one who plays the banjo. There are certain points in his execution I would like to consult him about.’
‘No doubt it could be arranged, sir.’
He seemed to speak with a certain reserve, and I could see that he felt that the conversation had taken an embarrassing turn. Probing the old sore, I mean.
Well, the best thing to do on these occasions, I’ve always found, is to be open and direct.
‘I’m making great progress with the banjolele, Jeeves.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Would you like me to play you “What is this Thing Called Love?”’
‘No, sir.’
‘Your views on the instrument are unchanged?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ah, well! A pity we could not see eye to eye on that matter.’
&n
bsp; ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Still, it can’t be helped. No hard feelings.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Unfortunate, though.’
‘Most unfortunate, sir.’
‘Well, tell old Stoker that I shall be there at seven prompt with my hair in a braid.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Or should I write a brief, civil note?’
‘No, sir. I was instructed to bring back a verbal reply.’
‘Right ho, then.’
‘Very good, sir.’
At seven on the dot, accordingly, I stepped aboard the yacht and handed the hat and light overcoat to a passing salt. It was with mixed feelings that I did so, for conflicting emotions were warring in the bosom. On the one hand, the keen ozone of Chuffnell Regis had given me a good appetite, and I knew from recollections of his hosp. in New York that J. Washburn Stoker did his guests well. On the other, I had never been what you might call tranquil in his society, and I was not looking forward to it particularly now. You might put it like this if you cared to – The fleshy or corporeal Wooster was anticipating the binge with pleasure, but his spiritual side rather recoiled a bit.
In my experience, there are two kinds of elderly American. One, the stout and horn-rimmed, is matiness itself. He greets you as if you were a favourite son, starts agitating the cocktail shaker before you know where you are, slips a couple into you with a merry laugh, claps you on the back, tells you a dialect story about two Irishmen named Pat and Mike, and, in a word, makes life one grand, sweet song.
The other, which runs a good deal to the cold, grey stare and the square jaw, seems to view the English cousin with concern. It is not Elfin. It broods. It says little. It sucks in its breath in a pained way. And every now and again you catch its eye, and it is like colliding with a raw oyster.
Of this latter class or species J. Washburn Stoker has always been the perpetual vice-president.
It was with considerable relief, therefore, that I found that tonight he had eased off a bit. While not precisely affable, he gave a distinct impression of being as nearly affable as he knew how.
‘I hope you have no objection to a quiet family dinner, Mr Wooster?’ he said, having shaken the hand.
‘Rather not. Dashed good of you to ask me,’ I replied, not to be outdone in the courtesies.
‘Just you and Dwight and myself. My daughter is lying down. She has a headache.’
This was something of a jar. In fact, it seemed to me to take what you might describe as the whole meaning out of this expedition.
‘Oh?’ I said.
‘I am afraid she found her exertions last night a little too much for her,’ said Pop Stoker, with something of the old fishlike expression in the eye: and, reading between the lines, I rather gathered that Pauline had been sent to bed without her supper, in disgrace. Old Stoker was not one of your broadminded, modern parents. There was, as I had had occasion to notice before, a distinct touch of the stern and rockbound old Pilgrim Father about him. A man, in short, who, in his dealings with his family, believed in the firm hand.
Observing that eye, I found it a bit difficult to shape the kindly inquiries.
‘Then you – er … she – er –?’
‘Yes. You were quite right, Mr Wooster. She had gone for a swim.’
And once more, as he spoke, I caught a flash of the fishlike. I could see that Pauline’s stock was far from high this PM, and I would have liked to put in a word for the poor young blighter. But beyond an idea of saying that girls would be girls, which I abandoned, I could think of nothing.
At this moment, however, a steward of sorts announced dinner, and we pushed in.
I must say that there were moments during that dinner when I regretted that occurrences which could not be overlooked had resulted in the absence from the board of the Hall party. You will question this statement, no doubt, inclining to the view that all a dinner-party needs to make it a success is for Sir Roderick Glossop, the Dowager Lady Chuffnell, and the latter’s son, Seabury, not to be there. Nevertheless, I stick to my opinion. There was a certain uncomfortable something about the atmosphere which more or less turned the food to ashes in my mouth. If it hadn’t been that this man, this Stoker, had gone out of his way to invite me, I should have said that I was giving him a pain in the neck. Most of the time he just sat and champed in a sort of dark silence, like a man with something on his mind. And when he did speak it was with a marked what-d’you-call-it. I mean to say, not actually out of the corner of his mouth, but very near it.
I did my best to promote a flow of conversation. But it was not till young Dwight had left the table and we were lighting the cigars that I seemed to hit on a topic that interested, elevated, and amused.
‘A fine boat, this, Mr Stoker,’ I said.
For the first time, something approaching animation came into the face.
‘Not many better.’
‘I’ve never done much yachting. And, except at Cowes one year, I’ve never been on a boat this size.’
He puffed at his cigar. An eye came swivelling round in my direction, then pushed off again.
‘There are advantages in having a yacht.’
‘Oh, rather.’
‘Plenty of room to put your friends up.’
‘Heaps.’
‘And, when you’ve got ’em, they can’t get away so easy as they could ashore.’
It seemed a rummy way of looking at it, but I supposed a man like Stoker would naturally have a difficulty in keeping guests. I mean, I took it that he had had painful experiences in the past. And nothing, of course, makes a host look sillier than to have somebody arrive at his country house for a long visit and then to find, round about lunch-time the second day, that he has made a quiet sneak for the railway station.
‘Care to look over the boat?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ I said.
‘I’d be glad to show it to you. This is the main saloon we’re in.’
‘Ah,’ I said.
‘I’ll show you the state-rooms.’
He rose, and we went along passages and things. We came to a door. He opened it and switched on the light.
‘This is one of our larger guest-rooms.’
‘Very nice, too.’
‘Go in and take a look round.’
Well, there wasn’t much to see that I couldn’t focus from the threshold, but one has to do the civil thing on these occasions. I toddled over and gave the bed a prod.
And, as I did so, the door slammed. And when I nipped round, the old boy had disappeared.
Rather rummy, was my verdict. In fact, distinctly rummy. I went across and gave the handle a twist.
The bally door was locked.
‘Hoy!’ I called.
No answer.
‘Hey!’ I said. ‘Mr Stoker.’
Only silence, and lots of it.
I went and sat down on the bed. This seemed to me to want thinking out.
12
* * *
Start Smearing, Jeeves!
I CAN’T SAY I liked the look of things. In addition to being at a loss and completely unable to follow the scenario, I was also distinctly on the uneasy side. I don’t know if you ever read a book called The Masked Seven? It’s one of those goose-fleshers and there’s a chap in it, Drexdale Yeats, a private investigator, who starts looking for clues in a cellar one night, and he’s hardly collected a couple when – bingo – there’s a metallic clang and there he is with the trapdoor shut and someone sniggering nastily on the other side. For a moment his heart stood still, and so did mine. Excluding the nasty snigger (which Stoker might quite well have uttered without my hearing it), it seemed to me that my case was more or less on all fours with his. Like jolly old Drexdale, I sensed some lurking peril.
Of course, mark you, if something on these lines had occurred at some country house where I was staying, and the hand that had turned the key had been that of a pal of mine, a ready explanation would have presented itself. I should have
set it down as a spot of hearty humour. My circle of friends is crammed with fellows who would consider it dashed diverting to bung you into a room and lock the door. But on the present occasion I could not see this being the solution. There was nothing roguish about old Stoker. Whatever view you might take of this fishy-eyed man, you would never call him playful. If Pop Stoker put his guests in cold storage, his motive in so doing was sinister.
Little wonder, then, that as he sat on the edge of the bed pensively sucking at his cigar, Bertram was feeling uneasy. The thought of Stoker’s second cousin, George, forced itself upon the mind. Dotty, beyond a question. And who knew but what that dottiness might not run in the family? It didn’t seem such a long step, I mean to say, from a Stoker locking people in state-rooms to a Stoker with slavering jaws and wild, animal eyes coming back and doing them a bit of no good with the meat axe.
When, therefore, there was a click and the door opened, revealing mine host on the threshold, I confess that I rather drew myself together somewhat and pretty well prepared myself for the worst.
His manner, however, was reassuring. Puff-faced, yes, but not fiend-in-human-shape-y. The eyes were steady and the mouth lacked foam. And he was still smoking his cigar, which I felt was promising. I mean, I’ve never met any homicidal loonies, but I should imagine that the first thing they would do before setting about a fellow would be to throw away their cigars.
‘Well, Mr Wooster?’
I never have known quite what to answer when blokes say ‘Well?’ to me, and I don’t now.
‘I must apologize for leaving you so abruptly,’ proceeded Stoker, ‘but I had to get the concert started.’
‘I’m looking forward to the concert,’ I said.
‘A pity,’ said Pop Stoker. ‘Because you’re going to miss it.’
He eyed me musingly.
‘There was a time, when I was younger, when I would have broken your neck,’ he said.
I didn’t like the trend the conversation was taking. After all, a man is as young as he feels, and there was no knowing that he wouldn’t suddenly get one of these – what do you call them? – illusions of youth. I had an uncle once, aged seventy-six, who, under the influence of old crusted port, would climb trees.