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Case of the Missing Valet	By : Spike119 Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Crossover Views: 1792 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Jeeves and Wooster or Sherlock Holmes series. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Chap 5

When I lived in New York, I came across all sorts of writer chappies and other artistic sorts, so I knew dashed well that although I’d grown up reading his books, I didn’t know the real Doctor John H. Watson from the proverbial h. in the g.; more awkward circumstances under which to get to know the real man could not reasonably be found. It came as a pleasant surprise, then, that the actual man couldn’t have been kinder or more ready to make a chap at ease.

While Mr. Holmes sat in the front seat of my roadster with a frighteningly Aunt Agatha-like expression on his face, Dr. Watson and I loaded up the car.

He patted the hood. “This is a beautiful machine, Mr. Wooster. It’s a Gwynne-Albert, isn’t it? Same aluminium body, but I see they’ve added front-wheel brakes. May I have a look at the engine? Ah, excellent, they’ve kept the overhead valves, but enlarged it a fair bit … how many ccs?”

“Nineteen hundred forty-four,” I answered proudly. “I say, you know your cars!”

“The doctor is an enthusiast,” Mr. Holmes said a little coldly, and I thought I recognized the tone; it’s the same one my Aunt Dahlia uses when referring to Uncle Tom’s silver collection or his firearms. I smiled a bit at the comparison until I remembered that these two didn’t have much time together, and my heart grew cold at the thought.

“Is there something wrong, Mr. Wooster?” the doctor asked kindly.

“Oh, no, no,” I said quickly, and then another thought hit me. “Would you like to drive?”

“You’re too kind, Mr. Wooster,” the doctor said, grinning.

“It’s a pleasure to indulge a fellow enthusiast,” I told him airily, sliding into the back seat behind the great detective. At least I would be spared his eagle eye upon the journey.

I usually don’t like riding in the back of the car, but it was well worth seeing these two old coves happy as larks as they drove down the coastline, nattering away as if they hadn’t a care in the world. For a while I listened to their talk – mostly about places I hadn’t been and people long dead, although Dr. Watson kept making an effort to bring me into the conversation – but soon I found myself dozing off, my mind on the most wonderful morning of my life, not two weeks ago.

I have long grown used to waking slowly, at about eleven or ten, and having my man waiting at my bedside with a piping hot cuppa all ready for me. I am surprised, therefore, to find myself awake at seven by the bedside clock, and even more surprised to find myself in a different bed. I sit up, looking around me in confusion.

This is Jeeves’ room. I’ve only been in here a few times, but I recognize it readily enough, even though the pictures have been taken down and the bookshelves are empty. His trunks sit at the foot of the bed, unpacked slightly, and I stare blankly at them, wondering why I am in my valet’s bed and why it looks like he is moving out before I remember the events of last night. I blush heavily, remembering how he drank not only from the fountain of my lips, but also from a less mentionable part of my anatomy, and when I recall the look on his face as he let go and poured himself into me – quite literally – I find myself trembling with emotion, wondering how soon we can do it all again.

Just as I’ve started to wonder whether I should get up or roll over and try for a few more hours of shuteye, Jeeves shimmers in with the tea-tray, just as if I was in my own bed and it was my regular time to wake rather than some god-awful hour of the day.

He pours me out a cup as usual, but then pours himself one as well, and without a word, snuggles into bed with me, handing me my cup with a kiss upon my cheek. It is only then that I notice that the man is not in his usual suit, but only wearing the bottoms of a pair of pyjamas, the tops of which seem to be adorning the Wooster form. A discreet wriggle of my hips reminds me that I am clad in nothing else, but this does not seem to concern my gentleman’s gentleman, who sits down next to me, propped up with a pillow, sipping at his tea as if it were the most natural thing for us to be sharing not only a bed but a single set of pyjamas.

There is something else different about the man, but I am having a hard time concentrating, what with Jeeves’ bare chest distracting me so sweetly. Now that I can remember the exertions of the evening, I recall how soft those dark curls of hair were, and how delightful it was to burrow into that chest as his strong arms encircled me round, keeping me warm and safe all night long.

We still have not spoken, and there seems to be no need for speech as we both put aside our cups and roll to face each other, our mouths meeting in a delicious Darjeeling-flavoured embrace. As I run my fingers through his hair, I realize what it is that is different.

“You’ve left the lime-cream out of your hair,” I murmur in between kisses. “I like it that way.”

He nuzzles me tenderly, chuckling a little. It’s strange and wonderful to see the man’s face when he laughs; his eyes light up brightly, accented by beautiful crinkles at the corners, and his whole face is so beautiful that I find myself kissing every bit of it I can. I remember from last night that his neck is particularly sensitive, and I begin nibbling at it, and am rewarded by a decidedly un-Jeeves-like moan.

We continue this pleasant diversion for some time before my stomach starts complaining. I try to ignore it for as long as I can, but soon the growling becomes loud enough for people on the ground floor to hear, and Jeeves pulls back, touching my cheek with a smile that makes me feel as soppy as Madeline Basset.

“Shall I cook breakfast, si—Bertram?” Apparently, I’m not the only one who’s having a hard time getting used to this. It only takes me a minute to know that although I shall look forward to having this man cook me breakfast for the rest of my life (what wonderful shivers at that thought!), I do not want him acting like my servant, not this morning.

“I should learn how to cook,” I say. “Then we could take turns, what?”

Jeeves smiles again. “Your sense of equality does you justice, Bertram, but I do not mind providing this morning’s repast.”

“Well, I’ll come down to the kitchen with you,” I say. “Then you can show me how it’s done, at least.”

“That is very kind of you.”

“Actually, I’m being totally selfish, Jeeves. I don’t want to quit your side, is all.” This remark earns me another chuckle as he draws me into his arms.

I’ve never been the sort of chap to think about all that bedroom stuff before, but last night was an education in itself, and Jeeves is an excellent teacher. I do my best to show him exactly how much I’ve learned as we roll around upon the bed a while, but soon my stomach starts complaining again, and we pull apart, laughing. Reluctantly we leave the bed and pull on some clothes (Jeeves has brought in a suit for me and makes quite a production of kissing my chest in between each button he does up), before toddling over to the kitchen.

Our first meal together as lovers is an informal affair, partly because yesterday’s folderol interfered with Jeeves’ usual marketing day, but mostly because I keep distracting him for “just one more” kiss. I’d always thought that line about kisses sweeter than wine was so much rot, but I find I can’t get enough of the man’s lips. When he actually burns the first round of eggs, however, I am sternly told to sit still and let him cook. In fact, he –

“I said, Mr. Wooster, which way now?” the stern voice jolted me out of my reverie, and I flinched to see Sherlock Holmes shooting me another Aunt Agatha look over his shoulder. “The boy’s an idiot, I tell you,” he said to his companion.

“Not everyone can be a genius, Holmes,” the doctor sighed, pulling the car over to the side of the road. “Which way, Mr. Wooster?”

It took me a moment to get my bearings, during which time Mr. Holmes kept shooting me progressively nastier looks.

“The left road will take us to Totleigh Towers,” I said, “but everyone’s probably at the church in the village, that is, for the wedding.”

“That would be the marriage of Lord Sidcup to Madeline Basset,” Mr. Holmes remarked.

“Their second go at it, yes. The first ceremony never got off the ground.”

“I remember reading about it in the society page,” Dr. Watson said, as he put the car in gear once more. “Wasn’t there some sort of plumbing accident?”

“Unfortunately, yes. They blamed me at the time, which is ridiculous, because I want to make sure la Basset gets married off as soon as possible.”

“And why does it matter to you whether or not Miss Basset marries?” Mr. Holmes frowned.

“Because the poor kid has gotten it into her head that I’m hopelessly in love with her,” I explained. “She thinks I caused the sewage explosion at the church to stop her wedding, you see, and if she doesn’t marry someone else, she’ll marry me by way of a last resort.”

“Really? What is wrong with the girl?”

“Nothing’s wrong with her. She’s just a little soppy, that’s all.”

“Hmmm. And yet she prefers the prospect of marriage to you rather than, say, entrance into a convent or even a lonely spinsterhood? Absolutely incredible.”

“Holmes!”

“I’m just trying to understand the boy, Watson.”

Even I knew better to answer this, and we drove the rest of the way in silence. The first thing I noticed when we got to Totleigh Towers was that there seemed to be quite a few extra people milling about on the front lawn, upcoming nuptials or no. The second thing I noticed was that quite a few of the extra people seemed to be policemen, which definitely didn’t fit in with the wedding theme.

When we stepped out of the car and a hysterical Madeline Basset dove screaming into my arms, I knew there was trouble afoot.

However, with all these warnings staring me in the face, I still didn’t realize I was the one in the soup until Sir Watkyn Basset, red-faced with anger, strode toward me, with several of Britain’s finest trailing along behind him.

“This is the man, officers!” he barked, pointing at me. “Arrest him at once.”

Holmes stepped in between me and the advancing squad. “I wish to know on what charge my client is to be arrested,” he said quietly.

“Your client?” Sir Watkyn growled. “And just who, sir, are you?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

It was as if I’d just stepped into a novel by Rosie Banks, right at the part where the humble but dashingly handsome hero reveals himself to be the Duke of Somesuch-or-Other. The policemen snapped to attention, the guests stood open-mouthed in shock, and Sir Watkyn’s eyes grew wide as his jaw dropped to his chest. Even Madeline stopped her blubbing and wheeled around, gaping at Mr. Holmes as he turned to the policemen.

“Which of you is the officer in charge?” he asked calmly.

A serious-looking chap stepped forward. “I’m Detective-Inspector Bowes, CID,” he said with a salute. “It’s an honour to meet you, sir. I’ll do whatever I can to assist you in your investigation.”

Mr. Holmes flashed the man an odd flicker of a smile; if I’d blinked, I would have missed it. Considering that it was the first time I’d seen the man smile, I thought it a very poor showing, indeed. “That is very kind of you, Inspector Bowes,” he said, “but in fact, I do not wish to interfere in your investigation. Mr. Wooster engaged me for a completely different matter than the murder which brought you here.”

“Hold on a moment!” Sir Watkyn snapped. “If Wooster engaged you for something different, then exactly how do you come to know there’s been a murder? We didn’t discover the body until this morning, and I threw that wastrel off the estate before supper last night, so he must have –”

“In fact, Sir Watkyn,” Mr. Holmes interrupted coolly, “it was an elementary deduction that led me to the conclusion that Lord Sidcup has been murdered. Any idiot could see –”

“Sidcup is dead?” I gasped.

“Don’t you dare feign ignorance, Wooster!” Sir Watkyn shrieked, shaking a finger at me. “I’ll see you hanged before I see you married to my daughter!”

Madeline erupted into a fresh torrent of sobbing, collapsing into the arms of a nearby constable. I looked at her and considered that while hanging sounded like a rum go, at least it would be over quickly.

“Exactly when did the murder take place?” Mr. Holmes asked.

“We haven’t had a post-mortem done yet,” Inspector Bowes admitted. “But if you and Doctor Watson would be so kind as to come into the ice-house –”

“You mean you moved the body prior to post-mortem?” Dr. Watson frowned.

Mr. Holmes favoured his friend with a grim smile. “I’m sure our young friend here has been taught the proper forensic methods, old friend; after all, your text is the standard for that subject at the Yard. No, he has not moved the body. In fact,” he continued, “the ice house is where the murder took place, am I right, Inspector?”

“Either Wooster’s confessed to you, or you are the devil himself!” Sir Watkyn yelped.

Mr. Holmes turned to him, scowling heartily. “It was not any infernal knowledge,” he said in a stony voice, “but rather the wet sawdust upon the knees of no less than three constables’ uniforms that informed me of the murder site. Now, Sir Watkyn, as the owner of this estate, you may either aid or inhibit the Inspector’s search for the truth; however, if you truly wish to discover who killed Lord Sidcup, you will allow me to collaborate with the inspector unimpeded by your unhelpful and prejudicial comments directed toward my client.”

Sir Watkyn huffed a little at this, crossing his arms. “You still haven’t told us why Wooster has retained your services.”

“Certainly that is between Mr. Wooster and me.”

Sir Watkyn’s frown deepened. “It’s about his bloody missing valet, isn’t it? The boy’s lost without him; the fellow’s more like his nursemaid than a manservant. In any case, it’s obvious why he left,” he sneered. “Everyone knows now that he’s Lord Cheltenham’s bastard; most likely the man has crept away in shame. There always was something shifty about that one,” he finished in a low voice.

Mr. Holmes greeted this remark with a look that went beyond even Aunt Agatha’s capacity for sheer disdain. This time, Sir Watkyn withered under the man’s glare, eventually stammering an apology directed mostly at his feet.

Sherlock Holmes turned to Inspector Bowes. “Shall we proceed to the scene of the murder? I’m sure the good doctor would like to inspect the body as soon as possible.”
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Case of the Missing Valet