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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.

Chapter List
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Chapter 9

Now, I have been poked into the theft of everything from silver cow creamers to constable’s helmets, prodded into the assumption of various disguises from African royalty to pregnant parlour-maid, and cajoled into the entertaining of sundry personages from American theatre producers to Aberdeen terriers, but as I watched Mr. Holmes leave, something deep inside the Wooster breast called out, and I knew that I must take the reins, as it were. I waited until they were well out the door before sneaking around via the kitchen to the old stable-yard, where my roadster was parked.

I was just in time to see the three men pull away in it, and my reaction was admittedly not one of my shining moments.

“Such language, Bertie!” Stiffy Byng said, stepping out of the shadows. She was smiling like the c. that had eaten the c., her hands thrust behind her back.

There are times when one must cease to be a gentleman and simply be a man, and I had reached my limit. I drew myself up and glared at yon brunette with as much disdain as I could muster. “If you are going to eavesdrop on a fellow’s private moments,” I told her coolly, “than I cannot be held responsible for what you hear. But not to put to fine a point on it, Stiffy, but why in damnation didn’t you stop them?”

“Honestly, Bertie, you just don’t think, do you? For one thing, they wouldn’t listen to me, and –”

“—and by the time I get your car out of the garage, they’ll be well gone.”

“But that’s the point, Bertie. You know where they’ve gone.”

“What are you blathering on about?”

Stiffy grinned beatifically. “You weren’t the only one listening upon the patio, Bertie. They’re going to wherever that abominable Brinkley lives – or lived, rather.”

Now I may not be as brilliant as Jeeves, but I could sense where this was going; I could see the ghoulish delight in her eyes. “Stiffy, you can’t come along,” I protested. “It’s far too dangerous.”

“That’s precisely why you need me, Bertie. I’m much more scheming than you. Look, you want to find Jeeves. Very desperately, I’m imagining.” She paused, and did the saintly grin again. “Now, Bertie, don’t scowl so; you look like a frog. You’ve been aglow since the week before that whole Plumbo-Jumbo disaster. A girl can tell when a chap’s in love, even when that chap’s in love with another chap. Oh, I won’t tell a soul. I want to help you, in fact.”

“The price for your silence being that I let you come with me.”

“That and the fact that I still haven’t told you how we’re going to trace them.”

“And why, pray tell, would I need to trace them?”

“Do you think Mr. Holmes would let you witness his investigation? Once he saw you show up at the scene of the crime, he would give you the bum’s rush. In order to find Jeeves, we have to follow the great detective – from a discreet distance.”

“And how are we going to maintain this discreet distance?”

“Silly Bertie,” she chuckled, and held out her hand. A syringe glittered in the moonlight. “A trick from the master’s bag. This and some vanilla extract from the kitchen have turned your roadster’s path into a trail of breadcrumbs.”

“So exactly how are we going to follow this trail of breadcrumbs?” I asked. “If you hadn’t noticed, neither of us is a bloodhound.”

“We’re in the stable-yard, Bertie,” Stiffy said, as if this explained things.

“None of the horses are bloodhounds, either.”

“Lestrade is sleeping not five yards away.”

“Who – but he’s ancient,” I protested. “He was tracking game when we were in short pants – well, when I was in short pants, anyway.”

“He was mother’s favourite hound.”

“Well, yes, but he’s what? Sixteen? Seventeen?”

“Bertie, do you want to argue, or do you want to find Jeeves?”

“Get the blasted canine; I’m driving.”

Unfortunately, Stiffy’s directions turned us completely round, so that by the time we got to Brinkley’s cottage, it was clear that Mr. Sherlock Holmes had been and gone. Rather than lurking in the background according to plan, Stiffy strode right up to the annoyed-looking inspector and hit him with a barrage of questions designed to leave a chap’s head spinning. According to the man, Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson had left not ten minutes ago, and were going to their hotel for the evening. Yes, Mr. Brinkley was dead; no, we could not see the body. The harassed inspector had just launched into a lecture about the difference between a murder scene and a carnival sideshow, and how the casual observer may tell the difference, so I decided enough was enough and stepped forward to pluck at Stiffy’s elbow.

“Come on, Stiffy, we can do nothing further here. We might as well get on back to Totleigh Towers.”

We sat in the roadster and watched the inspector drive away, leaving two men to guard the place from ghoulish thrill-seekers. The fact that said g. t. s. were not five yards away in an idling Bentley did not seem to matter one whit to the brave lads, who ignored us as much vigour as possible.

As soon as the police car drove away, I turned to Stiffy with a wearied sigh. “Well, what now?” I asked.

“Bertie, don’t be an ass. Why do you think we brought Lestrade?”

“Stiffy, in order for Lestrade to follow the trail of vanilla, he shall need to be on foot, and we shall need to be on foot to follow him.”

“So?”

“So, they could be going as far as London, you know.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this before.”

“I only thought of it now. We might end up following them anywhere.”

Stiffy considered this a moment. “No,” she said. “They won’t have gone far, because they’re looking for whoever killed Brinkley.”

“And what makes you think that –”

“Call it a hunch. Come on, Bertie.”

I watched as she pulled a small bottle out of her pocket and dabbed it upon her handkerchief, which she then presented to the old hound. Almost instantly, Lestrade began wagging his tail, giving a small, gruff bark to let us know he’d gotten the scent. “Good boy! I say, this is a thrill!”

It was the look in her eye that did it. I knew that I had to be firm with the girl. “Look, Stiffy –”

“Bertie, you’re going to be tiresome again. You’ve got that tone in your voice.”

“Stephanie,” I said, “this isn’t a game. We’re going to be walking into serious danger.”

“And exactly what,” she said, “is your point?” She stared at me, her big brown eyes glowing with defiance.

Now, up until this point, I had been thinking of the Code of the Woosters, and how a young lady must be protected at all costs. And yet, the events of the past few months had encouraged me to consider a few things vis a vis traditions, expectations, and simple cultural assumptions about what Just Isn’t Done. I looked at my friend, a girl who had been my friend for longer than either of us could remember, and the scales fell from my eyes. I saw a woman who could take care of herself, and might even be of good use to a chap in a tight spot. And, after all, she was the one woman I could count on not to marry me, which, in my books, makes her rather my favourite sort of woman.

And, yet, I did have to do my duty, or at least make what is commonly known as a Gesture. I gave her the sternest frown I could muster. “I just want you to remember that this isn’t a game, that’s all. Look, everyone but me seems to forget that Jeeves is bloody well missing, and if he’s mixed up in this –”

“Bertie, what everyone but you seems to remember is that if Jeeves is mixed up in this, then he’s probably bloody well pulling the strings, just as he always is. Now, do you want to find out what your man is up to or not?”

“Right, then,” I muttered, swinging myself out of the car.

“’Ere!” one of the constables barked. “Aren’t you taking your machine?”

“We’re … just taking the old dog for a walk, don’t you know,” I called.

“Don’t you think you can fool us by sneaking ‘round the back,” the man answered.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. We’ll be walking the dog now.”

Lestrade did not seem all that intent upon being walked; he sniffed around sleepily for a bit, then proceeded to relieve himself upon the Bentley’s tyres.

“Oh, dear,” Stiffy remarked in an over-theatrical voice. “I seem to have dropped my handkerchief.” She waved the cloth in front of the dog’s nose. “Come on, boy,” she hissed. Lestrade gave a grumpy bark, and began sniffing around again, this time in a wider circle.

“Looks like he’s done his business, miss,” the constable said, “but all the same, I don’t think he’ll need a wipe.”

I had just opened my mouth to give the blackguard a right piece of my mind, when Lestrade let out a sudden bay and began tugging Stiffy’s arm almost out of the socket.

“Thank you, constable,” Stiffy yelped, running along after Lestrade as he began trotting down the drive.

“Toodle-pip,” I said, and I meant it to sting.

The old hound led us at quite a pace, considering that he’d last run with the pack while Stiffy was in pigtails. We followed along in silence for a while, and I wondered exactly how far the great detective and his partner had driven in search of their quarry.

I was surprised, therefore, when we found my car parked on a little-used side road weaving deep into the woods that bordered the grounds of Totleigh Towers itself.

Lestrade gave a satisfied bark and hopped up into the passenger seat, wagging his tail.

“He always did love automobile rides,” Stiffy puffed, leaning against the door and scratching the dog behind the ear. “Good boy, Lestrade, you’ve led us right to them.”

This, I thought, was not showing the proper spirit of the thing. “Stiffy, he’s led us to my ominously empty 1923 Gwynne-Albert. As commendable a job your mater’s canine has done finding the car, we are, in fact, looking for Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor –”

“Bertie,” Stiffy groaned, pointing to the embankment.

“Well, I’ll be dashed,” I said, looking at the trail in the tall grass leading obviously to a small shack set a ways back from the road.

“That’s where the old game-keeper’s house used to be,” Stiffy told me, tying the dog’s lead to the steering wheel. “The shack is all that was left after the fire.”

“I know that,” I answered impatiently. “And the shack was built right after the fire, if you remember.”

“That’s what I meant. Honestly, Bertie, you’re such a dope.”

I ignored her. “But why would they leave the car here?” I mused. “There’s a driveway right up to the place.”

“Silly, so the lamps wouldn’t be seen by whoever was inside. We’ll need a flashlight, though,” she muttered, looking through my glove-box.

“Didn’t you just say –”

“Not for the light, silly, for the blunt-object,” she replied. “Well, no matter, perhaps I don’t need it,” she said, her voice growing strange.

“I can take the tire iron,” I offered, feeling the wave of fear that had no doubt affected Stiffy. Suddenly, the whole thing seemed completely and disastrously wrong.

“Yes, that would probably be a good thing, Bertie,” she answered distantly.

I rummaged around in the boot, heaving a sigh of relief when my fingers closed around the reassuring heft of the tire iron. I slapped it into my hand once or twice, wondering if, fighting spirit aside, I would be able to bring myself to use it.

Stiffy laid a hand on my shoulder. “Bertie, do you think …” she trailed off into a sort of squeak.

I looked over to the shack, and thought about everything I knew, and, somehow much more frightening, everything I didn’t know. I smacked the iron into my palm once more, remembering the flat tone in Mr. Holmes’ voice when he said Jeeves was too young to die for his country.

“Let’s go,” I muttered.

This is where, in one of those thick books that seem to sell so well today, the author will stick in some descriptive blather about the moon and the clouds, even throwing in a barking hound or whatnot for atmosphere. Well, I don’t know if you’ve ever had to sneak up some shack where the man you loved might or might not be in mortal peril, but I can tell you that the moon could have been dancing the Charleston and Lestrade could have been singing “Oh, By Jingo!” and honking my car’s horn for all I noticed; every spare oz. of my attention was upon our goal as Stiffy and I crept up to the shack as quiet as mice, not saying a word until we got right up to the window and she put her mouth to my ear.

“I’ll go round the back,” she hissed.

I opened my mouth to ask her what in the bally hell she thought she was doing, but she slipped away round the corner before I could protest. I shook my head in dismay and hefted the crowbar again, reassuring myself with its deadly weight.

“You’ll be wanting to drop that, sir,” a voice came from behind me, as a hand with some serious d. w. of its own grasped my arm with disconcerting firmness, prompting a startled yelp to escape from yours truly.

Said hand whirled me around as easy as if I were a stalk of barley, and a matching hand roughly the size of a beefsteak wrenched the crowbar from my fingers. The first hand then connected with my jaw, sending me reeling. Before I could recover, my assailant grabbed me by both shoulders, slamming me up against the wall with both of his meaty hands firmly at my throat.

To call this foul creature a gorilla would be an insult to fine gorillas everywhere. True, he was big and hairy, but gorillas are noble beasts, and this was simply a beast, albeit a beast in a grungy tweed cap. He leered up at me, tightening his hold upon my collar and severely limiting my breathing.

“Mr. Wooster,” he said, smirking in a way that made me want to biff him, or would have, if I had any strength with which to want anything but a bit more oxygen. “We’ve been expecting you. This way, please.” Hands around my neck, he carried me over to the door and pushed me through. “You were right. He couldn’t resist following them.” he called, grunting only slightly as he flung me to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

“Of course I was right,” a harsh voice rang out above me. “It’s all down to the psychology of the individual. Now go find the girl; she can’t have gotten far.”

The brute paused. “Boss, should I –”

“Do what our friend commands,” a second voice said. I didn’t like this second voice at all; it sounded like something dead. But the first voice made me shudder more, and I couldn’t figure out why. Of course, a fellow’s mental capacities are not at the apex when that fellow is gasping for air and inhaling dusty wooden floor, but it seemed to me I recognized the first voice.

A sharp boot prodded my ribs, interrupting my train of thought and rolling me over. “Up, you,” the first voice commanded. This time, there was no doubt about it. But such words could not have been coming from …

The boot prodded me again. “I said up.”

I slowly pulled myself to my feet, looking at Jeeves in blank confusion. His eyes glittered as coldly as the gun he pointed at me. I barely noticed Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson, or the weasel-like cove who held his weapon trained upon them.

The other man, however, I could not help but notice. He was perhaps about sixty, tall and blond, with a smile that matched his voice: this smile looked like something dead that had been resurrected and pasted across his face.

“So this is Mr. Wooster,” the man purred. “No, I do not wish to hear you speak, lad. So, Witherspoon, you say that this boy knows the whereabouts of the Agra treasure?”

“That is true, although he himself is ignorant of the fact,” Jeeves answered.

“I am interested to know why you were unwilling to have my men question him. Perhaps you have grown fond of the boy.”

The disgusted look upon Jeeves’ face tore my heart in two. “I have allowed him to think so,” he replied, “but the number of facts of which he is ignorant is frankly distressing. However, in direct answer to your question, I doubt that your … associates, with all their skill in producing pain, would know which questions to ask.”

“I can get anything outta anyone,” the weaselly guard retorted.

“I shall tell you when I want you to talk, Mortimer. Now, Witherspoon, I should also like to know why you did not wish me to send for Mr. Wooster.”

“I could easily have extracted the information without raising any suspicions on his part. Mr. Wooster is of an extremely credulous nature.”

“So you have said.” The dead smile jacked up a notch. “And yet, I still have some nagging concerns. You came to me yesterday, telling me that you had just discovered this Agra document. However, you had by all reports been chasing after the Ganymede Club Book for only a week, and then, mysteriously, you lost all interest in it, returning it to the club in London five days ago. What is more, Mr. Brinkley told my men that once he retrieved the Ganymede Club book from your room, the document in question had disappeared from its spine. ”

“Mr. Brinkley’s memory must have been deceiving him.”

“Oh, he was quite insistent on the matter. Death does so focus the mind.”

Jeeves looked slightly pained. “As I have already explained, I thought at first that the pages had been placed there by accident; it only occurred to me recently that the document might contain more than passing academic interest. It is mere coincidence –”

The man waved a corpse-like hand. “Is it also mere coincidence that this Brinkley man murdered Spode over the matter not six hours after you came to me offering to sell the same document?”

“It was Brinkley’s interest in the thing that brought my attention to it. He will always sell out to the highest bidder. I prefer to remain loyal.”

“Indeed, Witherspoon, but loyal to whom?”

Bally good question, I thought, watching Jeeves’ granite-hard expression.

“I assure you,” Jeeves said, “that I had nothing to do with the fatal quarrel between Brinkley and Spode. Until a few hours before I came to you, I did not realize that his Lordship was your contact. I quite honestly had no idea that Brinkley would approach Sir Watkyn and Lord Sidcup together, or that it would lead to murder. Though, in retrospect, I should have realized that any such conversation with Lord Sidcup might easily lead to –”

“You are babbling, Witherspoon, which is always a bad sign. Now you claim that this boy knows where the Agra treasure is, but you do not.”

“That is correct. I have given it into his safekeeping, but he is unaware of what I have given him. I have only to ask him a few simple questions –”

“Jeeves,” I exclaimed, “if you really are a traitor, then you can bally well kill me now, because I’m not going to answer any questions.”

Jeeves raised his weapon. “Very good, sir.”

I closed my eyes, wondering whether or not I’d live long enough to hear the shot. It rather surprised me, then to hear not just a shot, but a shattering of glass and a startled yell from the guard.

The brief tussle which followed is still a blur in my memory, but I do remember the booming voice of the beast with the tweed cap, who burst into the room carrying Stiffy as if she were a rag-doll.

“Everyone stops now, or I rip the girl’s head off,” he bellowed.

“Very good, Burton,” the cadaverous man said crisply. “Mortimer, retrieve your weapon from the ground, thank you. And Mr. Holmes’ handcuffs seem to have come unfastened again. Very bad manners, Mr. Holmes, very bad. No, I’ll have your weapon, Witherspoon,” he continued, plucking Jeeves’ gun from the floor. “Or should I call you Jeeves? Though I hear that’s not your real name, either. Oh, yes, I know you’re Cheltenham’s bastard. I also know that you have been charged by His Majesty to protect the treasure. Did you really think that I believed you would sell it to me?”

Jeeves stood glaring at Sorenson, shaking in rage. “You shall never see the Agra treasure, Sorenson,” he hissed. “Not while there’s breath in my body, at least.”

“I beg to differ, Mr. Jeeves.” Sorenson whirled round and fired the gun at me.

I felt a white-hot flash of agony tearing across my outer thigh, and I instinctively dove to the floor. I screwed my eyes shut and took a deep breath, pushing the pain out of my mind. “Jeeves, it’s not worth it. Don’t tell –”

A bullet ricocheted right by my head, startling me into silence.

“The next one goes through his skull, Mr. Jeeves. Now I am through playing games; where is the Agra Treasure? No? Very well –”

“Wait!” Jeeves yelled.

Yes, he yelled, his veneer breaking and true desperation ringing through. “All right,” he said in a low voice. “Promise me you will not kill him, and I will tell you.”

I gritted my teeth and opened an eye to look down at my wounded leg. The blood had already stopped flowing; presumably, it was only a superficial wound, but all I knew was it hurt like hell. Still, I felt that Something ought to be Said. “I should rather die,” I proclaimed stiffly, “than betray my country.” Not exactly original, but I felt it would serve.

“Enough drama, Mr. Wooster. Very well, Mr. Jeeves, I promise you I will not kill him.”

“The document is in the glove-box of Mr. Wooster’s car, in a blue envelope, tucked into a road map of the Dover area.”

“Good God, man,” Mr. Holmes whispered, “do you have any idea what you have done?”

“I have saved a life.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Jeeves, you are wrong,” our captor laughed. “In fact, you are all going to die tonight. Yes, I did promise I would not kill your … friend. I did not, however, make any guarantee that my men would not kill him. Mortimer, Burton, you know what to do –”

“So, you don’t even do your own killing any more,” Doctor Watson growled. “You’ve come a long way since you were shooting pregnant women for the Kaiser.”

The effect upon Jeeves was extraordinary; he whirled around to face his fathers, a stormy look darkening his eyes, and received an answering nod from Mr. Holmes. Jeeves turned to Sorenson, an expression of pure hatred contorting his noble features.

“You killed Mary Morstan?”

I’ve mentioned before that Jeeves is a big man. He usually shimmers around the place with such an air of deference that one does not see how big he really is.

He was not deferring to anyone now, and he practically loomed. Jeeves towered over the man, scowling down at him with barely-contained fury.

“Tell me why,” he whispered. “Tell me why you killed Mary Morstan.”

For the first time since this nightmare started, I saw fear in Sorenson’s eyes, and the dead mouth flickered at the corners. He looked down at his gun, perhaps to remind himself that he was still holding it and was thus, supposedly, in charge.

“We knew that Mr. Holmes could only send monthly telegrams,” he began softly, “but would not be able to acknowledge any message, the only exception to this rule being the death of a fellow agent, when he would have to report his status. Of the three agents gathered for supper upon the night in question, Mrs. Watson was the least useful to our plans –”

Before either guard could stop him, Jeeves darted forward, grabbing the man by the neck and lifting him off his feet.

Burton and Mortimer dove as one to tear Jeeves away from their boss, which left Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson unguarded. Stiffy appeared out of nowhere; much later, she told me she had been cowering in the corner where the brute had thrown her, but when she saw Jeeves actually using physical force, she decided that it all must be a bad dream and so she had nothing to lose by darting forward into the fray, screaming like a banshee.

Lying on the floor with a bullet hole in one’s leg is no place to observe a fight. Suddenly everyone was using yours truly as a foothold, and there was much stamping about in the general region of my head. I am sure that no sane person could blame me for crawling to safety, and from my vantage point beneath the table, I was able to see the whole thing, or would have, had my vision not been obscured by a pair of hands clamped over my eyes. The fact that said hands were my own does not enter into the question; the point is that I was unable to see a thing for some time.

By the time it was safe to look, Burton and Mortimer had fled, Stiffy was down with the doctor crouching over her, Mr. Holmes was leaning against the door, prodding at the lock, and Jeeves stood in the centre of the room, gun in hand, aiming directly at Sorenson, who lay upon the floor not two yards from me.

I was, therefore, in an excellent position to view the man’s face as he looked up at Jeeves, and I saw terror in his eyes.

“Did you know she was pregnant?” Jeeves hissed.

The man’s eyes widened until I could see the whites all round.

“Did you?” Jeeves shouted.

The man flinched, his eyes slamming shut. Slowly, he nodded.

Jeeves slipped off the safety catch.

“Jeeves, don’t,” I said. “We’ll do this right; we’ll watch him swing, I promise you.”

“As commendable a sentiment as that is, Mr. Wooster, I don’t think that shall be possible,” Mr. Holmes murmured, rattling the doorknob. “Well, Sorenson, you have nice, loyal employees. They’ve locked us in and set fire to the shack.”

“Then let’s get out of here,” Stiffy said, sitting up and prompting a sharp rebuke from the doctor, who was trying to bandage her arm. “Can’t you pick the lock?”

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do for the last few minutes, Miss Byng? They’ve jammed it, and barricaded the door, too, by the feel of it.”

“Well, shoot the lock off.”

“That only works in films, Miss Byng,” Doctor Watson sighed.

“Mr. Jeeves, hand your weapon over to Wooster; he can watch our prisoner,” Mr. Holmes instructed. “I need your help to figure out a way out of this shack before we suffocate.”

“They’ll be waiting outside for us, most likely,” Dr. Watson added, helping Stiffy to her feet. “And the window is much too small for even Miss Byng to squeeze through.”

I pulled myself to my feet, and my fingers brushed against an iron ring set into a hole in the floorboard.

“Or we could go through the basement,” I said.

Everyone stared at me in blank shock. Then Stiffy slapped her forehead.

“The basement! Of course. There used to be a house here, Mr. Holmes. But will we be able to get through to the back exit?”

“We can but try,” Mr. Holmes said. In a twinkling he had pounced upon the trap-door, pushing me aside with a minimum of fuss. Jeeves handed me the weapon and joined his father; together they were able to pull the door open, revealing a damp passageway into total darkness.

“I’m not going down there,” Sorenson said.

“Would you prefer asphyxiation from the smoke?” Holmes asked brightly. “Of course, it’ll all be the same in the end. Myself, I should rather watch you hang, but I can understand –”

“Holmes, we haven’t the time for this,” Doctor Watson interrupted softly, picking up a lamp. Mr. Holmes did not answer, although he frowned briefly at his friend before proceeding down the staircase.

The doctor turned to Stiffy. “After you, Miss Byng,” he said, following close behind her with the lamp held over his head.

Jeeves took back the gun from me, and gestured to the trap-door. “After you, Sorenson,” he growled.

I followed after them, my leg twinging only slightly as I limped down the stairs, closing the door behind us on Mr. Holmes’s orders. We found ourselves in a narrow hallway, and we clustered round in the flickering light of the single flame.

“So, Miss Byng,” Mr. Holmes began, “you wouldn’t remember exactly where this putative other door would be?”

“The place burned down the year I was born,” Stiffy admitted, “and I only came to Totleigh on weekends. I heard about the basement from the older children. They said that the door outside the basement let out behind a large maple.”

“Hardly helpful, considering that I was not able to observe the local flora, due to the superfluous blindfolds we were forced to wear upon our capture.” Mr. Holmes turned to me with a pained look. “Mr. Wooster, tell me you know where this exit is.”

“I was only down here once, when I was helping an older boy fetch some shovels for a ditch we were digging,” I told him. “I only know that there was another door somewhere in one of these rooms; I don’t recall where.”

“Very well,” the detective muttered. “Well, I suppose we must search –”

“I say!” I yelped. We were all clumped up at the end of the basement hallway, and I had drifted close to Jeeves, with the intention of showing him as well as I could that I was glad to see him and whatnot. Unfortunately, said tactic brought me in close proximity to Sorenson, and suddenly the man grabbed me across the chest with one bony arm.

I felt the prick of a blade against my neck. “Be quiet, Mr. Wooster,” Sorenson growled. “Now, Mr. Jeeves, if you want this man to live –”

His head exploded. That is the only word I can use; in an instant, I was covered in unspeakable bits of skull and brains. I did the only thing any sensible individual in my position would do; I completely stepped out of reality for a while.

This is not to say that I fainted; certainly I remember gentle hands leading me to a seat upon a nearby crate, and there was a whispered discussion that ended with the lamp bobbing away, followed by the voices of Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson, while the voices of Stiffy and Jeeves stayed with me in the dark.

“Look, Jeeves,” Stiffy said slowly, “I know I’m always, well, using what I know to get what I want, but I give you my word that I won’t ever say a word about any of this.”

“That is very kind of you, Miss.”

“Please, Jeeves. If you’re involved with Bertie, than that makes you his friend. And any friend of Bertie is a friend of mine. My friends,” she finished softly, “call me Stiffy.”

“Thank you … Stiffy.”

There was a long pause.

“You’re Mr. Holmes’ son, aren’t you?”

“Miss B—Stiffy, I really can’t –”

“Please, Jeeves, the resemblance is more than striking. I say, should I call you Reggie?”

“His friends call him Jack,” I grunted, sitting up. “And as to whose son he is, that is his business.”

Jeeves grasped my hand in the dark, slipping an arm around my shoulders. I leaned into his neck, inhaling his scent.

“Bertram, you do know that my actions before were a deception to convince Sorenson that –”

“I bally well figured that out,” I said, pulling away slightly. “But what about when you lost your nerve and spilled the beans? Now, don’t get me wrong, I was dashed relieved to hear from the tone of your voice that you still cared, but weren’t you the very chap who was not two days ago lecturing me upon the importance of not letting your personal affections interfere with your service to king and country?”

“I did not, as you put it, spill the beans. The display of emotion you saw lent credibility to the false information I then gave him concerning the whereabouts of the document. The envelope I put in the glove-box of your car contains a dummy copy of the Agra treasure, designed to pass the cursory perusal Messrs. Burton and Mortimer shall no doubt give it before taking it to their former employer’s masters.”

Now, as relieved as I was to discover that my man had not, in fact, given over any of Old Blighty’s secrets to the wrong side on my behalf, it still galled me somewhat that he had deliberately lied while that Sorenson fellow was ready to pump lead into the Wooster skull, and I said so, with an understandable amount of sharpness to the voice.

Jeeves sighed very slightly. “Bertram,” he replied softly. “I lied to save your life. Believe me when I tell you that the panic you heard in my voice was entirely genuine. Although I did not spill any proverbial beans, I did, indeed, come perilously close to losing my nerve. I shall count myself lucky if I never see you in such danger again.”

“Oh, Jeeves –” I breathed, drawing him close.

Jeeves laid a hand upon my chest. “We are not alone, Bertram.”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Stiffy piped up. “I only wish I could see the show as well as hear it.” Damn the girl, she sounded as if she were laughing.

I had just opened my mouth to give her a sharp rebuke, when the bobbing light re-appeared, accompanied by the great detective and his sidekick grumbling at each other peevishly.

“… and I say you’re going to sit here and rest,” the doctor finished sharply.

“I assure you, Watson,” Mr. Holmes said, “I simply lost my balance. There is no need to make me sit down as if I were an invalid.”

I could hear it in the man’s voice; for all his bravado, Sherlock Holmes’ commanding words came in gasps and starts, and he all but collapsed into a sitting position against the wall.

Jeeves rushed to his father’s side. “We need to get you out of this basement,” he said. “The fire above us shall be sapping our oxygen supply shortly.”

“There’s no way out,” Mr. Holmes puffed. “The door that Mr. Wooster and Miss Byng remember from their childhood has been overgrown by the large maple marking it. It would take four strong men at least two hours to cut through the roots.”

I still do not know what possessed me; I sprang to my feet, wounded leg and all. “Then we shall dig around it,” I said. “Provided those shovels I carried are still there,” I added.

“They are, Mr. Wooster, but still, I do not advise –”

There was no dissuading me. I do not remember much of the following hour; I remember Jeeves and then Stiffy joining me in the digging, while Doctor Watson tended to his patient. I also remember the air growing thin as we kept fighting through the mass of roots blocking our escape, and I dimly remember a confused rush of soil and stones as we finally broke through, and a pair of arms reaching in and pulling us out. The next few minutes are completely jumbled in my mind, although I do retain various impressions of being carried and laid down upon a comfortable cot, and there was a sensation of things getting bandaged while official conversations rumbled above my head. I recognized something shaped much like Inspector Bowes running about the place barking orders.

“We’ve been bally well rescued,” I murmured to no one in particular.

“Indeed, sir,” Jeeves answered, shimmering up to my side. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must coordinate further rescue efforts.”

“Carry on, Jeeves,” I said, leaning back and allowing the Wooster head to clear.

Said clarity came back to me with a dreadful snap just about the time the stretcher with Mr. Sherlock Holmes upon it was laid a few feet away from me, his spare, lean form lying motionless and pale. I looked upon the noble visage illuminated by the flickering torches above us, then at Doctor Watson, who knelt by his friend’s still body, holding one thin white hand in his own.

An expectant hush fell upon the crowd, and everyone paused to watch the tableau of the legendary detective and his faithful companion. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a few of the constables begin to remove their helmets, and I felt a chill run down my spine.

I swallowed the lump that had risen in my throat. “Is he –”

A sparkling grey eye flickered open, and a sardonic smile lifted one corner of the thin lips. “Not yet, Mr. Wooster,” the great detective said, then rolled his eyes with disgust at the cheer which greeted his apparent return to the world of the living.

Doctor Watson finished taking his friend’s pulse. “All the same, it would be better to get you to hospital right away. But I know you’re going to refuse that, and so I will cut through the inevitable debate and direct these good men to take you to the Totleigh Arms. No, you will not be walking on your own, Holmes,” he continued sternly, as the detective attempted to sit up. “Do not think of arguing with me; we have all had a long night.”

And so it was that Bertram Wooster, layabout, and Sherlock Holmes, living legend, came to be bundled together into an ambulance and taken to the Totleigh Arms, where we were each installed in a comfortable room for the night. I remember nothing after the first part of the ambulance ride, when I looked across the gap between our gurneys to see Mr. Holmes watching me closely.

“I’m sorry; was there something wrong?” I asked carefully.

“I find you an interesting study, Mr. Wooster,” he said simply. “Apparently, your mask of simplicity covers hidden depths which are not readily detectable, even to the trained observer.”

“Thank you,” I croaked, and then everything went dark and I knew no more.

“I’m sorry, Jeeves – I say, are you all right?”

“I will survive, but I would be much more comfortable if you could reposition your knee – no, there – erm, nor there,” he continues with something almost approaching a yelp. “Here, Bertram, hold still. Allow me.”

Jeeves patiently untangles me from the bedsheets, positively chuckling to himself as he rolls me into his arms, kissing me fondly and ruffling my hair.

“Dear, sweet, Bertram,” he sighs. “You are trying too hard to please me. You need not be so … enthusiastic in your attempts.”

“Well, I want to do it right,” I say earnestly. “And I certainly don’t want to injure you. I just wish there was some sort of manual. I don’t suppose you know an improving book upon subject.”

I meant it in jest, but Jeeves, to my amazement, merely smiles and pulls a largish leather-bound volume from underneath the bed.

“I was saving this to give to you after Miss Basset’s wedding, by way of celebrating your final escape,” he tells me, “but since you asked …”

I flip through the pages, spellbound. The pictures in this album have been amassed from a variety of sources and carefully assembled into an eye-catching compendium of carnal pleasure; line drawings, charcoal sketches, and photographs of various couples engaged in sexual pursuits adorn the pages, with lines of poetry, paragraphs of instructive explanation, and even witty captions rounding out the contents. So beautiful is this garden of sensual delights and so captivating the images therein, I peruse it in silence for a long while before I realize something.

“I say! You’ve got girls in here.”

“I find the female form just as pleasing to look upon as the male,” Jeeves answers, stroking my back. “Though none of these pictures is half as pleasing to me as the sight before me now,” he adds, leaning in for a brief kiss before turning a few pages over. “This is one of my favourites, in fact,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the back of my neck.

The picture is of two women upon a settee with a single diaphanous garment woven around and in between them, covering nothing, but somehow adding a great deal to the overall composition of the piece.

“They’re doing what we tried last night,” I say, feeling a slight stirring below-stairs at the thought. “They’re doing it rather better, though. Neither of them look like they’re going to put a knee in someone’s eye, is what I’m saying.”

“You already apologized quite handsomely, Bertram.”

I turn the page to find a mixed couple in much the same pose, and a thought strikes me. “Jeeves, have you ever done anything like this with a woman?”

Jeeves tightens his arms around me ever so slightly. “I have enjoyed the company of both men and women in my bed,” he admits.

“Which do you prefer?” I ask.

“I prefer you,” he answers, kissing my cheek. “Though to be specific rather than romantic, I do not consider myself a Uranian, for I have loved women and still find myself sexually attracted to them. However, as I learned early on in life through the example of my fathers that a man may have a loving, stable sexual relationship with another man, so I decided that I would not limit myself by gender in seeking someone to love. By the time I realized that I was in love with you,” he continues, pausing for a lingering kiss, “I had had enough experience with both genders to help me realize that it would not matter whether I found myself sharing my life with either man or woman; all that would matter was the quality of the spirit inhabiting the body.”

He lays a hand upon my breast, and looks deep into my eyes. “Bertram Wilberforce Wooster,” he says solemnly, “you have the kindest, most beautiful spirit I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. I would consider it an honour to spend the rest of my life at your side.”

It’s not often that I am left speechless, but it is a long time before I can find any words, during which interval Jeeves kisses me more than a few times. Eventually, however, my lover pulls back, frowning at my silence.

“Something wrong, my dear?” he murmurs, touching my cheek.

“I couldn’t be further from wrong, old bean. It’s just that I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy, and so, really, what is there to say?”

Jeeves smiles warmly. “I thought that your silence might have been due to some uneasiness over my relative experience with others.”

“Well, I would think that one of us should be experienced in these things, otherwise we’d both be sticking knees in each others’ eyes, what?”

“And it does not worry you, Bertram, that I have been in love before?”

I consider this a moment; I hadn’t quite thought of it in that light. “I cannot expect to have been your first love,” I say slowly. “And I’m sure that your past loves will not detract from what we share now.”

“My darling, my past loves were but a shadow compared with my feelings for you.”

“Now you’re starting to sound like Bingo,” I chortle.

“With the obvious difference being that my love is sincere,” Jeeves counters, allowing a smile to flit briefly upon his lips. I find that I can never resist one of Jeeves’ smiles, and draw my lips to his, the better to appreciate it. We kiss for a long while before I withdraw again.

“So who was it?”

“I am not sure I understand which ‘who’ to whom you are referring.”

“Who were you in love with before? It’s not jealousy, you understand, but merely a good healthy curiosity. Of course, you are fully entitled to tell me to biff off if you don’t want to tell me.”

“I have no objections to telling you, Bertram,” Jeeves says, and this time his smile is so broad that I have to kiss it for quite a long time indeed before releasing him.

“Did you want me to answer you?” he says, once his lips are free.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want an answer. So tell me of these past loves. And leave nothing out; far from being jealous, I am agog to know who has also been so fortunate as to capture the Jeevesian heart.”

“Although I have had many lovers, I have only been in love twice before, once with a man, and once with a woman.”

“Rather even-handed of you. So what happened?”

“Happened?”

“Well, I presume something must have happened viz. being in love, otherwise you would be with one or the other of them, rather than with me.”

Jeeves nods thoughtfully, then rolls over to his side of the bed, rummaging briefly in the bedside table. He hands me a small framed photograph of a handsome blond man wearing an army uniform. “His name was Henry Latimer,” he tells me, with a slight hitch to his voice. “He lies buried at Flanders Field.”

I gaze down upon the noble face and immediately recognize what it is that Jeeves must have loved. I clasp my man’s hand tightly. “He looks a jolly decent sort of chap,” I say.

“He had a kind and generous heart, and he was exceedingly brave,” Jeeves tells me. “He gave his life to protect our battalion.”

I kiss his cheek. “Then for that, I love him too,” I whisper.

This kiss lasts rather longer than any of the others, and nearly leads back into what we had been doing prior to the above conversation. However, the Wooster curiosity, once roused, is a force unto itself, and I pull reluctantly away from my lover’s arms, promising myself that I’ll pop right back into them again as soon as I get one more thing straight.

“So who was the woman?” I ask.

Jeeves sighs wearily. “The woman in question is my cousin Miranda. We were young and foolish, and, what’s more, we often found ourselves embroiled in tumultuous feuds not unlike those your friend Mr. Glossop has with your cousin.”

“Just like Tuppy and Angela? I can see why you two called it quits, if only for the greater good.”

“Indeed. We have since settled into an easy, affectionate friendship.”

“I’m glad to hear that. But, I say, I can’t readily imagine you engaging in any kind of feuds, tumultuous or otherwise. And I certainly can’t believe you were ever foolish.”

“As kind as it is of you to say so, I must protest that I have done many foolish things in my lifetime. The evidence is here, below your hands.”

I look down at the pictures in the book. “You’re in one of these photogs?” I say, goggling a bit.

Jeeves chuckles, the corner of his eye crinkling merrily. “No, but simply having this book in one’s possession could lead to unpleasant consequences, if not serious legal difficulties.”

“Well, then we’ll just have to be careful no one ever finds it,” I say simply. “And if someone does find it, we can say –”

“No one must find it,” he breaks in, laying a finger upon my lips.

He originally presented the book open to a page somewhere in the middle, but now he draws me into his arms, holding the volume before me. He turns the pages back to the flyleaf, where I am shocked to read the following inscription:

My Darling Bertram,

Every day I am steeped in wonder to think that you have been so kind as to honour me with your love; even more wonderfully, you have bestowed upon me the precious coin of your complete trust in allowing me to tutor you in the art of carnal pleasures. I cannot begin to express the depth of my love for you in the spiritual and emotional sense, and I shall not attempt to do so here. The Fates willing, we shall have the rest of our lives to discover these depths together.

Rather, it is specifically the physical aspect of our relationship to which I dedicate this volume. I have, over the course of a decade or so, collected these images from various sources. As a salute to the pleasurable pursuits we have shared and hopefully shall share in the future, I present this collection to you, my dearest love, and look forward to many happy evenings spent together with this particular improving book.

I remain, my darling, ever yours,

John Sherlock Watson
Your man Jeeves

I stare at the words upon the page for a long time, my heart ready to burst for love; I find myself ready to break into Basset-like soppiness as my lover cuddles me in his arms, kissing the back of my neck and caressing my hair.

“I take it you are pleased,” he murmurs, nuzzling my ear.

For answer, I turn my head to claim his mouth with my own. It is not until we are horizontal once more that the Wooster grey cells ignite, causing me once more to withdraw from Jeeves’ embrace.

“I say! if anyone found this book –”

“Just as you say.”

I sit up on one elbow and frown at the man. “Jeeves, far be it from me to call your stunning brainpower into question, quite the contrary. But in this case –” I look down at the words on the page in disbelief. “Good God, man, what were you thinking?”

“I agree that my thought processes seem to have been operating well below par in this instance. Shall I cut the dedication page out and burn it?”

“No! You can’t! I mean – oh, blast.” I smile sheepishly. “I mean, it could land us both a hefty term of hard labour, and yet …”

“You see my point.”

“It’s nice to know that you can be a fool, too,” I laugh. “Though I hope never as much a fool as I am.”

He draws me back into his arms. “You are not as much a fool as you think, my dear Bertram. I regret that I have deliberately played upon your credulous nature and caused you to look the fool –”

I stop his words with a kiss. “We’ve had this talk before,” I tell him, and then there is no more talking.

“So this is Lestrade!” Mr. Holmes chuckled, scratching the dog behind the ear. “Halloa, fellow, there’s a good boy! I say, Watson, I think I can see a trace of our old friend in his namesake here. Something about the jaw.”

The doctor merely shook his head, smiling indulgently. He had barely talked all this morning, and yet he seemed more satisfied than melancholy, almost radiant.

I had been feeling pretty chuffed myself; not since my days at Eton had I risen so early, or so easily. What with the sense of adventure and excitement from the previous evening’s activities, I had found myself feeling as if I had just seen Madeline Basset, Florence Craye, and Honoria Glossop all safely married off to fellows who could handle them. The place where the bullet had grazed my leg stung no more than a good slap with a cricket bat, and, after one of Jeeves’ restoratives (and the even more restorative presence of Jeeves in my bed), I had been ready to greet the day with a spring in my s. and a twinkle in my e.

Said spring and twinkle got a bit of a knock in the wind department when I entered the sitting room to find a solemn gathering indeed. I had thought that I would hear that best part of all the master’s cases: his final dénouement.

But then, the word “final” fit the scene all too well; the great detective, ashen-faced and breathing with difficulty, reclined upon a settee, his faithful companion seated upon a chair close to hand, whilst Jeeves stood just behind his father’s head. On Mr. Holmes’ direction, I had been ensconced in a comfortable armchair upon his other side, just opposite of Stiffy Byng and Inspector Bowes, whom, I gathered, had been talking all evening together. Stiffy, of course, had brought along Lestrade, who was, after all, the dog of the hour.

And, surprisingly enough, I seemed to be the man of the hour.

Sherlock Holmes had actually said so, bestowing upon me an honest-to-g. smile that lit up the room. The fact that the old man’s already pale countenance had become even more colourless overnight could not spoil the effect of his sparkling eyes, which shone brilliantly as he spoke.

“Both Mr. Wooster and this most excellent draghound were vital elements in our rescue,” Mr. Holmes told the policeman, lying back upon his cushions. “We had not expected to be captured by Sorenson and his gang, but Jack anticipated such an eventuality and had prepared …” he erupted into a fit of coughing. “No, Watson, I’m fine,” he said between gasps, waving a thin white hand at the doctor who had risen to attend him. “Jack, would you?”

“You see, Inspector,” Jeeves said, “it is all down to the psychology of the individual. I knew that Mr. Wooster, being of a determined nature, would not accept my father’s dismissal and would follow, thus leading you and your squad to my meeting place with Sorenson. I also knew that Miss Byng, being of an inquisitive nature, would immediately involve herself in any intrigue afoot.”

“So you planned for me to shoot you?” Stiffy asked incredulously.

“I merely intended you create a distraction. You are, Miss, if you will forgive the liberty, a woman of a fiery disposition, and would not simply stand idly by when faced with the sight of one of your friends in mortal peril.”

“I’m still not sure why you had to make it look like you were shooting Bertie,” Stiffy frowned.

“Unfortunately,” Jeeves replied, “once Sorenson heard that Mr. Brinkley had been trying to sell the same documents I was offering him, it became rather difficult to keep the man’s trust enough to manipulate his actions to any satisfactory degree. Having me kill upon his command was meant to demonstrate my loyalty to him.”

“Then I’m glad I could create a distraction,” Stiffy said, shivering a bit.

Jeeves bowed his head. “I regret that due to the dire nature of my circumstances I was forced to leave several variables beyond my control. In order to keep my cover, it was necessary to send Mr. Burton to look for you, but I hoped you would be able to outwit him. I am deeply sorry that I was unable to prevent him from using you to gain control of the situation. I count this mission as a grave failure on my part,” he added softly.

I just couldn’t let this pass. “Balderdash,” I said. “You sent off those brutes thinking they’d got their hands on the real treasure, and you managed to save all our lives in the bargain. Hardly a failure, that.”

Jeeves nodded, the corner of his mouth quirking ever so slightly upward, just enough of a smile to make my own lips tingle.

“I thank you very kindly, sir,” Jeeves answered, with a certain lilt in his voice that let me know that he knew what I was thinking and was himself thinking much along the same lines.

All this thinking and knowing left me quite flustered, so, in fact, it was quite fortunate that Aunt Agatha burst into the room, trailing an annoyed-looking Sir Watkyn and a disturbingly drippy-eyed Madeline Basset in tow.

“There you are, Bertram,” she boomed. “I see you found that valet of yours. Well, I suppose he can look after you until after the ceremony, but then out he goes.”

I started to rise to greet the ancestor, but a single wave of Mr. Holmes’ hand held me in my chair.

“Mrs. Gregson,” he said stiffly. “Your nephew has been of invaluable service to me, and is to be congratulated.”

“Poppycock. He’s a useless layabout. But now that we know he’s not a murderer, Watkyn will be honoured to have him as son-in-law.”

Sir Watkyn looked like he should rather have all his teeth removed with a sharp gardening implement, but Aunt Agatha is a force of nature, and he knew better than to gainsay her.

“We’ll hold the wedding as soon as possible,” Aunt Agatha proclaimed. “She’s not my first choice, but I’m sure she can make something of you, and we can finally get you away from this overgrown nursemaid of yours.”

The glimmer of pain in Jeeves’ eye was enough to rouse the Wooster spirit and give me courage I had never had before. Old Watkyn Basset might not have the nerve to stand up to Aunt Agatha, but I had faced down a German spy with a gun and dug my way out from a fiery grave, and thing were about to change: Bertram was to be pushed around no more.

“I am not going to marry Madeline,” I said quietly.

“Bertie, what nonsense are you spouting? Of course Madeline is willing to marry you, aren’t you, my girl?”

Madeline nodded, and the soppy-eyed look in her eyes galvanized me into action. I stood up, drawing myself up to all six feet of Wooster frame, and stared Aunt Agatha in the eye.

“I am not going to marry Madeline,” I repeated, this time with such a ring of conviction in my voice that the aged a. had ho choice but to sit up and take notice.

“What’s come over you, you silly boy? Now, enough of this nonsense –”

“It’s not nonsense,” I replied, “it’s my life, and I’m going to live it as I choose.” I turned to Madeline, who was staring at me in wide-eyed shock. “You shall make someone a fine wife someday,” I told her gently, “but that someone is not Bertram Wilberforce.”

Madeline gaped at me, looking uncommonly like one of those Japanese fishes they keep in ponds. “But I thought you were in love with me,” she stammered.

“Well, I care for you,” I said cautiously, hoping that she wouldn’t start blubbering, “but as for being in love with you, no, I’m afraid you’ve had the wrong end of the stick there. In fact, I’ve never been in love with you, but I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“So, then, you don’t want to marry me?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Enough of this,” Aunt Agatha barked. “Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, you will be marrying Madeline, and that’s the end of it.”

“Mrs. Gregson,” Doctor Watson asked, cool civility dripping from his voice, “Is Mr. Wooster of age?”

Aunt Agatha wheeled round to face the man. “I hardly see what that has to do with it,” she answered haughtily.

“It means,” the doctor replied evenly, “that you cannot force him to marry against his will.”

“Doctor Watson, I hardly think it is any of your business –”

“Mrs. Spencer Gregson,” Mr. Holmes interrupted. “You know, we hardly recognized you after all these years.”

“Especially as you are now using your husband’s middle name, rather than his Christian name,” the doctor added icily. “Tobias, wasn’t it?”

The effect of this upon the relative was immediate; I hadn’t seen her look this way since that business with the pearls. She fiddled nervously with said orbs now hanging from her matronly neck, and spoke in such soft tones that I barely recognized her for the same aunt.

“I knew that you had made the connexion, of course,” she stammered, “but I never thought that you would divulge a lady’s secret.”

“And why, pray tell,” Doctor Watson asked, “would you wish to keep this secret? Certainly there is no shame in the fact that your husband was an honest policeman.”

“Though not a brilliant one,” Mr. Holmes said with a chuckle that turned into a cough.

The doctor sighed thoughtfully as he re-filled his friend’s water glass. “You know, I believe you were just about your nephew’s age when we met. You had just married our friend, and I remember you telling me how you didn’t give a toss what your parents thought, because you had decided you would marry only for love.”

For one fleeting moment, I could see the girl that had become the Scourge of the Woosters, and then the mask was back in place and Aunt Agatha was scowling severely at me as if I were single-handedly responsible for everything wrong in the world. In other words, she was back to normal.

“While Bertram is capable of falling in love, he is completely unable to sustain his romantic attention for longer than a week, so really, it’s much better –”

“Actually, he’s been in love for almost three weeks now,” Stiffy said brightly.

Everyone stared at her. Even Jeeves looked shocked; the man arched an entire eyebrow. I gave her my fiercest glare, my heart sinking as I realized that I had been betrayed. Perhaps Jeeves and I could run away …

Aunt Agatha recovered first. “What in the devil are you talking about, young lady?”

Stiffy grinned. “Bertie’s in love, and this time, it’s the real thing,” she said. “I’ve never seen him happier, in fact. This one is someone really, well, special. Her name is Minerva Vernet, and they’re secretly engaged.”

My brain finally got past first gear. “Who – oh, yes. Engaged. Right.”

Aunt Agatha frowned at me. “I must say, you’re not acting like a man in love.”

“Oh, I am. Bally beautiful girl. Never met the like, only woman I’ve ever loved, everyone else just a faint shadow, all that rot.”

“Bertie!” Madeline gasped. Sir Watkyn looked visibly relieved. Both Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson looked faintly amused, but Aunt Agatha looked properly peeved, and pursed her lips in that way she has.

“Just who is this Miss Vernet? She can’t be from any decent family; I’ve certainly never heard of her.”

“Minerva Vernet,” Mr. Holmes said coldly, “is the daughter of my mother’s favourite nephew.”

“She met Bertie while she was working as Mr. Holmes’ secretary,” Stiffy added. “She was seeing Bingo at the time, but then she fell in love with Bertie. She’s vacationing in Manila now.”

“I can hardly blame her,” Sir Watkyn said. “Sounds like the poor girl realizes she made the mistake of a lifetime. Still, I expect she’ll get out of it soon enough.”

“Oh, they’re completely in love,” Stiffy continued brightly. “They’re just spending some time apart to solidify their love; Bertie told me he’s going to Cuba for six weeks, fishing for Tarpon. They’re planning on getting married the very next time they’re both in London.”

Sir Watkyn snorted. “Then her relatives have my sympathy.”

“I am honoured to welcome Mr. Wooster into my family,” Mr. Holmes answered, smiling at me and causing the Wooster heart to flutter with pride. “But as fascinating as all of this is, I feel myself growing tired. Mr. Wooster, may I prevail upon you for the services of your valet for the afternoon?”

“Of course. Jeeves, will you accompany Mr. Holmes to his room?”

“Very good, sir.” He shimmered round the couch and helped his father to his feet.

“We are not finished here,” Aunt Agatha barked. “For one thing –”

At a look from Mr. Holmes, Inspector Bowes stood up. “Mrs. Gregson,” he said sternly, “anything further you wish to say upon this matter can be discussed at our precinct station.”

“This is hardly a police matter. My nephew –”

“That will be all, Mrs. Gregson,” Mr. Holmes said. “Come, Jeeves, I require your assistance upstairs. Watson, just see to our travel arrangements, won’t you?” And with that, he slowly walked out of the room, leaning upon his son’s elbow.

Aunt Agatha scowled as the great detective left, then swept out of the room without even a sideways glance at yours truly. Sir Watkyn and Madeline followed suit, causing no end of relief in the Wooster breast.

Doctor Watson plucked at my sleeve. “Mr. Wooster, would you come with me a moment?”

I mutely followed the doctor to the courtyard, where my Gwynne-Albert and Stiffy’s Bentley were parked side by side. Jeeves must have been busy this morning, for my suitcases and trunks had been packed and brought down from Totleigh Towers, and were currently in a tidy stack between the two cars.

“I imagine Minerva will be surprised to learn she’s engaged,” he said with a grin.

“No more surprised than I was. But it was better to go along with that than blurt out the truth. I suppose Jeeves asked Stiffy to make her little announcement?”

“So then you didn’t know. Jack was quite evasive when I asked him if you knew what he had planned. Mr. Wooster, would you mind if I gave you a little fatherly advice?”

I shrugged. “Everyone else does. Well, mostly auntly advice, but you get the idea. No, please feel free; I think I could use some right about now.”

The doctor smiled a bit at this. “Mr. Wooster, do you know what has bothered me the most about being the consort of a living legend?”

“Well, no offence, but I should think it would be jolly difficult to live with Mr. Sherlock Holmes the pork butcher, let alone Sherlock Holmes the living legend.”

“Well, I’ll admit that does have its challenges,” he smiled, “but if I couldn’t put up with him, I wouldn’t have stayed with him. No, the thing that I mind most is the fact that there are people who, having only heard of my through my reputation, immediately assume that I am simple-minded, or worse, a blundering idiot.”

I reddened slightly, having more than an inkling where this was headed. “I don’t suppose it matters that Jeeves isn’t a living legend.”

“Paragon or pork-butcher, master or man, it matters little once the doors are closed and locked. Don’t let him rule the roost all the time; make sure he remembers he’s mortal.”

I don’t think he meant to put it quite that way, because he brought himself up short at the last word, looking so sad that I had to lay a hand upon his shoulder. Of all the words we’d exchanged, it was that one word that hung all too heavily between us, the dark cloud that made our recent triumph but a hollow victory.

“Two days, perhaps three, perhaps even a week, although I doubt it shall be that long,” Doctor Watson said, in response to the question I hadn’t dared ask. “Last night’s adventure took a serious toll on Holmes. He can barely walk without assistance, his breathing is laboured, and although he refuses to admit it, I can tell that he is in constant pain.”

“And then he shall be gone,” I said, the words slipping out without my meaning them. I began to apologize, but the doctor stopped me, chuckling a little.

“No, Mr. Wooster, you fail to take my meaning. I grieve not his impending loss; rather, my grief comes from his suffering. No matter, it shall be over soon, and then comes his greatest adventure yet.”

“I didn’t take you for a Spiritualist,” I answered cautiously.

“I’m a doctor; I have sat vigil by too many deathbeds to recount, and I know that there are many things in this world worse than a gentle passing into the next. Death is an old friend, whom I hope shall embrace me kindly when I meet her. Frankly, Mr. Wooster, I am an old, tired man, most of my friends are gone, and the man I love shall not live the week. I do not know what awaits us in that final sleep, but I know, sure as I know that I live here and now, that something must follow, and that this pale shadow we call the ‘real’ world is but a dream from which we shall awaken into a new dawn.”

We stared up at the sky, where a few puffy clouds adorned a perfect azure field; it was going to be a beautiful day for a drive.

“Whatever else you are,” I said, “you’ve got a dashed wonderful way of looking at things. You could be a philosopher.”

He laughed softly. “Holmes just says I’m a hopeless romantic. Oh, that reminds me –” holding the unlit cigarette tight between his teeth, he rummaged in a nearby suitcase. “He wanted me to give this to you,” he said, passing me a battered cloth travelling cap, the old-fashioned kind that has the earflaps which tie atop in a kind of bow.

It was, in fact, The Hat.

My hands trembled as my fingers brushed the rough green tweed. “I couldn’t …” I whispered.

“Holmes said he wants it to stay in the family,” Doctor Watson told me solemnly, and then broke into a smile. “Just promise me one thing. Make sure you wear it in town at least once.”

“But even I know that a gentleman wouldn’t wear a deerstalker in the City – oh. You’re a devious one, Doctor.”

He clapped me on the shoulder. “Just you make sure that you and my boy take care of each other. Now, I have to arrange our train home. What a nuisance –”

“I say, wouldn’t you rather drive?”

“That is very kind of you, Mr. Wooster, but Holmes and I should like to be alone for what time remains –”

“Then take my car. I’ll catch a ride back to London with Stiffy.”

“Are you sure, Mr. Wooster? I shouldn’t like to impose.”

“Pish! No imposition whatsoever! In fact, I’d like you both to have it. For keeps.”

“Mr. Wooster, I couldn’t –”

“I insist,” I said firmly. “Think of it as a gift from a grateful client.”

Doctor Watson beamed at me. “You are a generous man, Mr. Wooster. Thank you; we will drive to Sussex. I’ll go upstairs and let Holmes know.”
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Case of the Missing Valet