It was at this point that Constable Dobbs thrust himself forward.
‘Hoy,’ said Constable Dobbs.
Esmond proved fully equal to the situation.
‘I see what you’re driving at, Dobbs. You very naturally wish to make a pinch. But consider, Dobbs, how slender is the evidence which you can bring forward to support your charge. You say you chased a man in a green beard and a check suit up a tree. But the visibility was very poor, and you admit yourself that you were being struck by thunderbolts all the time, which must have distracted your attention, so it is more than probable that you were mistaken. I put it to you, Dobbs, that when you thought you saw a man in a green beard and a check suit, it may quite easily have been a clean-shaven man in something quiet and blue?’
He paused for a reply, and one could divine that the officer was thinking it over.
The thing that poisons life for a country policeman, the thing that makes him pick at the coverlet and brings him out in rashes, is the ever-present fear that one of these days he may talk out of turn and get in wrong with a Justice of the Peace. He knows what happens when you get in wrong with Justices of the Peace. They lay for you. They bide their time. And sooner or later they catch you bending, and the next thing you know you’ve drawn a strong rebuke from the Bench. And if there is one experience the young copper wishes to avoid, it is being in the witness-box and having the Bench look coldly at him and say something beginning with ‘Then are we to understand, officer …?’ and culminating in the legal equivalent of the raspberry or Bronx cheer. And it was evident to him that defiance of Esmond on the present occasion must inevitably lead to that.
‘I put it to you, Dobbs,’ said Esmond.
Constable Dobbs sighed. There is, I suppose, no spiritual agony so keen as that of the rozzer who has made a cop and seen it turn blue on him. But he bowed to the inev.
‘Perhaps you’re right, sir.’
‘Of course I’m right,’ said Esmond heartily. ‘I knew you would see it when it was pointed out to you. We don’t want any miscarriages of justice, what?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I should say not. If there’s one thing that gives me the pip, it’s a miscarriage of justice. Catsmeat, you are dismissed without a stain on your character.’
Catsmeat said that was fine, and Esmond said he thought he would be pleased.
‘I suppose you and Gertrude aren’t going to hang around, spending a lot of time packing?’
‘No, we thought we’d leg it instanter.’
‘Exactly what I would suggest.’
‘If Gertrude wants clothes,’ said Corky, ‘she can get them at my apartment.’
‘Splendid,’ said Esmond. ‘Then the quickest way to the garage is along there.’
He indicated the french windows, which, the night being balmy, had been left open. He slapped Catsmeat on the back, and shook Gertrude by the hand, and they trickled out.
Constable Dobbs, watching them recede, heaved another sigh, and Esmond slapped his back, too.
‘I know just how you’re feeling, Dobbsy,’ he said. ‘But when you think it over, I’m sure that you’ll be glad you haven’t been instrumental in throwing a spanner into the happiness of two young hearts in springtime. If I were you, I’d pop off to the kitchen and have a word with Queenie. There must be much that you want to discuss.’
Constable Dobbs’s was not a face that lent itself readily to any great display of emotion. It looked as if it had been carved out of some hard kind of wood by a sculptor who had studied at a Correspondence School and had got to about Lesson Three. But at this suggestion it definitely brightened.
‘You’re right, sir,’ he said, and with a brief ‘Good night, all’ vanished in the direction indicated, his air that of a policeman who is feeling that life, while greyish in spots, is not without its compensations.
‘So that’s that,’ said Esmond.
‘That’s that,’ said Corky. ‘I think your aunts are trying to attract your attention, angel.’
All through the preceding scene, though pressure of other matter prevented me mentioning it, the aunts had been extremely vocal. Indeed, it would not be putting it too strongly to say that they had been kicking up the hell of a row. And this row must have penetrated to the upper regions of the house, for at this moment the door suddenly opened, revealing Dame Daphne Winkworth. She wore a pink dressing-gown, and had the appearance of a woman who has been taking aspirins and bathing her temples with eau-de-Cologne.
‘Really!’ she said. She spoke with a goodish bit of asperity, and one couldn’t fairly blame her. When you go up to your bedroom with a headache, you don’t want to be dragged down again half an hour later by disturbances from below. ‘Will someone be so kind as to tell me what is the reason for this uproar?’
Four simultaneous aunts were so kind. The fact that they all spoke together might have rendered their remarks hard to follow, had not the subject matter been identical. Gertrude, they said, had just eloped with Miss Pirbright’s brother, and Esmond had not only expressed his approval of the move but had actually offered the young couple his car.
‘There!’ they said, as the sound of an engine gathering speed and the cheery toot-toot of a klaxon made themselves heard in the silent night, pointing up their statement.
Dame Daphne blinked as if she had been struck on the mazard with a wet dishcloth. She turned on the young squire menacingly, and one could understand her peevishness. There are few things more sickening for a mother than to learn that her only child has eloped with a man whom she has always regarded as a blot on the species. Not surprising if it spoils her day.
‘Esmond! Is this true?’
The voice in which she spoke would have had me clambering up the wall and seeking refuge on the chandelier, had she been addressing me, but Esmond Haddock did not wilt. The man seemed fearless. He was like the central figure in one of those circus posters which show an intrepid bozo in a military uniform facing with death-defying determination twelve murderous, man-eating monarchs of the jungle.
‘Quite true,’ he replied. ‘And I really cannot have any discussion and argument about it. I acted as I deemed best, and the subject is closed. Silence, Aunt Daphne. Less of it, Aunt Emmeline. Quiet, Aunt Charlotte. Desist, Aunt Harriet. Aunty Myrtle, put a sock in it. Really, the way you’re going on, one would scarcely suppose that I was the master of the house and the head of the family and that my word was law. I don’t know if you happen to know it, but in Turkey all this insubordinate stuff, these attempts to dictate to the master of the house and the head of the family, would have led long before this to you being strangled with bowstrings and bunged into the Bosporus. Aunt Daphne, you have been warned. One more yip out of you, Aunt Myrtle, and I stop your pocket-money. Now, then,’ said Esmond Haddock, having obtained silence, ‘let me give you the strength of this. The reason I abetted young Gertrude in her matrimonial plans was that the man she loves is a good egg. I have this on the authority of his sister Corky, who speaks extremely well of him. And, by the way, before I forget, his sister Corky and I are going to be married ourselves. Correct?’
‘In every detail,’ said Corky.
She was gazing at him with shining eyes. One got the feeling that if she had had a table with a photograph on it, she would have been singing ‘My Hero’.
‘Come, come,’ said Esmond kindly, as the yells of the personnel died away, ‘no need to be upset about it. It won’t affect you dear old souls. You will go on living here, if you call it living, just as you have always done. All that’ll happen is that you will be short one Haddock. I propose to accompany my wife to Hollywood. And when she’s through with her contract there, we shall set up a shack in some rural spot and grow pigs and cows and things. I think that covers everything, doesn’t it?’
Corky said she thought it did.
‘Right,’ said Esmond. ‘Then how about a short stroll in the moonlight?’
He led her lovingly through the french windows, kissing her en route and I edged to the
door and made my way upstairs to my room. I could have stayed on and chatted with the aunts, if I had wanted to, but I didn’t feel in the mood.
27
* * *
MY FIRST ACT on reaching the sleeping quarters was to take pencil and paper and sit down and make out a balance sheet. As follows:
It came out exactly square. Not a single loose end left over. With a not unmanly sigh, for if there is one thing that is the dish of the decent-minded man, it is seeing misunderstanding between loving hearts cleared up, especially in the springtime, I laid down the writing materials and was preparing to turn in for the night, when Jeeves came shimmering in.
‘Oh, hallo, Jeeves,’ I said, greeting him cordially. ‘I was rather wondering if you would show up. A big night, what?’
‘Extremely, sir.’
I showed him the balance sheet.
‘No flaws in that, I think?’
‘None, sir.’
‘Gratifying, what?’
‘Most gratifying, sir.’
‘And, as always, due to your unremitting efforts.’
‘It is very kind of you to say so, sir.’
‘Not at all, Jeeves. We chalk up one more of your triumphs on the slate. I will admit that for an instant during the proceedings, when you gave Gussie that alibi, I experienced a momentary doubt as to whether you were on the right lines, feeling that you were but landing Catsmeat in the bouillon. But calmer reflection told me what you were up to. You felt that if Catsmeat stood in peril of receiving an exemplary sentence, Gertrude Winkworth would forget all that had passed and would cluster round him, her gentle heart melted by his distress. Am I right?’
‘Quite right, sir. The poet Scott –’
‘Pigeon-hole the poet Scott for a moment, or I shall be losing the thread of my remarks.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘But I know what you mean. Oh, Woman in our hours of ease, what?’
‘Precisely, sir. Uncertain, coy and hard to please. When –’
‘– pain and anguish wring the brow, a ministering angel thou and so on and so forth. You can’t stump me on the poet Scott. That is one more of the things I used to recite in the old days. First “Charge of Light Brigade” or “Ben Battle”: then, in response to gales of applause, the poet Scott as an encore. But to return to what I was saying … There, as I suspected would be the case, Jeeves, I can’t remember what I was saying. I warned you what would happen if you steered the conversation to the poet Scott.’
‘You were speaking of the reconciliation between Miss Winkworth and Mr Pirbright, sir.’
‘Of course. Well, I was about to say that having studied the psychology of the individual you foresaw what would occur. And you knew that Catsmeat wouldn’t be in any real peril. Esmond Haddock was not going to jug the brother of the woman he loved.’
‘Exactly, sir.’
‘You can’t get engaged to a girl with one hand and send her brother up for thirty days with the other.’
‘No, sir.’
‘And your subtle mind also spotted that this would lead to Esmond Haddock defying his aunts. I thought the intrepid Haddock was splendidly firm, didn’t you?’
‘Unquestionably, sir.’
‘It’s nice to think that he and Corky are now headed for the centre aisle.’ I paused, and looked at him sharply. ‘You sighed, Jeeves.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Why did you sigh?’
‘I was thinking of Master Thomas, sir. The announcement of Miss Pirbright’s betrothal came as a severe blow to him.’
I refused to allow my spirits to be lowered by any such side issues.
‘Waste no time commiserating with young Thos, Jeeves. His is a resilient nature, and the agony will pass. He may have lost Corky, but there’s always Betty Grable and Dorothy Lamour and Jennifer Jones.’
‘I understand those ladies are married, sir.’
‘That won’t affect Thos. He’ll be getting their autographs, just the same. I see a bright future ahead of him. Or, rather,’ I said, correcting myself, ‘fairly bright. There is that interview with his mother to be got over first.’
‘It has already occurred, sir.’
I goggled at the man.
‘What do you mean?’
‘My primary motive in intruding upon you at this late hour, sir, was to inform you that her ladyship is downstairs.’
I quivered from brilliantine to shoe sole.
‘Aunt Agatha?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Downstairs?’
‘Yes, sir. In the drawing room. Her ladyship arrived some few moments ago. It appears that Master Thomas, unwilling to occasion her anxiety, wrote her a letter informing her that he was safe and well, and unfortunately the postmark “King’s Deverill” on the envelope –’
‘Oh, my gosh! She came racing down?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And –?’
‘A somewhat painful scene took place between mother and son, in the course of which Master Thomas happened to –’
‘Mention me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘He blew the gaff?’
‘Yes, sir. And I was wondering whether in these circumstances you might not consider it advisable to take an immediate departure down the waterpipe. I understand there is an excellent milk train at two fifty-four. Her ladyship is expressing a desire to see you, sir.’
It would be deceiving my public to say that for an instant I did not quail. I quailed, as a matter of fact, like billy-o. And then, suddenly, it was as if strength had descended upon me.
‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘this is grave news, but it comes at a moment when I am well fitted to receive it. I have just witnessed Esmond Haddock pound the stuffing out of five aunts, and I feel that after an exhibition like that it would ill beseem a Wooster to curl up before a single aunt. I feel strong and resolute, Jeeves. I shall now go downstairs and pull an Esmond Haddock on Aunt Agatha. And if things look like becoming too sticky, I can always borrow that cosh of yours, what?’
I squared the shoulders and strode to the door, like Childe Roland about to fight the paynim.
* * *
VERY GOOD, JEEVES
To
E. Phillips Oppenheim
* * *
PREFACE
(to the original edition of Very Good, Jeeves, which appeared in 1930)
THE QUESTION OF how long an author is to be allowed to go on recording the adventures of any given character or characters is one that has frequently engaged the attention of thinking men. The publication of this book brings it once again into the foreground of national affairs.
It is now some fourteen summers since, an eager lad in my early thirties, I started to write Jeeves stories: and many people think this nuisance should now cease. Carpers say that enough is enough. Cavillers say the same. They look down the vista of the years and see these chronicles multiplying like rabbits, and the prospect appals them. But against this must be set the fact that writing Jeeves stories gives me a great deal of pleasure and keeps me out of the public houses.
At what conclusion, then, do we arrive? The whole thing is undoubtedly very moot.
From the welter of recrimination and argument one fact emerges – that we have here the third volume of a series. And what I do feel very strongly is that, if a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing well and thoroughly. It is perfectly possible, no doubt, to read Very Good, Jeeves! as a detached effort – or, indeed, not to read it at all: but I like to think that this country contains men of spirit who will not rest content till they have dug down into the old oak chest and fetched up the sum necessary for the purchase of its two predecessors – The Inimitable Jeeves and Carry On, Jeeves! Only so can the best results be obtained. Only so will allusions in the present volume to incidents occurring in the previous volumes become intelligible, instead of mystifying and befogging.
We do you these two books at the laughable price of half-a-crown apiece, and the method of acquiring the
m is simplicity itself.
All you have to do is to go to the nearest bookseller, when the following dialogue will take place:
Or take the case of a French visitor to London, whom, for want of a better name, we will call Jules St Xavier Popinot. In this instance the little scene will run on these lines:
AU COIN DE LIVRES
As simple as that.
See that the name ‘Wodehouse’ is on every label.
P.G.W.
1
* * *
JEEVES AND THE IMPENDING DOOM
IT WAS THE morning of the day on which I was slated to pop down to my Aunt Agatha’s place at Woollam Chersey in the county of Herts for a visit of three solid weeks; and, as I seated myself at the breakfast table, I don’t mind confessing that the heart was singularly heavy. We Woosters are men of iron, but beneath my intrepid exterior at that moment there lurked a nameless dread.
‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘I am not the old merry self this morning.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘No, Jeeves. Far from the old merry self.’
‘I am sorry to hear that, sir.’
He uncovered the fragrant eggs and b., and I pronged a moody forkful.
‘Why – this is what I keep asking myself, Jeeves – why has my Aunt Agatha invited me to her country seat?’
‘I could not say, sir.’
‘Not because she is fond of me.’
‘No, sir.’
‘It is a well-established fact that I give her a pain in the neck. How it happens I cannot say, but every time our paths cross, so to speak, it seems to be a mere matter of time before I perpetrate some ghastly floater and have her hopping after me with her hatchet. The result being that she regards me as a worm and an outcast. Am I right or wrong, Jeeves?’
‘Perfectly correct, sir.’