‘Casual acquaintances?’ said Mrs Spottsworth, pained.
Bill plucked at his tie.
‘Well, I mean blokes who just knew you from meeting you at Cannes and so forth.’
‘Cannes!’ cried Mrs Spottsworth ecstatically. ‘Dear, sunny, gay, delightful Cannes! What times we had there, Billiken! Do you remember –’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Bill. ‘Very jolly, the whole thing. Won’t you have a drink or a sandwich or a cigar or something?’
Fervently he blessed the Mainwarings’ Peke for being so confirmed a hypochondriac that it had taken Jill away to the other side of the county. By the time she returned, Mrs Spottsworth, he trusted, would have simmered down and become less expansive on the subject of the dear old days. He addressed himself to the task of curbing her exuberance.
‘Nice to welcome you to Rowcester Abbey,’ he said formally.
‘Yes, I hope you’ll like it,’ said Monica.
‘It’s the most wonderful place I ever saw!’
‘Would you say that? Mouldering old ruin, I’d call it,’ said Rory judicially, and was fortunate enough not to catch his wife’s eye, ‘Been decaying for centuries. I’ll bet if you shook those curtains, a couple of bats would fly out.’
‘The patina of Time!’ said Mrs Spottsworth. ‘I adore it.’ She closed her eyes. ‘“The dead, twelve deep, clutch at you as you go by,”’ she murmured.
‘What a beastly idea,’ said Rory. ‘Even a couple of clutching corpses would be a bit over the odds, in my opinion.’
Mrs Spottsworth opened her eyes. She smiled.
‘I’m going to tell you something very strange,’ she said. ‘It struck me so strongly when I came in at the front door I had to sit down for a moment. Your butler thought I was ill.’
‘You aren’t, I hope?’
‘No, not at all. It was simply that I was … overcome. I realized that I had been here before.’
Monica looked politely puzzled. It was left to Rory to supply the explanation.
‘Oh, as a sightseer?’ he said. ‘One of the crowd that used to come on Fridays during the summer months to be shown over the place at a bob a head. I remember them well in the days when you and I were walking out, Moke. The Gogglers, we used to call them. They came in charabancs and dropped nut chocolate on the carpets. Not that dropping nut chocolate on them would make these carpets any worse. That’s all been discontinued now, hasn’t it, Bill? Nothing left to goggle at, I suppose. The late Lord Rowcester,’ he explained to the visitor, ‘stuck the Americans with all his best stuff, and now there’s not a thing in the place worth looking at. I was saying to my wife only a short while ago that by far the best policy in dealing with Rowcester Abbey would be to burn it down.’
A faint moan escaped Monica. She raised her eyes heavenwards, as if pleading for a thunderbolt to strike this man. If this was her Roderick’s idea of selling goods to a customer, it seemed a miracle that he had ever managed to get rid of a single hose-pipe, lawnmower or bird-bath.
Mrs Spottsworth shook her head with an indulgent smile.
‘No, no, I didn’t mean that I had been here in my present corporeal envelope. I meant in a previous incarnation. I’m a Rotationist, you know.’
Rory nodded intelligently.
‘Ah, yes. Elks, Shriners and all that. I’ve seen pictures of them, in funny hats.’
‘No, no, you are thinking of Rotarians. I am a Rotationist, which is quite different. We believe that we are reborn as one of our ancestors every ninth generation.’
‘Ninth?’ said Monica, and began to count on her fingers.
‘The mystic ninth house. Of course you’ve read the Zend Avesta of Zoroaster, Sir Roderick?’
‘I’m afraid not. Is it good?’
‘Essential, I would say.’
‘I’ll put it on my library list,’ said Rory. ‘By Agatha Christie, isn’t it?’
Monica had completed her calculations.
‘Ninth … That seems to make me Lady Barbara, the leading hussy of Charles II’s reign.’
Mrs Spottsworth was impressed.
‘I suppose I ought to be calling you Lady Barbara and asking you about your latest love affair.’
‘I only wish I could remember it. From what I’ve heard of her, it would make quite a story.’
‘Did she get herself sunburned all over?’ asked Rory. ‘Or was she more of an indoor girl?’
Mrs Spottsworth had closed her eyes again.
‘I feel influences,’ she said. ‘I even hear faint whisperings. How strange it is, coming into a house that you last visited three hundred years ago. Think of all the lives that have been lived within these ancient walls. And they are here, all around us, creating an intriguing aura for this delicious old house.’
Monica caught Bill’s eye.
‘It’s in the bag, Bill,’ she whispered.
‘Eh?’ said Rory in a loud, hearty voice. ‘What’s in the bag?’
‘Oh, shut up.’
‘But what is in the … Ouch!’ He rubbed a well-kicked ankle. ‘Oh, ah, yes, of course. Yes, I see what you mean.’
Mrs Spottsworth passed a hand across her brow. She appeared to be in a sort of mediumistic trance.
‘I seem to remember a chapel. There is a chapel here?’
‘Ruined,’ said Monica.
‘You don’t need to tell her that, old girl,’ said Rory.
‘I knew it. And there’s a Long Gallery.’
‘That’s right,’ said Monica. ‘A duel was fought in it in the eighteenth century. You can still see the bullet holes in the walls.’
‘And dark stains on the floor, no doubt. This place must be full of ghosts.’
This, felt Monica, was an idea to be discouraged at the outset.
‘Oh, no, don’t worry,’ she said heartily. ‘Nothing like that in Rowcester Abbey,’ and was surprised to observe that her guest was gazing at her with large, woebegone eyes like a child informed that the evening meal will not be topped off with ice cream.
‘But I want ghosts,’ said Mrs Spottsworth. ‘I must have ghosts. Don’t tell me there aren’t any?’
Rory was his usual helpful self.
‘There’s what we call the haunted lavatory on the ground floor,’ he said. ‘Every now and then, when there’s nobody near it, the toilet will suddenly flush, and when a death is expected in the family, it justs keeps going and going. But we don’t know if it’s a spectre or just a defect in the plumbing.’
‘Probably a poltergeist,’ said Mrs Spottsworth, seeming a little disappointed. ‘But are there no visual manifestations?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Don’t be silly, Rory,’ said Monica. ‘Lady Agatha.’
Mrs Spottsworth was intrigued.
‘Who was Lady Agatha?’
‘The wife of Sir Caradoc the Crusader. She has been seen several times in the ruined chapel.’
‘Fascinating, fascinating,’ said Mrs Spottsworth. ‘And now let me take you to the Long Gallery. Don’t tell me where it is. Let me see if I can’t find it for myself.’
She closed her eyes, pressed her fingertips to her temples, paused for a moment, opened her eyes and started off. As she reached the door, Jeeves appeared.
‘Pardon me, m’lord.’
‘Yes, Jeeves?’
‘With reference to Mrs Spottsworth’s dog, m’lord, I would appreciate instructions as to meal hours and diet.’
‘Pomona is very catholic in her tastes,’ said Mrs Spottsworth. ‘She usually dines at five, but she is not at all fussy.’
‘Thank you, madam.’
‘And now I must concentrate. This is a test.’ Mrs Spottsworth applied her fingertips to her temple once more. ‘Follow, please, Monica. You, too, Billiken. I am going to take you straight to the Long Gallery.’
The procession passed through the door, and Rory, having scrutinized it in his slow, thorough way, turned to Jeeves with a shrug of the shoulders.
‘Potty, what?’
??
?The lady does appear to diverge somewhat from the generally accepted norm, Sir Roderick.’
‘She’s as crazy as a bed bug. I’ll tell you something, Jeeves. That sort of thing wouldn’t be tolerated at Harrige’s.’
‘No, sir?’
‘Not for a moment. If this Mrs Dogsbody, or whatever her name is, came into – say the Cakes, Biscuits and General Confectionery and started acting that way, the store detectives would have her by the seat of the trousers and be giving her the old heave-ho before the first gibber had proceeded from her lips.’
‘Indeed, Sir Roderick?’
‘I’m telling you, Jeeves. I had an experience of that sort myself shortly after I joined. I was at my post one morning – I was in the Jugs, Bottles and Picnic Supplies at the time – and a woman came in. Well dressed, refined aspect, nothing noticeable about her at all except that she was wearing a fireman’s helmet – I started giving her courteous service. “Good morning, madam,” I said. “What can I do for you, madam? Something in picnic supplies, madam? A jug? A bottle?” She looked at me keenly. “Are you interested in bottles, gargoyle?” she asked, addressing me for some reason as gargoyle. “Why, yes, madam,” I replied. “Then what do you think of this one,” she said. And with that she whipped out a whacking great decanter and brought it whizzing down on the exact spot where my frontal bone would have been, had I not started back like a nymph surprised while bathing. It shattered itself on the counter. It was enough. I beckoned to the store detectives and they scooped her up.’
‘Most unpleasant, Sir Roderick.’
‘Yes, shook me, I confess. Nearly made me send in my papers. It turned out that she had recently been left a fortune by a wealthy uncle in Australia, and it had unseated her reason. This Mrs Dogsbody’s trouble is, I imagine, the same. Inherited millions from a platoon of deceased husbands, my wife informs me, and took advantage of the fact to go right off her onion. Always a mistake, Jeeves, unearned money. There’s nothing like having to scratch for a living. I’m twice the man I was since I joined the ranks of the world’s workers.’
‘You see eye to eye with the Bard, Sir Roderick. ’Tis deeds must win the prize.’
‘Exactly. Quite so. And speaking of winning prizes, what about tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow, Sir Roderick?’
‘The Derby. Know anything?’
‘I fear not, Sir Roderick. It would seem to be an exceptionally open contest. Monsieur Boussac’s Voleur is, I understand, the favourite. Fifteen to two at last night’s call-over and the price likely to shorten to sixes or even fives for the SP. But the animal in question is somewhat small and lightly boned for so gruelling an ordeal. Though we have, to be sure, seen such a handicap overcome. The name of Manna, the 1925 winner, springs to the mind, and Hyperion, another smallish horse, broke the course record previously held by Flying Fox, accomplishing the distance in two minutes, thirty-four seconds.’
Rory regarded him with awe.
‘By Jove! You know your stuff, don’t you?’
‘One likes to keep au courant in these matters, sir. It is, one might say, an essential part of one’s education.’
‘Well, I’ll certainly have another chat with you tomorrow before I put my bet on.’
‘I shall be most happy if I can be of service, Sir Roderick,’ said Jeeves courteously, and oozed softly from the room, leaving Rory with the feeling, so universal among those who encountered this great man, that he had established connection with some wise, kindly spirit in whose hands he might place his affairs without a tremor.
A few moments later, Monica came in, looking a little jaded.
‘Hullo, old girl,’ said Rory. ‘Back from your travels? Did she find the ruddy gallery?’
Monica nodded listlessly.
‘Yes, after taking us all over the house. She said she lost the influence for a while. Still, I suppose it wasn’t bad after three hundred years.’
‘I was saying to Jeeves a moment ago that the woman’s as crazy as a bed bug. Though, arising from that, how is it that bed bugs have got their reputation for being mentally unbalanced? Now that she’s over in this country, I expect she’ll soon be receiving all sorts of flattering offers from Colney Hatch and similar establishments. What became of Bill?’
‘He didn’t stay the course. He disappeared. Went to dress, I suppose.’
‘What sort of state was he in?’
‘Glassy-eyed and starting at sudden noises.’
‘Ah, still jittery. He’s certainly got the jumps all right, our William. But I’ve had another theory about old Bill,’ said Rory. ‘I don’t think his nervousness is due to his being one jump ahead of the police. I now attribute it to his having got this job with the Agricultural Board and, like all these novices, pitching in too strenuously at first. We fellows who aren’t used to work have got to learn to husband our strength, to keep something in reserve, if you know what I mean. That’s what I’m always preaching to the chaps under me. Most of them listen, but there’s one lad – in the Midgets Outfitting – you’ve never seen such drive. That boy’s going to burn himself out before he’s fifty. Hullo, whom have we here?’
He stared, at a loss, at a tall, good-looking girl who had just entered. A momentary impression that this was the ghost of Lady Agatha, who, wearying of the ruined chapel, had come to join the party, he dismissed. But he could not place her. Monica saw more clearly into the matter. Observing the cap and apron, she deduced that this must be that almost legendary figure, the housemaid.
‘Ellen?’ she queried.
‘Yes, m’lady. I was looking for his lordship.’
‘I think he’s in his room. Anything I can do?’
‘It’s this gentleman that’s just come, asking to see his lordship, m’lady. I saw him driving up in his car and, Mr Jeeves being busy in the dining room, I answered the door and showed him into the morning room.’
‘Who is he?’
‘A Captain Biggar, m’lady.’
Rory chuckled amusedly.
‘Biggar? Reminds me of that game we used to play when we were kids, Moke – the Bigger Family.’
‘I remember.’
‘You do? Then which is bigger, Mr Bigger or Mrs Bigger?’
‘Rory, really.’
‘Mr Bigger, because he’s father Bigger. Which is bigger, Mr Bigger or his old maid aunt?’
‘You’re not a child now, you know.’
‘Can you tell me, Ellen?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Perhaps Mrs Dogsbody can,’ said Rory, as that lady came bustling in.
There was a look of modest triumph on Mrs Spottsworth’s handsome face.
‘Did you tell Sir Roderick?’ she said.
‘I told him,’ said Monica.
‘I found the Long Gallery, Sir Roderick.’
‘Three rousing cheers,’ said Rory. ‘Continue along these lines, and you’ll soon be finding bass drums in telephone booths. But pigeonholing that for the moment, do you know which is bigger, Mr Bigger or his old maid aunt?’
Mrs Spottsworth looked perplexed.
‘I beg your pardon?’
Rory repeated his question, and her perplexity deepened.
‘But I don’t understand.’
‘Rory’s just having one of his spells,’ said Monica.
‘The old maid aunt,’ said Rory, ‘because, whatever happens, she’s always Bigger.’
‘Pay no attention to him,’ said Monica. ‘He’s quite harmless on these occasions. It’s just that a Captain Biggar has called. That set him off. He’ll be all right in a minute.’
Mrs Spottsworth’s fine eyes had widened.
‘Captain Biggar?’
‘There’s another one,’ said Rory, knitting his brow, ‘only it eludes me for the moment. I’ll get it soon. Something about Mr Bigger and his son.’
‘Captain Biggar?’ repeated Mrs Spottsworth. She turned to Ellen. ‘Is he a gentleman with a rather red face?’
‘He’s a gentleman with a very red face,’ said E
llen. She was a girl who liked to get these things right.
Mrs Spottsworth put a hand to her heart.
‘How extraordinary!’
‘You know him?’ said Monica.
‘He is an old, old friend of mine. I knew him when … Oh, Monica, could you … would you … could you possibly invite him to stay?’
Monica started like a warhorse at the sound of the bugle.
‘Why, of course, Rosalinda. Any friend of yours. What a splendid idea.’
‘Oh, thank you.’ Mrs Spottsworth turned to Ellen. ‘Where is Captain Biggar?’
‘In the morning room, madam.’
‘Will you take me there at once. I must see him.’
‘If you will step this way, madam.’
Mrs Spottsworth hurried out, followed sedately by Ellen. Rory shook his head dubiously.
‘Is this wise, Moke, old girl? Probably some frightful outsider in a bowler hat and a made-up tie.’
Monica’s eyes were sparkling.
‘I don’t care what he’s like. He’s a friend of Mrs Spottsworth’s, that’s all that matters. Oh, Bill!’ she cried, as Bill came in.
Bill was tail-coated, white-tied and white-waistcoated, and his hair gleamed with strange unguents. Rory stared at him in amazement.
‘Good God, Bill! You look like Great Lovers Through The Ages. If you think I’m going to dress up like that, you’re much mistaken. You get the old Carmoyle black tie and soft shirt, and like it. I get the idea, of course. You’ve dolled yourself up to impress Mrs Spottsworth and bring back memories of the old days at Cannes. But I’d be careful not to overdo it, old boy. You’ve got to consider Jill. If she finds out about you and the Spottsworth –’
Bill started.
‘What the devil do you mean?’
‘Nothing, nothing. I was only making a random remark.’
‘Don’t listen to him, Bill,’ said Monica. ‘He’s just drooling. Jill’s sensible.’
‘And after all,’ said Rory, looking on the bright side, ‘it all happened before you met Jill.’
‘All what happened?’
‘Nothing, old boy, nothing.’
‘My relations with Mrs Spottsworth were pure to the last drop.’
‘Of course, of course.’
‘Do you sell muzzles at Harrige’s, Rory?’ asked Monica.