indeedsir_backup | Fic: Psmith Investigates (Reply)

Title: Psmith Investigates
Chapter: 1/?
Pairing: Mike/Phyllis and (real subtle like) Psmith/Mike at the moment, but I'm hoping to add some Jeeves/Bertie in the future...
Summary: Set after Leave It to Psmith, Psmith has left the employ of Lord Emsworth with the hope of making a success in the world of private investigation.
Rating: PG
Words: 779
Disclaimer: Psmith, Mike and Phyllis are the creations of P. G. Wodehouse.

(Just helping to fill the world with a little more Psmith fic!)

Mike never felt better than when he was out, pottering about the farm, on a chill, fresh morning. The mist in the valley, the sun low in the sky; Phyllis in the house, still turning sleepily in bed or making tea in the kitchen. Their life together was slipping into a comfortable routine, and today he realised that he had been enjoying every moment of it. Coincidentally, this came at exactly the same moment that he realised he was getting a little bored of it too.

As long as he had something constructive to do and a decent game of cricket every once in a while, Mike was content. He had never been difficult to please. Sharing it with Phyllis had only made it better. In fact, if he was a bit bored, he was inclined to blame it on someone else altogether. He was thinking, in short, about Psmith.

He tucked the thought away in the back of his mind. He was far too busy to consider anything but the management of the farm, or how he and Phyllis could pay for what needed paying for. After checking the pig sties and giving one of the friendlier sows a good rub on the back, he decided that he would rather be thinking about breakfast. He headed back to the house to propose the idea to Phyllis.

“Ready for some toast and tea?” he asked, peering through the bedroom door.

There was no one in the room. He picked at the covers, one hand in his pocket, as if he might find her under the folds. Then he noticed her nighty hung over the bedstead and wandered to the bathroom.

Phyllis smiled up at him, from where she was huddled up in the small tin bath. “We’ll fit in a good one soon, one with running water,” he kept telling her. Somehow there was always something more important to be done. This week it was the roof of the stables.

“You should go downstairs. You’ve got a visitor waiting for you,” Phyllis said.

“Breakfast for three?”

“I should think so. I’m not sending him away without anything to eat; the poor dear’s thin as a twig.”

Mike laughed, “You don’t mean who I think you mean?”

“I think I do. Why? Stop laughing. Tell me what’s so funny about it!” She threw a sponge to further secure Mike’s attention, “Why are you laughing like that?”

“Oh, no reason,” he said, leaning over and kissing her, “Only thinking that he moves in mysterious ways.”

“Isn’t that God or the holy ghost or someone?” (Phyllis had never once won a prize in scripture knowledge.)

“Is it? I’ll have to inform him of that.”

Sure enough, downstairs in the parlour, a guest was making use of the least threadbare chair. The guest sat up unenergetically and waved a hand towards a nearby stool, with the same sombre dignity that most people reserve for foreign dignitaries. Once Mike was seated, and gazing up at him from the low seat of the stall, he smiled. A smile proclaiming happiness, yet tinged by a sense of regret.

“Comrade Jackson,” said Psmith, once again settling back in his chair and letting his long legs stretch out, “I believe I have invited you at least once every week since time immemorial, and yet you never visit me. I have had to take matters into my own hands and cross counties in search of you.”

“I’m afraid Phyllis and I have had our hands full with work on the farm. We’ve barely had time to sleep, let alone make trips to Shropshire.”

Psmith nodded sagely, “Ah, there, now I see it, that is where you make your mistake. No doubt you have asked for me at Blandings Castle, and been cruelly turned away. Perhaps you have walked the moors alone, almost crying out, ‘O, where could my friend Rupert Eustace Psmith be?’ You see, Comrade Jackson, I am no longer residing in Shropshire. I have made the move back to London.”

“London? But why? You seemed to be on to such a good thing where you were.”

“I must admit, I enjoyed the country lifestyle for a while, but it was not meant to be. Lord Emsworth and I had a minor disagreement on the subject of pigs in the home and parted company soon afterwards. No, it is the city for me. And this is where you enter the picture. You see, I have struck upon a particularly good line of business…”

Mike looked very cautious. He hesitated a moment before asking, “What sort of business?”

“We, Comrade Jackson,” said Psmith, “are to be private investigators.”