The Crime, part 2

[eccentricca.livejournal.com]

What ho!  Here's the second part of my story The Crime.  I am terribly sorry if there are any mistakes, I have full-blown flu as we speak so I can hardly see the screen - oh I'll stop moaning ;)

Title:  The Crime
Rating: Nc-17 (not in his chapter, but soon, there will be violence and sexual aggression) 

Disclaimer: Still not PG Wodehouse, no matter how hard I try.

On the third day of Mr Wooster’s absence, Mrs Travers came to London. “Stupid little blighter,” she huffed as Jeeves showed her into the living room. Her hair was unkempt, and the usual rose of her cheeks was dark and hot. Jeeves offered her tea, standing to wait on her, but she bade him to sit beside her on the sofa. They held each other’s eye solemnly, but characteristically, Mrs Travers wasted no time. “From what I gather, Jeeves,” she said slowly, “Bertie had no reason whatsoever for choosing to be, as he might say, conspic by his a?”

Momentarily Jeeves was silent. The reference to his young master’s ludicrous slang had touched him. “Indeed, Mrs Travers, I believed Mr Wooster to be very happy in his current way of life.” He hoped, at least.

“You can’t think he’d have any debts or any enemies or that sort of thing?”

“No, Mrs Travers.”

“Well I’m dashed glad to hear you say that, Jeeves, nor can I. The whole thing’s entirely incomprehensible. What’s your best bet – lying drunk somewhere?”

Jeeves swallowed hard. “That is what I would prefer to believe, madam. However, I think that, had Mr Wooster this impetuousness in his nature, we would have had occasion to notice it before. Mr Wooster is a young man who enjoys a stable life; I have never before known him to stay away from home for three consecutive days and nights, and I believe that being such a considerate employer, he would not place undue concern on me by leaving me uninformed if he chose to do so.”

“He’s never spent the night away without telling you before?”

“Not, at least, to my knowledge, madam.” A shadow fell in from the window – from some object high on the horizon – and snuck with agonising sloth across the carpet.

Dahlia was the first to resume. “Earlier, Jeeves, I paid a visit to Mr Little."

“Indeed, madam?”

“He’s given a set of descriptions to the police: did you know Bertie was last seen speaking to two men in that club of his?”

For a fleeting moment, Jeeves’ eyes clenched shut, rebelling against him, denying the existence of the outside world. Suspects. There were suspects. “Mr Little told me the story, yes, madam.” His voice seemed to him to echo, as though he were hearing it from behind a distant door.

Dahlia grunted what were apparently private opinions about Mr Little’s conduct that evening. “What he’s said is that we’re looking for two blokes: One a lanky feller with longish brown hair and a velvet waistcoat – sort of a bohemian. And the other a very tall, broad specimen with wavy red hair. He knows neither of their names. They ring any bells with you?”

Jeeves shook his head. Did Mr Wooster have any friends that he, his trusted gentleman, did not know about? It was entirely possible, but incomprehensibly, he found the notion unbearable to entertain – Mr Wooster told him everything, said a dark, defiant voice inside his ear – Mr Wooster would never keep this from me.

 “The dark chap’s supposed to be a Drones member,” Mrs Travers’ robust physical voice drowned out Jeeves’ internal one. “But the police’ve already checked the book and can find no signatures that should arouse suspicion, everyone who signed in was a regular.”

“Everyone, madam?” Jeeves, while not actually slouching, had not felt entirely up to his usual standard of deportment all day, but now he felt his spine straighten. “Mr Little informed me that the red-headed gentleman was signed in by his friend, and that both claimed to have been friends of Mr Wooster at Oxford.”

Hearing this, Dahlia too, felt a certain ignition. “Did he, by Jove? Then surely someone who was there ought to know who they were! If not, they’re fraudsters, simple as that!” Then, all enthusiasm was dead. Fraudsters, of course, forboded things more sinister; things which Dahlia read in Jeeves’ eyes as they turned to glass. “Well, we might be getting right ahead of ourselves, Jeeves,” she added, although she sounded as if she were trying hard to convince herself. “These might well be two old friends he’s gone on a huge ran-tan with.”

“We can but hope.”

 

“Are you missing him?”

The abruptness of the question took Jeeves by surprise – a thing less than a handful had witnessed and still lived to tell the tale. Before he could appropriate it, the answer had escaped his lips. “Forgive me, madam,” he added, the form returning to his speech, “but in caring for so long a time for such a kind employer as Mr Wooster, one often experiences a strengthened connection."

“You’re fond of him, you mean?”

“I am indeed.”

The shadow, whatever it was, had disappeared and bright light shone filled every crevice in the room. But to its inhabitants, the light felt hot and sickly and heavy, like something one could drown in, pressing on their exposed hands and faces. Simultaneously, as though to avoid the fate, they stood up. Dahlia explained that she must be leaving, and promised regular updates on what the police would tell her. 

“What’re you doing now?” she asked with a feigned airiness. “Taking a quick holiday while the cat’s away?”

“No madam,” said Jeeves, not to be out-performed in nonchalance, “I am preparing Mr Wooster’s dinner.”

They locked eyes in the doorway, but Dahlia departed without another word.

Before that afternoon, it had seemed ludicrous to Jeeves that he should be expected to do anything other than carry out his routine just as he would if the young master were in bed, about to rise at any moment. It had seemed blatant to him that the flat must be kept spotless, the food must always be well-prepared, and the clothes must always be laid out pristine after the bath was drawn daily at its usual time, for at any given second of the hour, then day, then week, he may come back, doubtless in need of refreshment and clean clothes. In the general upkeep of his routine, Jeeves excelled. Standards could not be allowed to slip, and they certainly did not; it was the specific duties that began to cut at him.

Waking an absent master from a sterile bed, for instance. Where had the boy (as Jeeves occasionally allowed himself to think of him) slept last night? Would he awake to the happy hum of the metropolis he loved; would the sun be on his face?

Would he wake at all?

On the day after Mrs Traver’s visit (the fourth day, as it were), Jeeves stood over the bed holding the tea that would normally bring the young master from the horizontal to the vertical. And this day was different. Jeeves knew that he had washed all the bed linen in the house. Laying the tray on the bedside table next to the unopened cigarette box, it seemed to him that his one desire in the world was to collapse into that bed and feel the boy’s sweet, soapy scent in his nostrils. He wanted to fall to his knees, clasping at the sheets as a last remnant of contact with him, to cradle them and cry, and lie there undisturbed, remembering. And he had washed the sheets.

More friends called round, wanting to help (Mr Wooster had so many friends, if only he were able to witness their concern, thought Jeeves) and again and again, they were struck by the rigidity with which Jeeves continued his everyday life. He left a weeping Mr and Mrs Little in the sitting room in order to press Mr Wooster’s evening trousers, Mr Fink-Nottle was shown into a room where a breakfast was laid out on a table, going thick and stale and Mr Glossop, when telephoning his commiserations, was asked if he had a message for Mr Wooster on his return.

Following Dahlia’s visit, Jeeves began to glimpse that same parting look in the eyes of all who visited – combined fear and the merest hint of annoyance. It was from these that, as he bowed more and more visitors out of the door, he realised what they were thinking. They thought Mr Wooster would never come back.

Partly spurred on by defiance of this terrible lack of faith, Jeeves kept little counsel with them: they enquired after his health and he answered with the same aloof smile as he always had done, and usually did not return the question. The only real dialogue he entered into was about the men who had last been seen with Mr Wooster. No-one knew who they were.

Bingo Little called in person, the day the campaign started. He looked older than his scant years that day, and rather than sprawl across his friend’s sofa smoking cigarette after cigarette, he propped himself up against the wall, seeming too tired to sit or to stand. “No news at your end, Jeeves?”

“No, sir.”

Bingo regarded him curiously. Had the utterance sounded strange? The young man shook his head, apparently discarding a momentary hallucination. “You’ve seen the papers, I take it?”

“Yes, sir.” The Times, The Post and The Chronicle had all spread through the country that morning bearing a legend about a ‘Vanishing London Playboy’, the final admittance that a criminal investigation had been launched. Mr Wooster was officially in danger. The papers did not handle the matter delicately, and below this headline would be an unflattering picture of Bertie that Jeeves thought must have been taken when he was about eighteen, where he was depicted glancing sideways at the camera, with his arms around a large greyhound. It had been a peculiar thought to one and all, but family and friends had realised that Bertie avoided having his picture taken. Jeeves too, had pondered this point when he stared into the adolescent face. Could Mr Wooster, proud advocator of blue alpine hats and fearless donner of purple socks, be insecure of his appearance? Certainly it seemed incredible; but why else would he avoid the camera with a vigour amounting to nearly ten years of absent photographs?

...blue alpine hats...

 “Sir?”

 “Jeeves?”

“Sir, I fear I have been remiss. There is one thing I know about this sorry affair that I have neglected to tell anyone else.” Suddenly, the room warped and burned. Jeeves took a moment to understand that he was crying. Before he did, Bingo’s hand was gripping his shoulder and his voice soothing him in some way that was inarticulate but heartfelt. “Before he disappeared, I rebuked Mr Wooster for electing to wear a purple-banded fedora. A trifling matter it may seem to a third party, sir, but I found myself wanting in tact and-” He fell silent. There was no use rambling into incoherence.

 “Jeeves,” said Bingo, levelly, “do you really believe that?”

“Sir?”

“Mr Wooster thinks awfully highly of you – as we all do – and most highly of that hat, but I think that if things between you and he were irretrievable, he would most likely give you the boot and return to his own home, rather than leave you in it.”

That stung. And yet, it was entirely true, Jeeves saw. All of a sudden, he felt flushed, overexposed... idiotic. He had revealed, in saying this, a quality Mr Little would be sure to view as immense selfishness – he had literally believed, until now, that he himself could have driven Mr Wooster to disappear. This was ludicrous. His master was a self-possessed adult, he would not be afraid to enter his own home over a row about a hat. Guilt almost engulfed him. There was nothing left now but to understand that something terrible truly had happened.

Comments

[thistlethorn.livejournal.com]

Wailing and gnashing of teeth! You've left us on tenterhooks! Poor, overcome Jeeves. Can't wait to see what happens...

But I will, of course, because you should be in bed with plenty of fluids and getting well, for goodness sake! Hope you feel better soon.

[eccentricca.livejournal.com]

Thank you, it's so good to hear someone say that! I just got sacked for being slow because I'm so ill *cries*
And er, yeah, Jeeves, I'll take care of him too.

[blackletter]

*does the impatient dance*

Poor Jeeves, preferring to believe that he is at fault than to imagine that something dreadful has happened to Bertie.

And I *need* to know what happened to Bertie and who those mysterious men are!

[lupus-malus.livejournal.com]

Oh, I'm really liking this so far. Jeeves crying breaks my heart. I'm looking forward to more when you're well enough to write.

[random-nexus.livejournal.com]

Look what you did! *gasp*
You must certainly fix this!
Please?
Soon?
Now would be good.

Enjoying this very much!

[dreamwaffles.livejournal.com]

Oh god, Jeeves is breaking my heart here. And...I can see a darker undertone with his obsession with keeping the flat in perfect working order. It's almost like Mrs. Havisham, in a way, which completely creeps me out on several levels.

I could see Jeeves going mad in that fashion.

[mxdp.livejournal.com]

Okay, that last part... That was truly brilliant; Jeeves thinking he might be the cause, Bingo comforting him (something NEVER seen before!), and making clear at the same time he isn't *that* important either...

[eccentricca.livejournal.com]

Thank you, I'm really glad it had some impact - it's so hard to write emotions understated, isn't it? Particularly Jeeves' which are understated already...
There's more Bingo and Jeeves stuff coming up in the next chapter too :)

[pro-prodigy.livejournal.com]

Need action. Need progressive storyline. Need more! Gyaaaaaaaaa!

[eccentricca.livejournal.com]

Soothe the lemon - it's coming, it's coming!

[ssquirrel-fic.livejournal.com]

Poor Jeeves! Can't wait to see where you go with this. (And hope you get better soon to write it! =)
xXx

[sige-vic.livejournal.com]

Very interesting and oh! poor Jeeves!

*He left a weeping Mr and Mrs Little in the sitting room*
Do you mean Bingo is already married? And still has a relationship with Bertie? And Bertie spends nights from time to time in Bingo's house?..

[eccentricca.livejournal.com]

Yes I do. I was actually going to expand on that in the final scene where Jeeves and Bingo are talking, so it would have made more sense, but I decided to end on that line. I'll try and fit it into the next chapter :)

[sige-vic.livejournal.com]

Sounds very intriguing :-)

[toodlepipsigner.livejournal.com]

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! THIS. IS. BEAUTIFUL.
"A shadow fell in from the window – from some object high on the horizon – and snuck with agonising sloth across the carpet." First of all, your personifictation is mint. Secondly, I love your use of light and dark, it's a trick that's used in so many great pieces, and I love that you've incorporated it into this. But you also define the light and dark, the light being what cannot be denied and the dark being (mostly Jeeves') internal hope and denial.
And one last squee for Jeeves thinking of Bertie as 'boy' :)

*Psst, he would be brought from horizontal, lying down, to vertical, sitting or standing up.

Do feel better hon.
*Favourites* :)

[eccentricca.livejournal.com]

D'oh! OK, I'll put that right now.
And thank you very much, it cheers me right up to see a literary review :)

[niektete.livejournal.com]

Aaaw... Noo! Poor, dear Jeeves! Poor, poor Bertie! D: I hope you'll get well soon, and though we're all rather desperate for an update here *cough cough* don't rush it! Have tea and get better :)

[felicia-angel.livejournal.com]

EEK! What happened? Where's Bertie and who'd dare hurt our Bertie!? *whimper!*

This is a great start and I can't wait to find out more (yes, even with the violence). Please more soon!!

[emeraldreeve.livejournal.com]

I am worried about Bertie and heartbroken for Jeeves! My favourite part:

“Sir, I fear I have been remiss. There is one thing I know about this sorry affair that I have neglected to tell anyone else.” Suddenly, the room warped and burned. Jeeves took a moment to understand that he was crying.

I hope you can update soon!

[hephaistia.livejournal.com]

Now I'm really worried. What happened to Bertie? Poor Jeeves!

More soon, please?

[charie-caphine.livejournal.com]

It seems that over the course of this chapter you subtly build up the notion of Jeeves' madness, with him unquestioningly - and fascinatingly uncharacteristically - unaware of his own state of mind and emotions. Thoroughly disturbing and strikingly poignant. The imagery of Jeeves' troubled mind is amazing, as are the stumbles in reasoning he betrays in public.

It's heartening to see Bertie's freinds show concern about him, for once.
The absence of Bertie's photos is very curious, and Jeeves' supposition on the subject, if correct, most endearing.

I felt Aunt Dahlia's use of slang somewhat overdone, despite her expectable superiority of character.
The line about people 'not living to tell the tale' of Jeeves' visible surprise sounds rather odd to me.

Some misprints I've spied:
'was last seenspeaking'
'Fraudsters, of course, forbade things more sinister' - foreboded?
"We can but hope." - superfluous blanc line? - "Are you missing him?"
'"<...> a strengthened connection.' - end quotemark missing
'More friends called round, wanting to help (<...>) and again and again, they were struck <...>' - misplaced comma
'<...> a breakfast was laid out on a table, going thick and stale and Mr Glossop, when <...>' - misplaced comma

Wondrous chapter, and get well soon!

[eccentricca.livejournal.com]

Hi, thank you for the review (if there's anything that cheers me up it's opening an email with a long review in it to get stuck into).
I did indeed fix those errors after reading, so thank you :)
Surprisingly I didn't use any words that you don't hear Dahlia use in the books (except "ran tan", which is the title of a Kate Bush song that I decided to slip in), but I do see your point of view on it.
Anyway, that's very flattering *blushes*

[ellex42.livejournal.com]

I believe 'forbade' is a legitimate past tense form...but I also think it's one of those terms where there's more than one correct version.

I'm enjoying this story very much. You have a wonderful way with words! Not just the structure of your sentences (very sophisticated and also grammatically correct), but the descriptions are vivid and original.

And of course, the plot so far is very intriguing. I was especially struck by the part about how Bertie had avoided being photographed...

I'm eager to see where you take this! And I hope you get better soon.

[princesshannah4.livejournal.com]

Laying the tray on the bedside table next to the unopened cigarette box, it seemed to him that his one desire in the world was to collapse into that bed and feel the boy’s sweet, soapy scent in his nostrils. He wanted to fall to his knees, clasping at the sheets as a last remnant of contact with him, to cradle them and cry, and lie there undisturbed, remembering. And he had washed the sheets.

I adore this passage with great muchness. I MUST KNOW WHAT HAPPENED!