Jeeves and the Missing Manuscript - Chapter 5

[mellifluous-gel.livejournal.com]

Mrs. Christie makes her appearance! I hope it's all right. *crosses fingers* This is the longest chapter yet. Oof. I'm happy with the outcome, though. Hope you are, too!

Title: Jeeves and the Missing Manuscript
Chapter: 5/16
Pairing: Jeeves/Bertie
Rating for Chapter: PG
Summary: Bertie meets a young Agatha Christie and hits it off with her at a garden party. She even offers to let him read and comment on her latest manuscript, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, before she posts it to her publisher. Of course, mayhem ensues when the manuscript is stolen and Jeeves and Bertie must find and return it to the rightful owner. Mix in a dash of danger, anger, angst, and unrequited feeling, and it's the perfect storm for 'certain whatsits' to come to light.
Disclaimer: Jeeves, Bertie, and all characters associated with their idyllic world belong to P.G. Wodehouse. Mrs. Christie belongs to herself last I checked.

 

I announced my ‘engagement’ to Cynthia that evening to a rousing chorus of congratulations. Madeline Spode née Bassett expressed her sincerest hopes that I would finally be able to move past my love for her. She understood, she said, that mine was a gentle soul that would require the kind ministrations of a faithful wife to overcome the harrowing trials of heartbreak, and look upon the world as it was meant: With flowers obscuring one’s glasses, or some other rot. The beazel always manages to bring flowers into the conversation. But at least this go around, I didn’t have to endure talk of the stars being God’s daisy-chain.

Throughout the dinner, Cynthia and I exchanged knowing smiles, which everyone else took to be that strange something-or-other couples have – a sort of private joke between the pair of them. I shot a few knowing-smiles in Jeeves’ direction, as well, until he leaned down under the pretence of refilling my glass.

“Sir,” he muttered, breath tickling my ear, “you may wish to convey some minor discomfort in the present situation or Lady Wickhammersley will become suspicious. Having indicated your strong opposition to contracting a matrimonial alliance with Lady Cynthia, such reluctance is only to be expected.”

Having his mouth that close to my face did something inexplicable to this Wooster’s corpus. I shivered, though in a decidedly different manner from when Lady Wickhammersley had petted me in the music room. My heart sped up, my lungs decided that fully inflating was a rather silly notion, and gooseflesh rose along my arms even as a warmth crept up my neck and flushed my cheeks.

“I-I think I know how a chap who’s engaged against his will should act, Jeeves,” I managed, downing the contents of my water goblet as soon as he’d biffed off to the other end of the table to refresh Stiffy’s drink.

“Are you all right, Bertie?” Richard ‘Sticky’ Pumphrey-Devereux asked from my left side. He was a tall, gangly chap with dark hair and darker eyes whose nose and expression put one in mind of a particularly harried parrot.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” I replied, brushing off his concern.

“He’s just in love, Sticky,” Warren ‘Thumper’ Pumphrey-Devereux, the younger of the pair and a chap graced with the physique of a miniature bull, interjected.

I began to sputter that I was nothing of the sort when I felt a soft hand grasp my own. “Indeed he is,” Cynthia agreed with a titter. “As in love as any man can be! Right, darling?”

“Hmph!” Angela harrumphed from across the table. “I wouldn’t count on a man remaining in love, Cynthia. Shakespeare had it right. Their love is like the moon: fickle and inconsistent.”

“Better than a woman’s love, Bertie,” Tuppy growled back. “About as durable as the goose at Christmas dinner!”

“Oh!” Angela threw down her silverware and shot up, the rest of the table going quiet. “It’s always about food with you, Hildebrand Glossop!”

“Maybe it wouldn’t be if you’d pick a hat that didn’t look like you’d raided the greengrocer’s rubbish bin!”

With a yowl that set the hounds in Bristol to barking, Angela snatched up her wine glass, chucked the contents of said w. g. in Tuppy’s face, and stormed from the room in high dudgeon. Madeline excused herself shortly and ran after her.

“Is it always this exciting outside of Herefordshire?” Thumper wanted to know.

I rubbed at my forehead and sighed the sigh of long-whatsit.

--- --- ---

Sleep did not come easily that night. Not only was there the excitement of actually meeting Agatha Christie tomorrow, but I was worried about my cousin, Angela. She and Tuppy often get into these little snits, but as far as snits go, this one seemed to have taken on claws, robed itself in garish togs, and started serving coffee in the mornings instead of tea. I was determined to sort the matter out myself, of course, Angela being my favorite cousin. So, to forestall any Jeevesian cogi-something... cogitating on a scheme, I announced my intentions as soon as we were safely within the confines of my allotted room.

He’d raised one brow by a molecule and replied with a dubious, “Very good, sir,” before gliding away to lay out my pajamas.

I tossed and turned, checking the clock at intervals. Light began creeping into the room just after six and, unable to stand it any longer, I pulled myself out of bed and determined to re-re-read one of my Christie novels in the armchair.

Just as I had settled myself with The Mysterious Affair at Styles, there came a tiny click, something I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t been keyed up like one of Lord Bittlesham’s horses at the Ascot opening day. The door swung forward silently and Jeeves entered, eyes focused on the tea tray in his hands.

“Jeeves!” I cried.

His head snapped up, and I dare say I heard the china rattle, but that couldn’t have been possible. “Sir?” Genuine surprise sufficed his tone – if sufficed is the word I want... suffused! That’s the blighter. It suffused his tone.

“Do you have some sort of internal Bertram sensor, Jeeves?” I asked, blinking owlishly at him. “How on God’s green e. did you know I was awake?”

There was a pause just long enough for me to suspect that a lie would be forthcoming. “You appeared to be deeply agitated last night, sir,” he explained. A true enough statement given that I’d been twitching worse than a blind mouse whose tail has been threatened with the business end of a carving knife on one too many occasions. There had been more than one instance of Jeeves laying hands upon the Wooster corpus to settle me enough for him to undo my buttons. This had only led to further ‘agitation’ of the below-the-belt variety. A jolly embarrassing state to be in when one’s valet is in the way of remaining in the room as one undoes one’s flies. “I surmised that you would have difficulty sleeping and would wish to rise earlier than your customary hour in order to prepare for the singular event of meeting Mrs. Christie.”

“That’s jolly perceptive of you, Jeeves,” I acknowledged. I really was becoming far too suspicious. Even the Jeevesian head must get a bit fuzzed in the ungodly hours of the morning and require a bit of time to string together the most appropriate set of words to avoid exciting the young master further. “Come, come, then, and set the thing down. No need to linger at the entrance.” I motioned to the bedside table.

“I’m afraid I will have to return kitchen, sir,” he replied, remaining rooted to his spot.

“Oh? Why’s that? Forget the milk?”

“I have just remembered that I procured the incorrect variety of tea this morning, sir.” Well, I was dashed, let me tell you. I didn’t think it was possible for the man to procure the incorrect anything. “I will return presently with your regular Darjeeling, sir. I do apologize.” And without waiting for a reply, he biffed off.

If I was a man given to superstition, I might have seen the mix-up with the tea for what it was at the time... Well, not actually what it was. What it was, was something altogether different that Jeeves later explained to me. But I might have seen it for what it might have been if it hadn’t been that or the innocent incident which it appeared to be. Does that make sense? It was a rummy sitch. In any case, I should’ve recognized the scene for the ill omen that it might have been but wasn’t actually. In fact, it was a good omen, but I couldn’t have known that at the time. I’m getting off point. Focus, Bertram.

After returning with my tea, Jeeves set himself to the task of laying out my morning suit. He then bunged me into the tub, stepping off before I could even thank him for the assist. Dressing was a painfully awkward affair, though I couldn’t say if the trouble was on my part or Jeeves’. I was feeling more than a little out of sorts, having spent most of the night awake, but I wondered if my man had shared my restlessness. He was as alert and responsive as ever, don’t read me wrong, but there was something jittery about him, and it took him quite a bit longer than usual to straighten me out to our mutual satisfaction. I put it down to anticipation.

Jeeves seems to have whole libraries stored up in his head. The chance to meet with Agatha Christie must have had him positively giddy, though he’d never show it as such.

We trotted down to breakfast at the unreasonably early hour of 8:30 in the ack emma. I was not a little taken aback to find the dining room already full. With the exception of Angela, everyone from last night was present and having at the buffet-style spread with reckless abandon. I spotted Tuppy conversing with Bingo and Cynthia at one end of the table, and made my way toward them, picking up a plate of food and a glass of orange juice along the way.

“What-ho, all!” I greeted.

“Hello, dear heart,” Cynthia returned, pulling me over to peck my cheek. I can tell you, that caused a dusting of rouge around the Wooster cheeks, though I knew it was only natural to act as such given the ruse.

“Morning, Bertie,” Bingo acknowledged as Tuppy grunted what might have been a muffled ‘Hullo’ around a sizeable portion of eggs.

“So, Tuppy,” I began after I’d started on my own eggs and b., “you and Angela on the rocks again?”

“On the rocks? Try in the oyster beds offshore without shoes.”

I winced. “That bad, what?”

“I simply told her the truth about her sensibilities with regard to hats. Is that a crime?”

“Certainly, old chap,” Bingo put in. “No woman wants to know your real opinion about her clothes.”

“When did you grow wise to the ways of the world, Bingo?” I asked, bemused by his sudden cynicism.

“Marriage changes a man, Bertie,” he replied. “For the better, of course,” he added with a broad smile as Rosie sat down to join us.

“I’m simply dying to meet Mrs. Christie,” were the first words out of Mrs. Little’s née Bank’s mouth. “I don’t particularly care for the detective genre – much too gory if you ask me – but it’s always a delight to meet a fellow author.”

“I’m a fellow author,” I pointed out, then took a fortifying sip of orange juice after the look she shot me. I certainly didn’t quail – quailing is a sport reserved for my Aunt Dahlia when the foxes are out of season, you see – but I might have shifted myself just a bit closer to Cynthia. Appearances must be kept up for two young lovers, after all.

Conversation revolved around our favorite Christie stories and the merits of other literary genres for the rest of the meal. After that, myself and the rest of the gents grabbed our clubs and headed over to the golf course for a round of nine holes. All of us were well over par by the end of it, but we were all so anxious to get back to Twing Hall I hardly think the scores were given a first thought, let alone a second.

--- --- ---

“Is this absolutely necessary, Jeeves?” I demanded as he readjusted my tie for the umpteenth time.

“I was under the impression that you wished to look your best for your initial encounter with Mrs. Christie, sir,” he responded, brushing what surely had to be the world’s tiniest piece of lint from my shoulder.

“Yes, Jeeves. Certainly,” I allowed. “But at this rate, Mrs. Christie will have come and gone by the time I get downstairs!”

“I believe it was the American writer Ralph Waldo Emerson who said ‘patience and fortitude conquer all things’, sir.”

“Well, the Americans may be absolutely corking chaps, Jeeves, but they have no idea what they’re talking about half the time.”

“Very true, sir. However, similar sentiments have been expressed by individuals in England and on the continent. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, a French philosopher, surmised–”

“Thank you, Jeeves,” I interrupted. “I’ve had my fill of philosophy regarding patience for the day.”

“As you say, sir.”

“You are to strike all notions of patience and its virtues from your mind.”

“They are already stricken, sir.”

“Good. Then help me with my coat and we shall attend to the garden and our host directly.”

--- --- ---

Once we reached the garden, Jeeves shimmered away to assist with the drinks and hors d’oeuvres, and I ankled over to where Angela and Stiffy had seated themselves.

“Go away, Bertie,” Angela directed before I could toss out the customary ‘what-ho’. “I hate men right now.”

“But Angela, old fruit,” I said, injecting a manly wibble of the lower lip to soften her up, “we’re cousins!”

She sighed. “Yes, but you’re Hildebrand’s friend. I want to be mad at him right now, so go away.”

“But didn’t Tuppy tell you?” I asked, a cunning scheme blossoming from the Wooster gray matter.

“Tell me what?” Angela asked.

“That he’s dreadfully sorry about the whole thing,” I relayed. “He’s seen the error of his ways, but he’s just too dashed embarrassed to say anything. You know how Tuppy can be, what?”

“Quite,” she grumbled. “Did he really tell you that, Bertie?”

“Indeed he did,” I disassembled – or whatever that word is that means you’re lying, but sounds nicer. “If you’d like me to tell him anything in return...?”

She glanced at Stiffy, and they leaned in for a whispered conversation.

“You may tell Hildebrand that... that it was a bit of a silly thing, but that a proper fiancé would stand behind a bad hat.”

“Well, quite,” I agreed. “I doubt even Tuppy could hide a hideous hat by standing in front of it. Thick around the shoulders and waistline Tuppy might be, but thick in the head? Certainly not!”

They both eyed me with a thingness that said they weren’t certain whether they should laugh at me or box me around the ears.

Finally, Stiffy asked, “Where has Cynthia gotten to, Bertie? I haven’t seen her since breakfast.”

“Oh, she’s around here somewhere,” I assured, running my eyes along the hedges and flowerbeds. Quite a few new birds and beazels had joined the festivities since breakfast, but no one I recognized immediately. No doubt Jeeves would be able to provide me with their names, ranks, and several interesting pieces of trivia about them if required. “I think she was going to take a bit of a walk to avoid the rush when Mrs. Chris–”

As if by some divine edict, Woolwine’s quavering voice rose above the chatter in the garden. “Mrs. Agatha Christie.”

--- --- ---

A crowd swiftly formed around the authoress as Lady Wickhammersley led Mrs. Christie over to a table where Rosie was sitting. I trailed along after them, but didn’t join the queue that formed to shake Mrs. Christie’s hand and gush over her for a moment before Lady Wickhammersley shooed them away.

“Did you require additional libation in order to approach Mrs. Christie, sir?” Jeeves asked oiling up to me with a full glass of champagne and exchanging it for my empty one after I’d been stood, staring at the little table, for some ten minutes.

“No, Jeeves, just waiting for the fanfare to die down, what? I think Cynthia had the right idea about coming later to the party.”

“Indeed, sir.” He offered an eyebrow tilt of consolation. “I believe you may have greater success in gaining an audience with Mrs. Christie if you were to approach her now, sir.”

“Now?” I whipped my head back to the table in time to see Mrs. Christie standing up and directing a scowl in Rosie’s direction. She shrugged off Lady Wickhammersley’s claws, and began striding toward the fountain. I hurried to intercept her.

“What ho, Mrs. Christie!” I called upon approach. She turned to blink at me.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she replied with what was undoubtedly a very convincing smile to one not trained in the Jeevesian school of false emotion.

“Bit of a tiff with Rosie back there?” I asked, offering her the drink in my hand.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Christie said with something approaching a more genuine reflection of frustration as she took the drink. “I’m afraid you’re correct. Mrs. Little is undoubtedly a fine author in her own field, but she knows very little about mine. It does tend to bother me when someone who has no idea what they’re talking about tries to tell me how to do my job. I have a husband for that sort of thing.”

I wasn’t certain if I was supposed to laugh at this, so I settled for a sympathetic quirk of the lips.

“I’m quite sorry you had to see that, especially when you have me at a disadvantage, Mister...?”

“Wooster,” I supplied. “Please call me Bertie, though. I’m a great fan.”

“Wooster?” She applied a finger to her lips thoughtfully. “That’s so famil...” Her eyes widened. “Bertie Wooster? You’re Bertram Wooster?”

“In the flesh.” I nodded, no small amount of trepidation entering my voice. Could Lady Wickhammersley have warned her about me? Warned her? What about? That was silly. Perhaps she’d heard from one of her friends about me? But to what purpose?

“Oh, Mr. Wooster, this is absolutely marvelous,” Mrs. Christie cried, grabbing my hand and shaking it hard enough to make my head wobble. “I just love your... your... Jeeves!”

She was staring past me now, and I looked around to see Jeeves gliding toward us with a plate of cucumber sandwiches and another glass of champagne for the young master.

“Yes, madam?” he inquired, handing me the glass and presenting the sandwiches to Mrs. Christie.

“The Jeeves and Wooster...” Mrs. Christie shook her head. “I’ve read all of your books and short stories, Mr. Wooster. I simply adore them.”

“R-really?” I asked. “They’re just a bit of nonsense.”

“But I love nonsense, Mr. Wooster,” she rejoined. “Where would the joy in this world come from without a bit of nonsense? Really, I’m quite honored. Could I get your autograph sometime this weekend? I have my copy of The Inimitable Jeeves with me. I was re-reading it on the train ride down in between editing chapters of my manuscript.”

“Well... that is to say... of course!” I nodded, face feeling positively fishy as I gaped at her like a landed haddock.

“If I might be so bold, sir,” Jeeves interjected, “perhaps an exchange of signatures would be in order. Mr. Wooster requested that I pack several of your more recent volumes for our stay at Twing Hall, Mrs. Christie.”

“Please,” she said, waving a hand, “call me Agatha.”

“That would hardly be proper, madam,” Jeeves replied, tone edging toward soupy.

Agatha simply laughed at that. “Oh, gracious! You’re exactly like what I imagined.”

“Bertie, you shouldn’t be stealing all of Mrs. Christie’s attention,” a familiar voice lisped at me. I turned to see Madeline dragging Spode toward us. “Hello, Mrs. Christie,” she continued. “My name is Madeline Spode and this is my dear husband Roderick, 7^th Earl of–”

“Lord Spodecup!” Agatha exclaimed, then blanched. “Sidcup! I mean ‘Sidcup’! Oh, I do apologize, my Lord.” She placed a hand over her mouth, but it was not the authoress at whom Spode leveled his fiery gaze. Unconsciously, I moved to place Jeeves between myself and the good Earl, counting on my man’s cool disposition to stave off the worst of the heat.

“Think nothing of it, my dear,” Spode replied after his attempt to destroy the Wooster corpus via ocular incineration had failed. “It is a common enough appellation that I remain unaffected.”

“That’s very kind of you, my Lord. My Lady.” She bowed her head to Madeline.

“Please, Mrs. Christie! Madeline and Roderick,” Lady Sidcup insisted. “Roderick has read all your books, though I fear they’re rather too much for me. I have always wondered if you wouldn’t consider adding a bit of romance to your stories. Or perhaps some more of the ‘poetic justice’ Roderick goes on about. I do love poetry. Have you heard of...”

It was at that point that Bertram ceased listening, the bubbles in my champagne taking on a whole new world of fascination. It was only Jeeves’ gentle cough that drew me back to the land of the living.

“Perhaps, sir,” he said just loud enough for Agatha to hear, but soft enough not to interrupt Madeline’s recitation of some poem she’d written about the nature of butterflies and how they were ‘hearts blown upon the turbulent winds of fate’, “you would like to repair to the sports field? Lord Wickhammersley has instructed his falconer to show off the manor’s finest birds.”

“Falcons?” Agatha cut Madeline off. “I’m terribly sorry, Madeline, but I’ve never seen a falconer at work before. May I accompany you, Mr. Wooster?”

“Of course, Agatha, old fruit.” I presented my arm with a grin as Madeline’s lips drew to a thin line. “And please do call me Bertie.”

“Bertie.” She nodded and we set off.

(Back to Chapter 4)
(Onward to Chapter 6)

Comments

[mellifluous-gel.livejournal.com]

That was the first line I wrote for this chapter. All of that stuff before? Just build up. XD