indeedsir_backup | Jeeves and the Missing Manuscript

Remember that angst that's mentioned in the summary? There's some of that this chapter. The next chapter may be a while in coming. I have several projects this week to work on, but I'll be working in the shadows, never fear! I do intend to finish this thingummy come Hell or high waters.

Title: Jeeves and the Missing Manuscript
Chapter: 7/16
Pairing: Jeeves/Bertie
Rating for Chapter: PG-13
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.

We mounted the stairs and trotted across the second-floor landing to Agatha’s room after sneaking out of the music room. She placed her hand on the door once we’d reached it and paused.

“Something the matter, old fruit?”

“Ah... there’s a bit of a mess. I didn’t have time to really unpack properly after the train, and then I was rushing in the bath before dinner.”

“If you require assistance with your wardrobe, madam, I would be only too pleased to assist,” Jeeves offered in what I have to say was a step above and beyond the old feudal spirit.

“Th-thank you, Mr. Jeeves.” It was the first time that day I’d seen her blush, and I have to say she pulled it off dashed well. I tend to go red out to my ears, but she managed to keep the rouge contained to her cheeks as she jiggled the handle and pushed into the room.

“I say!” I cried upon stepping in and getting an eyeful of the r. in question. “Did a horde of rabid raccoons ransack the place while you were out?”

Various itemries of clothing were flung over the most improbable of objects – the canopy on the bed, the mirror, the bedside lamp – and sheets of paper, some crumpled, others shining white in anticipation of the words that would be writ there, littered the floor.

“Am I to understand the paper on the floor is meant to be discarded, madam?” was the only question Jeeves asked.

“Just the crumpled ones. I’ll-I’ll get those, Mr. Jeeves.” She crouched and began gathering up little balls of the Stories That Might Have Been and tossing them into the rubbish bin. I busied myself collecting and stacking the clean pages on the desk, and before you could say ‘tinkerty tonk’, everything had found its way to the proper place.

Agatha thanked us both, then directed me to the armchair by the bed and proceeded to the desk. She reached toward her throat, and as she slid a hand down toward the neckline of her blouse, I felt myself becoming distinctly uncomfortable. I looked to Jeeves and found him studying the bedspread with far more interest than its bland, bluish number warranted.

“Here we are.” I shifted my gaze back to Agatha in time to see her slip a gold necklace from around her head. A key dangled at the end, which she inserted into one of the drawers of the desk and turned. The thing released with a click and from out of the depths, she withdrew her manuscript, white pages in a thick, yellow envelope.

I had to stop myself from leaping forward and snatching the thing from her hands as such impulses aren’t at all in accordance with the actions of a preux chevalier. As it was, I tensed, eyes going wide as she walked over and placed the manuscript in my lap.

“Now Bertie, you have to promise me that you will keep this safe at all times. It should never leave your room, nor should you let anyone else see it. That’s the majority of my manuscript you have there, though I’m still editing the last two chapters, so you’ll have to wait for those.”

I could only nod dumbly.

“I am certain Mr. Wooster will take the utmost care with your manuscript, madam,” Jeeves interpreted.

“I’m sure he will,” she agreed. “But it’s best to be clear about these things. Now...” she continued, returning to her desk and producing a well-loved volume from within, “I believe I’m owed an autograph. Oh, I wish I’d brought Carry On, Jeeves with me, as well. Another time.”

“Oh, rather!” I found my voice as she handed over the book and a pen.

“Perhaps a freshly printed volume of the book in question could be mailed to Mrs. Christie’s home address, sir,” Jeeves concurred, and I could hear from his tone that it was only a feudal sense of what is proper that prevented him from ripping Agatha’s ragged-‘round-the-edges copy of The Inimitable Jeeves from my grasp and chucking it into the nearest fireplace for a swift whatsit – ‘cream’ came to mind, though I’m dashed if I could say why.

I flipped open the book, careful of the binding that seemed to have seen the wilds of Africa and then some, and wrote out a note:

‘To the Inimitable Agatha Christie,

From one fan to another, I hope this little bit of nonsense will continue to brighten your days.

Toodle Pip,
Bertram W. Wooster’

I smiled down at the inscription, waving the page back and forth a bit to dry out the ink. That’s when the table of contents caught my eye. I ran the Wooster e.’s down the list and my smile grew wider.

“Hah! Do you remember when we rescued Aunt Agatha’s pearls from that Soapy Sid fellow, Jeeves?”

I glanced up and saw him looking down at me with whiff of smugness about his person. “Indeed, sir. You seemed most gratified by the outcome of events.”

“Gratified?” I raised an eyebrow at my man and handed the book back to Agatha. “Gratified does not even begin to cover it, Jeeves. Being able to put the old dragon in her place for once had this Wooster skipping through the streets.”

“I can only imagine,” Agatha broke in, sitting down on her bed and smiling at us. “There’s something I’ve been wondering since I first met you, though.”

“Ask away, Agatha,” I said. “Bertram is open to what queries you might have.”

“Just how long have you been together, you and Mr. Jeeves? You seem to have had quite a lot of adventures.”

“Not sure, really,” I replied, applying a few scratches to the Wooster onion to stimulate the Wooster gray matter. “It’s hard to remember a time when Jeeves wasn’t around, what?”

“As of the present date, I have been in Mr. Wooster’s employ five years, one month, and four days, discounting a minor separation of one week some three years ago,” Jeeves rattled off, quick as a horse out of the starting gate.

“Five years, Jeeves?” I goggled at the man. “Well, well, well. Five years... Hah! That long since the boat race night. I must be paying you all right for you to stick around, what?”

“The remuneration is amicable, sir,” he returned, voice thickening to a distinctly soupy timbre, as is often the case when it comes to his salary. I really wasn’t even sure what I paid the chap. He handles the finances, you see, so I had always assumed it was some reasonable amount with the requisite bonus tossed in for Christmases and birthdays, along with the customary brown-paper package bearing a tag with his name on the ‘To:’ line and mine on the ‘From:’. So long as the young master had enough of the paper stuff in the pocketbook for a corking new tie and a dinner out, the y. m. was happy to let his man deal with all matters monetary.

“Ah... yes... well,” I stuttered as I searched for a subject not likely to raise the Jeevesian hackles any higher.

“Surely there are other benefits to an employer like Bertie, though, Mr. Jeeves.” Agatha interjected. “Things more important and dear than money?”

Silence dropped in for tea and biscuits, crashing the moderately uncomfortable atmosphere, and throwing pails of ice water over all and sundry. My man’s eyebrow crept upward by degrees until it had risen a full quarter of an inch.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, madam.” Did I say soupy? It would have taken a bally cleaver to cut through Jeeves’ tone just then.

Agatha took it in stride, matching him eyebrow for eyebrow as I gaped at this baffling battle of wills playing out before me. “Oh, you know, Mr. Jeeves... holidays, travel, piano concerts in the afternoons and evenings.”

The dark aura of displeasure emanating from my valet vanished faster than a rabbit in one of those magician chappie’s stage shows. “As you say, madam,” he acknowledged with a nod. “Mr. Wooster is a most generous employer, and you state correctly the circumstances with regard to Mr. Wooster’s musical endeavors. I have often found myself feeling as though I had experienced a week-long performance after a mere five minutes of listening to his rendition of the latest popular number.”

“Really, Jeeves?” I grinned. “Well, you know I...” It sunk into the Wooster onion what he had just implied, and I crossed my arms with a harrumph. “Yes, Jeeves... very amusing. I’m afraid you’ll find, Agatha, old fruit, that Jeeves’ tastes in the musical realm are more suited to the times when gentlemen wore wigs, powdered their faces, and traversed the countryside on horseback.”

“If it is not too bold to disagree, sir, I believe you will recall our stay in New York, during which I assisted you in learning many fine, modern songs of jazz origin.”

“And yet you pitch a bally fit when I take up the banjolele!”

“Sir, I would hardly characterize my reaction as–”

A fit of giggles interrupted whatever else Jeeves might have to say on the subject. I turned to see Agatha stifling the noise with a hand over her mouth, but the moment was lost and the Woosterly ire of the ages dissipated.

“I say,” I I-sayed her, “care to share the joke?”

“It’s just...” she managed between gasps as she dabbed at her eyes with a silken handkerchief, “you two... You’re...” She made a wiggling motion with her free hand, which I imitated, then turned to Jeeves for clarification on.

He was looking just as perplexed as I felt, though, if you can imagine it. Granted, the casual observer would have seen nothing more interesting on his map than a slight tilt of the Jeevesian lip, but Bertram is more than a casual observer when it comes to his man. He gazed at Agatha rather like she’d suddenly sprouted a tentacle from her forehead, and he wasn’t quite certain if he should break out the old swashbuckler’s togs and have at the thing, or act as though it were a perfectly natural occurrence in the course of one’s day.

Finally, the very peculiar authoress who had come into my acquaintance settled down and continued in more even tones. “I’m dreadfully sorry, but I haven’t laughed like that in quite a long time. I really meant no offense. It’s just that you’re...” I watched her face, feeling a pang of empathy as she groped for whatever devilish turn of phrase was getting away from her. “I can’t really explain it.” Another battle of idiomatical origins lost. “It’s you two. You’re quite amusing.”

“Oh, no offense taken, old thing,” I assured and glanced at Jeeves to ascertain whether this was entirely true. Thankfully, there was more concern than stuffed frog lurking about his visage. “Many’s the filly who’s laughed at the antics of this Wooster. Think nothing of it, really!”

“Thank you. And now, I suppose I should be seeing you off. No doubt you’ll want to do a bit of reading before bed, hmm, Bertie?”

“Rather!”

We stood, and she ushered us toward the door. As we were about to head for the stairs up to the third floor, though, she stopped me with, “Oh... there’s something else I wanted to mention, Bertie.”

“What’s that, then?” I asked just a little impatiently.

“Well...” I caught her eyes drifting to the right a bit to where Jeeves was undoubtedly looming over my shoulder.

“Jeeves, be a good chap and shimmer along to my room to lay out my pajamas.”

“Very good, sir. Would you like me to take the manuscript?”

“Oh, no. No, I think I’ll keep hold of it for now, Jeeves.”

He nodded and biffed off as only Jeeves can biff – that is to say, without a sound.

I leaned in toward the doorway, uncertain if I should re-enter. “What’s the news, then, old thing?”

“It’s...” she cast a suspicious eye across the landing, then drew me inside once more. “It’s about you and Cynthia, Bertie. You need to be careful. Even if the plan is one of Jeeves’ corkers, a few slip-ups and it could all ‘go to Hell in a handbasket’, as the Americans say.”

“You and Jeeves are both worrying far too much,” I said, waving away her concern. “Even if it does reach the point where Lady Wickhammersley says ‘boo’, I know you now, and I hope you wouldn’t mind meeting me outside the setting of a garden party.”

“You’re missing the part where you may end up saddled with Cynthia for real, Bertie,” she pointed out.

“I hardly think I’m as careless as all that,” I rejoined. “Besides, Cynthia doesn’t want to marry me.”

“No, but she’s expected to, Bertie.”

My brow furrowed. She wasn’t making any sense. “You’re not making any sense, old thing. We’re all expected to get married at some point. I mean, I know you said this marriage business wouldn’t suit me, and it’s a pleasant thought, just me and Jeeves at the flat, living out our days in merry bachelorhood, but it’s not the done thing. I’m expected to carry on the Wooster line, you know?”

“Oh, Bertie, never get married just because it’s expected.” Agatha’s voice had taken on a thingness that reflected as a distinct moistening of the ocular region. “I’ve written about murder and scandal and backstabbing of the most terrible sort, but a marriage just because it’s expected is a fate I would not wish upon my worst enemies.”

“I-I say, Agatha,” I ventured, a frown creasing the brow, “you’re not... I mean... well...?”

“Please don’t misunderstand.” She sighed. “I’m not innocent in the matter, and it hasn’t been all bad times. There were so many good times. I think that’s what hurts more. Archie is... well, he’s exactly the man I married. The fact that I ask more of him than he’s willing to give... We’re both to blame, and we both suffer the consequences.”

“But can’t you just say ‘toodle pip’, take what’s yours, and stride forth to greener pastures?” I asked. “I mean to say, not everyone lives by the Code of the Woosters, and you’re certainly not bound to it. You read in the papers all the time about Lord Whatsit parting brass rags with Lady Something-Or-Other over a horse or a house–”

“Or a whore,” Agatha interrupted, then added hastily when she recognized the blanch on my face for what it was. “I do apologize. Really, Bertie, you’re a dear, sweet man.” She reached out to pat my shoulder. “But you have no idea what it’s like to be a woman, or to be married. I have a daughter to think about. She’s only six. Even if Archie’s seeing that... In any case, thank you for your kind words, but it’s just not that simple.”

“Well... quite.” I mean to say, how else is a chap to respond to such a clear statement of the facts? “Can I at least offer a hug?”

She grimaced, then laughed, a pitiful sound that didn’t suit her in the slightest. “You’re much too kind, Mr. Wooster.”

I set the manuscript down on the floor and welcomed her into my arms. To her credit, not a tear salted my shoulder, though there were more than a few brave sniffles. I felt rather helpless, standing there with nothing to offer this filly, this woman whom I had admired for years, other than a few pats on the back and a not-nearly-solid-enough frame to wrap her arms around.

After some five minutes, she pulled away and dabbed at her eyes with that same handkerchief she had used earlier. “I fear you must think me some terrible beazel, sobbing left and right.”

“Not at all,” I tried to reassure her. “We all need a sympathetic ear and ready shoulder now and again, what?”

She nodded. “You’re very lucky to have Mr. Jeeves for that, Bertie.”

“I know, old thing. Believe me, I know. I think I take advantage of the poor chap sometimes, though. I mean, I am paying him to listen, but he’s fished me out of the soup more times than I can count. Certainly more times than just the ones I’ve written about. I really don’t know how I managed without him before.”

“You should tell him.”

“Tell him what?”

“That he means more to you than just a servant.”

I could feel what was now becoming a familiar blush tint my cheeks. “Well... that is to say... I’m not sure he’d be terribly keen on the idea, Agatha, old fruit. Feudal spirit and all.”

She leaned down, picked up the manuscript, and placed it in my hands once more. “I think you might be surprised. Good night, Bertie, and thank you. I hope you enjoy the manuscript. It’s called The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.”

I climbed the stairs to my room in something of a daze after that, trying to imagine Jeeves’ response to my assertion that he was more than the best valet either side of the Atlantic, but rather the most spiffing chap I had ever met, and that I considered him a true friend. No, more than that! What was more than that? I couldn’t really think of anything except for ‘the real tobasco’, which was sure to earn me soupy, ‘As you say, sir.’ and the cold shoulder for what remained of the weekend. Unfortunately, the rest of my imaginary Jeeveses responded in much the same way to any admission on my part that we were more than master and servant. The most optimistic of my imaginary Jeeveses replied with a sort of mildly-amused ‘Indeed, sir?’, humoring the imaginary Bertram laying his soul bare before his man.

“Sir, are you quite all right?” Jeeves’ voice roused me from my daydreaming as I entered the room. Thankfully, I didn’t start quite so badly as I had the last time, but it was a near thing, the manuscript slipping through my fingers and landing on the floor with a heavy thump.

“Yes, Jeeves, I’m fine,” I replied, hastily snatching up the m. and placing it on the bedside table. My pajamas were laid out and all that was left to do for the night was to disrobe, brush my teeth, climb between the covers, and start on my new Agatha Christie ‘novel’.

“Is Mrs. Christie all right, sir?” my man pressed as he removed my jacket and hung it up, returning to undo the tricky little buttons running up and down my front.

“Well... ah... bit of a rummy sitch, Jeeves,” I admitted. “Not sure if she’d want me blabbing about it though, you see.”

“Would the ‘rummy sitch’ to which you are referring, sir, have to do with the recent scandal involving Colonel Archibald Christie and Ms. Nancy Neele?”

“Jeeves?” I had been doing quite a bit of gaping today, but that certainly deserved an unhinging of the jaw.

He coughed, then began work on my tie. “One does not wish to gossip about such unfortunate events, sir, but I had detected a certain melancholy about Mrs. Christie’s countenance this evening that I could only attribute to circumstances outside those immediately apparent.”

“Well, you certainly are more perceptive than me, Jeeves,” I said, shaking my head. “I didn’t know the old girl was off her stride until she was all but crying into my shirt.”

“Indeed, sir. It is a most unhappy situation.”

“You don’t think you could help her out, Jeeves?” I asked, brightening at the thought. If Jeeves knew about it, he could fix it before Agatha could say ‘What’s this, then?’

“I am afraid not, sir,” he replied with a slight frown, dashing my hopes. “While I might perhaps offer some small advice to make the situation more tolerable for Mrs. Christie, a marriage in which neither party will come out the better for an outsider’s interference is not an affair in which I should like to become entangled.”

“Fair enough, Jeeves.” I sighed. “You do far too much already.”

“I find myself content in my present circumstances, sir.”

“Really, Jeeves?” I wondered, eyeing his back as I removed my undervest and he went to hang my shirt and tie in the wardrobe. “Nothing else you’re wanting for?”

“Sir?” He turned back just as I was sitting down on the bed and glided over, kneeling down to help me with my shoes.

“Well, five years...” I tried for nonchalance, but the incremental increase in the pitch of my voice really did nothing to assist on that front. “That’s a long time for two chaps to be living together, what?”

“Indeed, sir?” My shoes were off and he was now rolling up my trouser legs to get at the garters holding my socks up. More than a little unusual, but certain parts of the Wooster anatomy that had also taken note of the irregular proceedings were quite content to let said i. p.’s continue as they would.

“Indeed, Jeeves.” I gulped as his hands danced over first my right leg, then my left, removing the garters and rolling down my socks with greater care than any mere hosiery deserves. “S-so, if there’s anything the young master can do,” I continued as he returned my trouser cuffs to their proper positions and began sliding his hands toward my trouser buttons, “just say the word, and I’ll-I’ll– Jeeves!”

He stopped, one hand resting on my upper thigh, much too close to the source of discomfort lurking just below the surface of two thin layers of fabric. We locked gazes, and in that moment, his eyes were as dark as they had ever been in the bathroom that day not terribly long ago. I saw that his nostrils were flared and that his chest was rising and falling in tandem with mine. I wondered if his heart was pounding somewhere in the region of his throat, as well.

I blinked, and the spell broke.

Jeeves stood up so quickly I feared he might faint from the sudden change in altitude. No such happenstance occurred, and instead, my man performed an abrupt about face and strode with a singular purpose toward my wardrobe, the shoes, garters, and socks clutched in his hands.

“Will you require further assistance, sir?” He asked, not looking at me.

For a moment, I considered saying yes, but then common sense and a healthy amount of embarrassment kicked in.

“Ah... no. No, Jeeves. Have a nice evening. Read an improving book or two, what?”

“Thank you, sir. I hope you enjoy Mrs. Christie’s manuscript.” He shimmered away, and it was a very confused Bertram who proceeded to take matters into his own hands before pulling on his pajamas, brushing his teeth, and slipping between the covers.

I dragged Agatha’s manuscript over and prodded at the envelope for several minutes, still trying to collect my thoughts. It was a fruitless endeavor, though, so I threw myself into The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, devouring the thing page-by-page until Morpheus came calling, and I could resist no longer.

(Back to Chapter 6)
(Onward to Chapter 8)