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indeedsir_backupStiffy always struck me as one of Bertie's meaner female acquaintances. She'll blackmail, lie, cheat, and use just about any unscrupulous means at her disposal to get what she wants.
Title: Jeeves and the Missing Manuscript
Chapter: 10/16
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 made my way down to the lake, whistling “47 Ginger Headed Sailors” as I went in a fit of nostalgia. It had been a popular number around the Drones a few years ago. Five years ago, to be precise. Five years, one month, and five days if you really wanted to quibble over such things. In any case, it had been the thing when Jeeves had arrived on my doorstep. But how had I got ‘round to the subject of Jeeves again? The man can be bally ubiqui-whatsit – the one that means a chap is everywhere at once... ubiquitous – at the most inconvenient times. Then again, it would be a much more unhappy and much less bachelor-esque Bertram ankling about today without his valet to move in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform – the valet’s wonders that is, not Bertram’s.
It took fifteen minutes or so before Ginny’s Lake hove into view. Situated at the center of a copse of trees, it sported a fine little dock with boats tied neatly on either side, and the end left open for the enterprising fisherman. I saw a smattering of birds and beazels milling about, but none from the Wickhammersley’s party, so I found a comfy looking patch of the green stuff beneath a large willow and set myself to reading.
I had just reached the part where Poirot and Dr. Sheppard were having at that sneaky Parker for blackmailing his last master when a call of, “Hello, Bertie!” startled me.
I looked up and saw Stiffy charging toward me at full-steam with Bartholomew in tow. I hastily made a mental note of the page number and shoved the manuscript into its envelope before standing.
“What ho, Stiffy!” I returned, waving to her. “I was wondering where Bartholomew had got to. Haven’t seen the little chap all weekend.”
“Lady Wickhammersley doesn’t like him, so I’ve had to keep him cooped up in my room since Thursday,” she explained, frowning, as I reached down to pet the four-legged fiend. “I can’t understand why. He’s just a bit enthusiastic sometimes.”
“Well... rather,” I said, withdrawing quickly when he growled and tried to bite my fingers off.
“Anyway, what are you wearing?” she demanded, running a disapproving eye up and down the Wooster corpus. “I’m surprised Jeeves let you leave your room in that. He hasn’t given his notice, has he?”
“They are a spiffing pair of trousers,” I rejoined. “And no, Jeeves has not given his notice. He acknowledges my sense of individuality and has the good grace to allow his master to wear what he will.”
Stiffy pulled a face that quite clearly said she thought I was barking, but that she would put up with me for now. “Walk with me, Bertie? Bartholomew and I were just going to go to the end of the dock.” She motioned in the appropriate direction, and we set off on the short trot to said d. “So, what have you got there?” she asked, nodding to the envelope tucked under my arm as we crossed the threshold from springy grass to groaning wood.
“Oh, ah, this?” I returned, shifting the manuscript to the other side, out of her direct line of sight. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Well, it’s something, of course. Can’t really have a thing and have it be nothing. Unless you’re that Greek cove who tried to argue about tables and their existence and whatnot. Or something like that. I’ll have to ask Jeeves. He’d know about it. Very fond of the Greek stuff – Jeeves that is, not me, though I can’t rightly say that I’m not a fan, just that I don’t know... quite as much...?” I trailed off, suddenly feeling a blush creeping toward my cheeks for no particular reason.
Stiffy considered me for a moment, eyebrow raised askance, then she seemed to shrug off my fit of babbling and continued on point, “It’s some sort of book, isn’t it? I saw you reading.”
“Well, it’s a funny thing, that. Depends on how you define book.” We had reached the last plank and stopped, staring out at the water and sun-induced sparkles lighting its surface.
“Whose is it?” she pressed. “You looked to be enjoying it.”
“It could be one of my books,” I deflected cleverly. “The latest manuscript, you know?”
“So, it’s a manuscript?” Stiffy’s maw split once more into that predatory grin. “Come now, Bertie. You wouldn’t look like that reading your own manuscript. They’re not nearly that engaging.”
“I say!” I I-sayed her. “I’ll have you know that some people quite enjoy my books.”
She waved her hand dismissively. “Yes, yes. I’m sure there are those out there who find your rambling on to be quite sweet – Madeline springs to mind. I’m more interested in that thing you’ve got behind your back, though. Come along and tell me who it belongs to.” She pouted, her lower lip jutting out and her eyebrows drawing together. What is a preux chevalier to do in the face of such... well, faces?
“If you must know,” I relented, bringing it out into view again, “it belongs to Agatha. It’s her latest that she’ll be sending off to her publisher sometime in the next week.”
“Agatha Christie’s new novel?” I had to step back carefully, mindful of the edge, as Stiffy lunged for me.
“Steady on now!”
“Bertie, you have to let me see that manuscript!” Bartholomew yapped his agreement, but I held firm, clutching the m. in question to my chest.
“I’m sorry, Stiffy, but I promised Agatha I wouldn’t let another soul set hand, eye, or any other piece of anatomy upon it, and we Woosters keep our word to the bitter end.”
“Oh, but Bertie, we’re such good friends,” she pleaded. “Couldn’t I just have a little peek? Think of all we’ve been through together.”
“You mean all you’ve put me through?”
“Don’t be such a prat! I never forced you to do anything.”
“Hah! Hah, I say to you, my dear Ms. Byng... with a derisive snort for emphasis! If you really believe that’s the case, then you have an even worse memory than Biffy Biffen. And let me tell you, that is saying something.”
“You know, Bertie, Angela’s still awfully upset at you about Tuppy,” she said, switching tacks.
I narrowed my gaze. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Well, I was just thinking,” she purred, edging closer as I edged away as much as the dock would allow, “that if I were to say something to her, put in a good word, you might be able to convince her it was all just some silly misunderstanding. And maybe, she’d even see sense about Hildebrand. We could work together on it.”
The offer was a tempting one. “The offer is a tempting one, Stiffy,” I acknowledged, “but we Woosters have our Code. Even the thought of reuniting two lovers torn asunder cannot move us to break our word. No, I’m sorry, but that’s my final answer. I shall deal with Tuppy and Angela on my own.”
“But Bertie, you need me,” she protested.
“Stiffy, I need you like I need a metal pole in my hands whilst standing atop of the Woolworth building in a lightning storm.”
Her plaintive features melted into a scowl of discontent. I gulped, but having reached the end of the dock, and with her and Bartholomew blocking the way, I didn’t have anywhere to retreat to save the bottom of Ginny’s Lake.
“You know something else, Bertie?” She didn’t pause to let me reply. “It’s amazing the sorts of things one overhears while walking in the garden during the evening.”
“Indeed?” I stared at her warily, uncertain where this new line was leading, but I’d be dashed if I could say that it was anywhere good.
“Yes. You see, I always find it suspicious when a gentleman and lady, both unwed and unattached, go sneaking off somewhere together, and I just can’t help wondering what sorts of things they might be up to. Propriety demands that such rendezvous be monitored to ensure that nothing untoward happens.”
I liked this line even less than I had before. “Does it, now?”
“Quite, Bertie. Quite.” She nodded. “You see, it was just yesterday that I heard you, Cynthia, and Jeeves discussing the most extraordinary plans. I’m not surprised she agreed to it so readily, but you? You’re either very foolish or very cruel.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, not a little confused.
“Didn’t you know? Oh, but then how could you? Or anyone, really?” The grin had returned, and I felt just a bit like a cornered mouse faced with a cat whose daily meals for the last week had consisted of water and one or two of out-of-date sardines. “I only know about it because I just happened to overhear Lady Wickhammersley talking to your Aunt Agatha on the telephone the night that I got in. You’re Cynthia’s last chance for an amicable arrangement, Bertie. If you two don’t work out, Lady Wickhammersley’s going to sack dear Mr. Chilcott and send Cynthia to marry some horrid old fellow in India named Braxton. Still, it might not be so bad. I hear he beat his first wife, but at fifty, I’m sure he can’t do quite as much damage with a cane as he used to.”
“Stiffy!” I cried, eyes bugging out, and jaw fairly slamming into the dock. “You... how could... there’s no... You wouldn’t let that happen to Cynthia!”
“It’s not up to me, Bertie,” she said, the poison dripping from her sweet lips like honey. “It’s really all down to you. But... if you were to let me read the first chapter of Mrs. Christie’s manuscript, I might be able to keep quiet while you and Jeeves figure out how to oil out of this little mess you’ve made.”
My head was spinning, and not in that pleasant sort of way that happens when Jeeves deigns to grace me with his little half-amused smiles. Cynthia and Chilcott were doomed, and so was I. Whatever I did, biffing off back to London or staying and marrying Cynthia would lead to her being separated from the man she loved. And if I did stay, there was a good chance Bertram’s body would be separated from the liver it loved if George Chilcott’s eagles had anything to say in the matter.
“S-Stiffy,” I stuttered, utterly at a loss, but hoping that I might be able to appeal to her better nature. “You can’t really mean to say that you’d throw Cynthia and me to the wolves over a little manuscript.”
“Bertie, you can’t really mean to say that you’d let it happen over a little manuscript,” she mocked, not batting an eyelash.
The Code of the Woosters demanded that I keep my word to Agatha, but it also demanded that I prevent a pair of innocent lovers from falling apart on my account. I wrestled with the decision until it felt like my head would burst.
“All right. All right,” I mumbled, shoulders sagging and lower lip trembling just the tiniest bit. “You win, Stiffy. I’ll let you read the first chapter, but you have to promise you’ll give it right back.”
“Oh, you have my word, Bertie!” she crowed. “Now just toss that envelope here like the darling little lamb you are. You have no idea how happy I am that you’ve seen sense, Bertie. Isn’t it wonderful, Bartholomew?”
Bartholomew growled, straining at his leash in my direction. “Ah... Stiffy, do you think you could call the little chap there off? Makes one a bit nervous, what?”
“He’s only having some fun, Bertie. And besides, we wouldn’t want you running off anywhere before you give me that manuscript.”
“Stiffy, you can’t offer to help me, then blackmail me, and then threaten me with canine retribution! That’s-that’s the absolute bally limit!”
“I’ll do what I like, Bertie Wooster.” She tossed her hair like one of those wretched beazels from Rosie’s novels. “The manuscript.”
Saying a silent apology to Agatha, I made sure to secure the top of the envelope, then tossed the thing to Stiffy. She caught it with both hands... which left Bartholomew free.
With a snarl to rival that three-headed chappie who guards the gates to the Underwhatsit, the little monster leapt forward, attaching himself to this Wooster’s leg. I yelped manfully in response and tried to shake him off even as I heard the distinct shurrk! of fabric ripping.
“Stiffy! Stop him! Yeowch!” I shrieked, flailing about until I found that thin air is a very poor substitute when it comes to supporting a chap’s weight as compared to a solid plank of wood.
“Bartholomew, come!” she ordered just as gravity latched onto me, ignoring my pin-wheeling arms and drawing me inexorably downward.
The impact as I crashed into the placid surface of Ginny’s Lake forced the air from my lungs, and I clawed madly at the water as my head went under. I came up sputtering, gasping for breath, and found myself chest-deep in the wet stuff. I looked up to the dock to give Stiffy a piece of my mind, but it was empty. I gaped, then scanned the shoreline and saw a black fuzzy tail and a bush of brown hair disappearing into the trees.
“Stephanie Ophelia Byng, you lying little... argh!” I raged, slamming my fists into the water for good measure. I could find no adjective censorious enough, no noun with which to convey my complete and utter loathing. That I had trusted her for even a moment – this woman who had shown time and time again that she had no regard for my well-being, physical or otherwise – only further stoked the flames in the Wooster tum. From these had erupted a fire-breathing dragon who was, even now, filling the Wooster onion with more than a few impolite thoughts involving fists and their making an intimate acquaintance of a certain person’s ears, chin, and stomach.
My temper tantrum – for what else could a chap call it when he stood, thrashing about, fully-clothed, in the middle of a lake, splashing the water every which way, and snarling at himself, the passersby, the birds, the sun, and really just about everything within easy snarling range – ended about three minutes later. Having exhausted every curse I could think of, and even a few I had invented on the spot, I slogged through the muck and pulled myself onto the shore to assess the full damage Stiffy and her hellhound had wrought upon the Wooster corpus.
The trousers were the hardest-hit casualty. Bartholomew had gone for the inseam, splitting it up past my knee. Talking of flesh, I noticed that the brute had actually had the bally nerve to sink his teeth into my calf so far as to draw blood. Other than that, I felt roughly two steps removed from a drowned squirrel, but was otherwise unharmed.
“Well, Bertram, what are we to do?” I asked myself.
“Ask Jeeves,” I replied promptly.
“Right, well, but then he’ll get that little smirk of his that fairly shouts ‘I told you so’, what?” I argued.
“Yes, but ‘tis better to suffer the blow to one’s ego than the loss of one’s head when Agatha finds out what’s happened. Not to mention Cynthia and Chilcott.”
“You talking to me, mister?” an unfamiliar voice broke into my monologue.
It was then that I noticed a fair-haired youth, his trousers rolled up to his knees, just a little way down the embankment. He had a fishing rod in one hand and a wicker basket in the other. It was a delightfully quaint picture, something those painter chappies would run laps for, but the effect was rather ruined by the suspicious glare spread across the lad’s map. Well, of course he’d be casting his leery eye Wooster-ward. I must have sounded absolutely barmy chatting with myself.
“Er... no. Sorry. Just having it out with good old left and right brains, what? Never hurts to take both sides on an issue.”
He now looked positively alarmed and had begun backing away with the cunning subtlety of burglar wearing bells.
“I’ll just be off then, shall I?” He nodded mechanically and flinched when I passed him by, squishing in my soggy spats.
The journey back to Twing Hall took considerably longer than the stroll down, not the least because a ball of uncertainty and fear had begun to collect in my tum where once the dragon had rampaged. I had really bungled this one, and I wasn’t sure that even Jeeves’ enormous brain could fix it, providing he was willing to bend said e. b. to the problem. With the way I’d been treating him as of late, jolly and spiteful all in the same sentence, I couldn’t be certain that my man wouldn’t simply scoff and tell me to go and boil my head.
“Bertie!” Stinker’s voice roused me from my fretting, and as I looked at him and the Wooster lemon connected him with his fiancée, a spark of the old ire flickered. “Great Scots, Bertie, what happened?” I looked around and saw that we were stationed outside the front of Twing Hall, though it did not occur to me to ask why Stinker was out front instead of socializing in the garden at the back of the house. “Did you fall in the lake? Stiffy just got back and–”
“Stinker,” I interrupted, raising a hand to silence him, “I hold you in the highest regard, and respect you as both a former schoolboy chum and a man of the cloth, but until you tell that... that female to whom you’re engaged that she should take four or five steps beyond the edge of a sharpish drop off, I shouldn’t like to talk to you.”
So saying, I marched past him, nose stuck in the air as only a blue-blooded Englishman can stick – his nose, that is. I needed Jeeves. More than that, I wanted him, and not in an altogether proper way. Unfortunately, I did not have the resolve left in me to keep my thoughts from straying down those glittering alleyways and into the Red Lights.
(Back to Chapter 9)
(Onward to Chapter 11)
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Date: 2010-10-30 09:26 pm (UTC)can't wait to see what happens next!
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Date: 2010-10-31 02:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-31 04:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-31 04:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-30 10:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-31 02:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-30 11:22 pm (UTC)Lol! Okay back to waiting patiently for the next chapter *clicks the refresh button*
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Date: 2010-10-31 02:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-30 11:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-31 03:40 am (UTC)Poor Bertie
Date: 2010-10-31 06:06 am (UTC)Re: Poor Bertie
Date: 2010-10-31 04:46 pm (UTC)GOD I hate her.
Date: 2010-10-31 09:43 pm (UTC)I'd love to hear Bertie cuss and Jeeves faint from hearing him. ... hmm... I sense a plot bunny.
One of Bertie's more colorful friends teaches him some naughty words in hearing range of Jeeves.
Re: GOD I hate her.
Date: 2010-11-01 03:04 am (UTC)