indeedsir_backup | Jeeves and the Missing Manuscript

Happy Halloween, everyone!

Title: Jeeves and the Missing Manuscript
Chapter: 11/16
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.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wooster,” Woolwine greeted as I trudged through the entryway, both of us studiously ignoring the fact that I was dripping all over the carpet. “Would you like me to fetch Mr. Jeeves? He offered to assist in serving drinks and hors d’oeuvres in the garden.”

“Thank you, Woolwine,” I acknowledged, holding myself as if I weren’t dripping all over the carpet. “Tell him to meet me in my room, would you?”

“Certainly, sir.”

This somewhat-awkward exchange dealt with, I hied myself upstairs with the vigor of an octopus who’s just lost seven of his legs to a tyrannous hammerhead shark, and subsequently been informed that his favored seahorse at the races has come down with a spot of the shakes and shivers just before opening day. In my room, I pulled off my coat and had just started on the waistcoat buttons when I heard the sheep-like cough of my valet.

“I trust your visit to the lake was a stimulating one, Mr. Wooster?”

I turned around to face him, feeling a slight burn about the ocular region and a manful tremble of the lower lip. In that moment, I would have given my right hand for him to step forward, wrap me in his capable arms, and tell me that he would do all in his power to make everything better... and the proper feudal spirit be dashed to the bygone age in which it belonged! While no hugs were forthcoming, my man’s visage melted from chilled steel to almost-tepid in an instant, a slight frown creasing his brow as he moved to take over undressing me.

“What has happened, sir?” he asked, blue eyes capturing my own as I told him how Stiffy had accosted me and stolen the manuscript before unleashing Bartholomew and his four-legged wrath upon the Wooster corpus. “This is most disturbing, sir,” he concluded at the end of my explanation.

“Disturbing, Jeeves? No. Not at all,” I argued as he unhooked my braces, pulled off my tie and began working his way down the buttons on my shirt. “Setting a shovel to soil, possibly running at a flock of starlings in a field, or even singing gaily at two in the ack emma as you stumble down the street after one too many cocktails, might be classed as ‘disturbing’. This is positively disastrous! And I must say that the events of this afternoon have left the young master firmly convinced that Stiffy Byng is a girl akin to barbed wire: brilliant, persistent when she’s caught you, hard all the way through, and liable to leave scars on any chap who so much as looks at her.”

“A somewhat cynical, though not entirely inaccurate assessment of the young lady’s character, sir.” I dropped my arms back so that he could peel off my shirt. Even in the warmth of the day, a shiver ran up my spine as the air touched my bare skin. “We can continue the discussion once your comfort has been seen to, sir. Shall I run the bath while you finish disrobing?” he queried, a new wave of concern crashing over his features.

“No!” I managed to restrain myself from reaching out to grasp his hand as he started to pull away. “I-I mean, no, Jeeves. These... ah... trousers. My fingers are still a bit slippery, and you know how dashed tricky trousers can be, what?” It was a dreadfully obvious ploy, but I couldn’t help myself thinking how pleasant it would be after such a trying experience for my man to run his hands a bit farther south on the Wooster anatomy.

His eyebrow rose a molecule or two at my reaction, but there was that certain thingness in his voice as he very good-sirred me that banished all worries from my mind for a moment and sent shivers of the warm and tingly sort shooting to all of the Wooster extremities.

He stepped close again, his eyes never leaving mine as he reached down, hands settling on my hips before sliding up a bit and inward to my flies.

“Qu-quite impressive being able to de-trouser a fellow without looking, Jeeves,” I complimented, licking my suddenly-dry lips.

“A skill perfected in the event that a gentleman wishes to disrobe in poorly lit circumstances, sir,” he explained, and I felt my heartbeat quicken.

“Why would a chap want to undress in the dark, Jeeves?”

“There are countless contingencies which might occasion such a situation, sir.” His fingers brushed just below my navel as he undid the top button, and I felt the almost overpowering urge to press closer to him. “For instance,” he continued, taking his time with the second button, “after a night on the town, a gentleman may return home quite inebriated and sensitive to light.” I found my arms rising of their own accord then, and I set them on his shoulders.

“Sir.” I’m sure it was meant to be a question, but the way he said it, his eyes half-lidded and a tiny quirk of his mouth, seemed to indicate he knew exactly what the young master was doing. It would have been helpful if he could’ve clued the y.m. in, as well, because I certainly couldn’t have told you what I was on about. Gentlemen don’t generally go about placing their arms on their valet’s shoulders with the intention of doing... something-or-other that would come to them in the heat of the moment.

“J-Jeeves, I’m not–”

“Bertie are you in there?” I sprang away from my man like a startled gazelle at the heavy knocking upon my bedroom door. Unfortunately, the backs of my legs collided with the bed and I tipped over, sprawling gracelessly across the linens. I scrambled to sit up, raising my head to gape at Jeeves, but he was at the door already, cracking it open just a sliver.

“I apologize, Mr. Little, but Mr. Wooster is undressing for the bath. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Oh,” Bingo said. “Oh, no, Jeeves. It’s only... Stinker told me he’d seen Bertie just a few minutes ago, soaking wet and going on about Stiffy jumping off a cliff.”

“Mr. Wooster had an unfortunate encounter with Ms. Byng down by Ginny’s Lake, sir.”

“Is he all right?”

“The events seem to have left him quite distressed, sir,” Jeeves related. “I am certain that he will be able to explain the situation to you once he is sufficiently recovered, though. If you will excuse me, sir, I should attend to Mr. Wooster at present.”

“Oh, right you are, Jeeves,” Bingo returned. “I don’t mean to keep you, just... tell Bertie I hope he’s better soon. Mrs. Christie’s been looking for him.”

“I shall inform him directly, sir.” With that, Jeeves shut the door and turned back to me. Whatever whatsit had been between us had dissipated, though. He stepped toward me, and I hastened to put the bed between us, hands moving to cover the bulge in my trousers.

His brows drew together in the most heart-wrenching way, and I almost relented. There were other things to worry about at the moment, though. Things that needed my attention like the hummingbird needs his flowers. This confusion about Jeeves and wanting to do all sorts of strange things to him could file itself away for another day when I didn’t have to worry about being married off to Cynthia Wickhammersley, or murdered by an angry authoress with a keen sense of how to cover up a heinous crime.

“Mr. Little wishes you a swift recovery, sir,” Jeeves informed me. “I will tend to the bath now.” And he biffed off just like that.

I wrapped myself in my dressing gown after shucking the rest of my garments, grimacing at the trickle of red running down my leg where Bartholomew had sunk his fangs in. Jeeves’ only comment as I entered the bathroom, the water ready and waiting for Bertram’s abused person, was, “I will fetch the appropriate medical supplies, sir.” He shimmered away, and I took the opportunity to lower myself into the water and deal with the other minor medical condition I had been enduring since Jeeves had started to unbutton my trousers.

I took my time in the warm and wet, squeezing my ducky for comfort in between washing off the lake muck that had managed to accumulate on the Wooster corpus during its short sojourn in the cold and wet. Once I had relaxed to the point where I felt I could face the trials ahead of me, and the water had gone a somewhat pinkish hue that I didn’t think was altogether sanitary, I pulled myself out, rubbed myself dry, and wrapped my gown around me once more.

Jeeves was waiting for me in the bedroom and had me sit in the armchair so that he could bandage my calf before draining the tub. I found myself still a bit cold, even after my soak, so Jeeves returned with a basin of steaming water and a blanket, which, I believe, brings us to the beginning of this little tale – well, not the beginning, but the place where I started it, which was really the middle. In any case, just so you don’t have to flip back to the first chapter, here’s a recap of that bit:

Bertram laments about the situation re: Agatha’s manuscript and Stiffy’s theft of said m. Jeeves makes a snide remark regarding Bertram’s trousers and their loss to the tooth of Stiffy’s miniature demon in dog-form. Bertram’s powerful glare of Woosterly-whatsit is wasted as his man fixes him a drink. Bertram chides Jeeves about his pressing for a new set of gray trousers before we finally return to the more important matter: the manuscript.

“If I might make the suggestion, sir,” Jeeves continued from what would be the last bit of conversation back in chapter one, “could you not simply enter into Ms. Byng’s room and recover the manuscript while she is otherwise occupied?”

“Ah...” I realized I’d left out a rather key part of the story I’d told to Jeeves. “Well, there’s a hitch, Jeeves, and a decidedly rummy one at that.” I explained the circs re: Cynthia, Chilcott, Lady Wickhammersley, the chappie in India, and self. Jeeves’ face grew progressively colder as I related the whole sorry tale until he was looking positively glacial at the end.

“Ms. Byng used this information to extract the manuscript from your possession, sir?” he asked, the stuffed frog in full effect, though, thankfully, not directed at me.

“Yes, Jeeves,” I affirmed. “The blasted girl could give those siren thingummies that Greek fellow wrote about a run for their money.” It occurred to me that Greeks had been coming into the conversation quite a lot lately. Not a bad civilization, mind you, gave us sport and the like, but there was something about them that I couldn’t quite recall that was German – Hold on a moment, that’s not right. Germane! – germane to at least one of the problems knocking around the Wooster lemon. I’d be dashed if I could say which, though.

“Homer, sir,” he supplied, but I could tell that his mind was otherwise occupied as it came in an afterthought-ish sort of tone, and he did not carry on with a more detailed account of just who Homer was, where the idea of the sirens had come from, and which particular improving books I might want to read to learn more.

I waited a few more seconds, sipping my w. and s. before prompting, “Any corkers stirring about the Jeevesian gray matter, then?”

He drew in a deep breath, pursing his lips in a way that made me want to do something quite unmentionable.

“Modesty forbids, sir,” he said, “but a thought does occur. However, I am uncertain you would be willing to pursue this particular course as it may cast Ms. Byng into some disrepute amongst your acquaintances.”

“Jeeves,” I began, prodding at the bandage around my leg once more, “whatever it is, I shall be happy to pursue it as the hound pursues the fox if it will lead to Ms. Byng getting what’s coming to her. We Woosters have our Code, and somewhere in the fine print, I’m fairly certain it has one of those loopy-whatsits for young ladies who go about threatening marriage for other ladies to fifty-year-old gentlemen who would beat them should a Wooster not comply with the first y.l.’s demands.”

“Indeed, sir. I shall make the appropriate preparations in that case.”

“See that you do, Jeeves,” I agreed. “See that you do.”

(Back to Chapter 10)
(Onward to Chapter 12)