I got a good squint at the pile itself, a handsome affair in reddish brick with stone bits here and there and a parapet above the second-floor bedrooms. A wide terrace faced south, and I guessed that if I could get there unobserved I could quickly ascertain which of the ground-floor rooms contained the library. Fortunately, the Hackwoods were fond of trees – cedars in particular – and it was easy enough for a chap who had so often played Red Indian scout to Woody Beeching’s Masked Cowboy to approach unobserved.
It would be an exaggeration to say that I was enjoying myself, but the sinews were stiffened up like anything as I ducked down beneath the first windowsill. After a pause to regain the breath, I risked a glance inside. It was a half-acre drawing room, with two wooden columns either side of a broad flight of three wooden steps. It also contained three elderly women, one younger one, possibly Amelia, a spindly fellow of about forty, an old codger in full flow and a butler of solemn aspect handing round the teacups. I ducked down sharpish and stole forwards to the next opening.
Raising the beak cautiously over the sill, I was rewarded by a glimpse of books, and plenty of them. I risked another look and got a full snapshot. There was only one thing I wanted more than a library and that was a library devoid of Hackwoods; it seemed that I had hit the bullseye at the second attempt. Gently, I tested the lower section of window. It rose. I looked down to make sure the footing was adequate to heave myself through the opening. As I did so, I noticed a small box attached to the outer wall at ankle height. The Wooster fortunes seemed to be getting juicier by the moment, for unless I was mistaken this was the telephone connection. I have never been much of a one for the practical aspects of life and I feared that if I used the implement that Jeeves had given me to snip the flex I might go up in smoke. I judged it wiser to give the cable a firm upward yank, and to my delight it yielded at once. I concealed the disconnected wires as best I could behind the box and moved on to part two of the operation.
Effecting an entrance was simple enough; finding the relevant brace of volumes looked an altogether trickier prospect. A complete set of Wisden Cricketers’ Almanack took up one bookcase. Another comprised stud books devoted to matters of livestock and horse breeding. Military history, with special ref to the Hundred Years War, accounted for a sizeable wall. There was frankly not much in the library of Sir Henry Hackwood to appeal to what one might call the general reader. Where on earth, I wondered, did he keep his detective stories? There was something called The Eustace Diamonds that looked promising, but a quick flip through its pages disappointed. No hint of a corpse anywhere.
Recalling the urgency of the mission, I pressed on and looked down to the lower shelves. There were a couple of dictionaries and a telephone directory behind a small table with the now useless instrument on it. This looked more promising. And there, between Bradshaw’s Railway Time Tables and An Introduction to Numismatism, lurked a well-used copy of Debrett and a positively dog-eared Burke. Suppressing a small cry of triumph, I bent down and hoiked up the weighty volumes.
I had got one leg out of the window when I heard a soft contralto behind me say, ‘Hello, Bertie, what on earth are you doing here?’
I swivelled round to see who spoke, catching the top of the skull a mighty crack on the raised window as I did so. It was Georgiana Meadowes, wearing a summer dress of printed purple flowers, looking if possible even more like something released that instant from the heavenly drawing board than I had remembered.
‘I … was er, I was just … Borrowing a book, don’t you know.’
There was the sound of the old bubbling brook going over the well-tuned harp, which would no doubt have delighted in other circumstances.
‘I can’t explain now,’ I went on. ‘I’m helping a chum. It’s all in a good cause, I promise you.’
‘I didn’t even know you were in Dorset. You should have telephoned.’
‘Pointless in the circs.’ Suddenly, I remembered my manners. ‘Dash it, Georgiana, it’s awfully nice to see you. How are you, old thing?’
With some difficulty, I reinserted the whole of the person into the library, intending to offer a peck on the cheek. Unfortunately, I caught my toe on the edge of the sill as I touched down, and this made me trip and pretty much stumble into the poor girl, with Burke and Debrett heading off their several ways.
We brushed ourselves down a bit and I apologised for having cannoned into her like an open-side rugby forward, ‘Don’t worry, Bertie. At least you didn’t actually floor me this time.’
‘Absolutely. Anyway, I’d best be off. Books to read, don’t you know.’