Jeeves shimmered up with a cup of tea for Woody.
‘It may be bulletproof to the heavyweight on the door of the Pink Owl in Brewer Street,’ I said, ‘but not to a raving snob like old Hackwood.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ said Woody. ‘He’s going to look him up in—’
I held up a hand for silence, then broke the good news.
‘I say, that was quick work,’ said Woody. ‘Both books safely out of sight?’
‘Think nothing of it, young Woody. Now you’d better brief his lordship here,’ I said, nodding towards Jeeves, ‘about the Hackwood ménage – subjects to steer clear of, buttons to push and so forth.’
In short – though it was far from short in the oratory of Gray’s Inn – the set-up was as follows: Sir Henry Hackwood was a peppery old cove whose main interests were horseflesh, cricket and hanging on to his house. Lady Hackwood was his glacial consort, someone whose manner apparently made the Arctic Circle look balmy and who was deeply disappointed by the turn of financial events. Amelia and Georgiana completed the home team. The visitors included Georgiana’s intended, R. Venables – who must have been the lean party I glimpsed through the drawing-room window – and his parents.
‘Sir Henry’s keen to get the parents onside for obvious reasons,’ said Woody. ‘So he’s rather pushing the boat out for them. You may remember the father. They call him “Vishnu” Venables because he’s always going on about his time in India. He bores for Bengal. He made those two speeches when his daughter married Reggie Wentworth.’
‘Golly,’ I said, ‘was that him? I’d forgotten Reggie’s bride was a Venables. I knew the name rang a bell.’
Reggie Wentworth was an Oxford chum whose wedding reception had been at Claridge’s a couple of years back. The old family friend who was billed to recall bouncing the bride on his knee as a child had cried off sick, so the father took it on himself. But himself was also what he talked about. There was no mention of Reggie and scant reference to the bride. What there was, on the other hand, was twenty minutes of the achievements of Sidney ‘Vishnu’ Venables as Collector of Chanamasala and how the Viceroy had told the Governor of Uttar Pradesh that S. Venables was the finest thing to have come out of England since the Thames at Tilbury – and a great deal more in this vein. The audience had given him a warmish, if baffled, hand as he sat down. But blow me down if ten minutes later he didn’t spring up on to the stage and call us to order so he could have a second innings, including, if I remembered right, details of his exam results at Oxford.
‘And what’s Mrs Venables like?’ I asked. ‘Apart from long-suffering?’
‘Almost silent,’ said Woody. ‘She looks like a large cat. She smiles and purrs, but seldom speaks.’
A thought came to me. ‘By the way, Woody, are you sure you can a keep a straight face when Jeeves sits down to dinner with you?’
‘Of course I can.’
‘Might I suggest, sir,’ said Jeeves, ‘that since Miss Meadowes is already aware of Mr Wooster’s presence in the village that it would be a good idea for you to inform Miss Hackwood of the true nature of the situation? One would not wish the young lady to betray surprise at any future turn of events.’
‘All right,’ said Woody. ‘I suppose the whole thing’s my fault anyway. I’ll tell Amelia that Lord Etringham is an imposter and not to be startled if she bumps into some prize lunatic in the village. She knows Bertie by reputation anyway.’
I allowed this slur to pass, and it was a somewhat reassured Woody who made his way off some minutes later to prepare for the wassail, while Jeeves and I repaired inside to consider the delicate question of what he should be wearing.
He was got up in a pretty convincing combination of his and my evening clothes when I shoved him into the old two-seater at the cocktail hour and waved him off Hallwards.
As the car disappeared from sight, I felt a sharp sensation in the pit of the stomach. For a moment I thought it was an unwelcome revisitation of the ham sandwich from lunchtime, but then I thought it might be something else that was giving me the gripe. Could it conceivably be the idea that it was ‘Lord Etringham’ and not Wooster, B. who would be dining with, and very possibly sitting next to, Georgiana Meadowes?
Turning on my heel and re-entering Seaview Cottage, I dismissed the thought as unworthy and put my mind to the question of how best to reconcile Amelia Hackwood to the worthy case of P. Beeching, barrister-at-law.
WHATEVER COURSE DINNER might be taking at Melbury Hall – and the possibilities made the head spin a bit – I felt it important to keep my own strength up for what lay ahead, so soon after eight I sallied out in search of sustenance. The Red Lion was a four-ale bar with a handful of low-browed sons of toil who looked as though they might be related to one another in ways frowned on by the Old Testament. The Hare and Hounds, a hundred yards further up the road, at least had a saloon where the traveller could feel he wasn’t dropping in on some Saxon blood feud. I was soon settled into a window seat with a pint of local ale and plateful of hot steak and kidney p. The Mystery of the Gabled House helped beguile the hour, and it was a contented B. Wooster who ambled back to Seaview Cottage inhaling the whiff of hawthorn from the hedgerows.