Jeeves and the Wedding Bells(24)

‘Come and sit yourself down, Mr Wilberforce. Don’t be a stranger,’ said Mrs Tilman.

I did as I was told, and found myself between some sort of charwoman and a short, stumpy fellow with a face like a church gargoyle whom I took to be Hoad, the emergency footman.

‘I wouldn’t eat them kidneys if I was you,’ he said. ‘Filthy stuff that is.’

This view being widely shared, I was the only taker. I have always been partial to the dish, though it’s one I only seem to come across when staying with people. Mrs Padgett’s had plenty of devil to them.

‘What’s Lord Etringham’s plans today, then?’ said Mrs Tilman. ‘Keeping you busy, is he?’

‘His lordship has told me he will be spending a quiet day reading,’ I said. Then, thinking this sounded rather feeble, I added, ‘But he may need me to accompany him to the bookmaker this afternoon.’

‘You’ll be needing to go to Dorchester then. He’s quite a one for the gee-gees, isn’t he?’ said Mrs Tilman.

‘Oh, rather, yes. Never happier than when he’s standing by the rail with a pair of bins clamped to his face.’

‘He’ll be putting some money on for Sir Henry, I expect.’

‘Yes, I shouldn’t wonder. Don’t change a winning team, what.’

While the table was being cleared, I saw an opportunity and turned to Mrs Tilman. ‘If Lord Etringham wanted a private word with Miss Hackwood at some point today, have you any idea when and where might be suitable?’

Mrs Tilman smiled. ‘She’s a bundle of energy, Miss Amelia. You never quite know where she’s going to be. Except at three o’clock.’

‘What happens then?’ I said, quick as you like.

‘That’s when she has her tennis lesson. Gentleman comes over from Blandford Forum. County player he was. Twice a week. Other days she tries to get Miss Georgiana to play. Trouble is, she’s too good, Miss Amelia. She always wins. But Miss Georgiana’s a good sport about it.’

‘She’s a jolly good sport about everything,’ said Hoad.

‘Too much for her own good if you ask me,’ Mrs Padgett chipped in.

‘That Mr Vegetables is a lucky man,’ said Hoad.

‘Mr Venables,’ corrected Bicknell.

‘’Im being forty if he’s a day and all,’ Hoad went on. ‘You ever tried reading one of them books of ’is?’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Tilman, rather to my surprise. ‘I’m halfway through By Tramcar to Toledo.’

‘By Penny-farthing to Piddletrenthide’s where I’d like to see ’im go.’

A shadow fell across the table. Bicknell had risen to his feet. ‘That’s quite enough, Hoad. We don’t gossip about Sir Henry’s guests. You’ve got plenty of work to do. Get started on it, please. We don’t want another Liddle in this house.’

‘All right, Mr Bicknell. Wait yer hurry. Just finishing me tea.’

Tearing myself away from this badinage, I headed upstairs to my cell, there to tidy things up a bit and nerve myself for the three o’clock showdown with Amelia. I was more than ever convinced that a bit of gossamer-light flirtation would lift the scales from her eyes as far as old Woody was concerned. And if that didn’t do the trick, I was prepared, as Jeeves had put it, to buy for one.

What I was not prepared for was the exact nature of the beast – if I may refer to Amelia in that way. While I’d given Jeeves a fair bit of guff about the psychology of the individual, it had not occurred to me that there was one piece of the jigsaw missing – viz., that I had never actually met the individual in question. The female of the species is not only deadlier than the m., it’s also a jolly sight rummier. No amount of theory can ever prepare one for the true extent of that rumminess. I remember the talk given to us half-dozen leavers by my housemaster at Eton on the evening of our final day at school. The wisdom with which he wished to send us out to face the world could be boiled down to three things, he said. First: Never trust a man who keeps billiard chalk in his waistcoat pocket. Second … I seem to have forgotten the second. But the third was, Women are queer cattle. A disrespectful titter had passed among those present, but experience had taught me that the old pedagogue knew whereof he spake.

I had discovered from Jeeves that he would be driving the two-seater to the bookies’ at Dorchester with his new best friend Sir Henry Hackwood in the dickey rather than with yesterday’s news, yours truly. Hurtful, of course, but it freed me for some preparatory work. After an hour scouting out the territory, I had selected an excellent spot for my chance encounter with Amelia. And it happened – as the chap in the Bible says – on this wise.