The old dear read the message and began to shake her head. Then she peered at me in a way I have grown used to over the years: as though I had been licensed for day release from some corrective institution, but only by a majority vote.
‘Oh, and in the second one, though, change “Stiffy” to “Corky”. Otherwise Esmond’ll think I’m off my chump.’
‘Then I’ll send them off, shall I? As they are?’
‘Yes, though maybe in the first one also say, “No Bartholomew, thanks”. Stiffy’s Aberdeen terrier, you see. He bites first, asks questions later. Be an absolute menace on the pitch.’
‘And that one’s for the Rectory, Totleigh-in-the-Wold?’
‘Spot on. For the return, put Etringham, Melbury Hall.’
Leaving the good woman to her telegraphing, I strode out in the sunshine; and there being little to detain me in the village, I made my way back to the Hall, found Jeeves and told him to expect some telegrams.
By noon, the first bicyclist was coming up the drive. Lord Etringham was poised at the receipt of custom, or more accurately in the porch, between a couple of hefty Egyptian urns. ‘BERTIE YOU ASS WILL BE THERE STOP NO STIFFY WITHOUT BARTHOLOMEW STOP YEARS SINCE BATTED REGARDS HP.’
An hour later came tidings from Deverill Hall. Esmond Haddock sounded delighted, as I had foreseen, to be spared the company of his aunts for a day or so. ‘RUSTY BUT WILLING STOP REGRET CORKY IN HOLLYWOOD STOP TALLY-HO! WHY MUST I NOT KNOW YOU? REGARDS ESMOND’.
I gave the post office till half-past two to reopen after lunch, then sent the following to Harold ‘Stinker’ Pinker. ‘MUCH REGRET MUST BE INFLEXIBLE ON DOG EVEN IF NO STIFFY AS RESULT STOP LUNCHEON AT TWELVE FORTY-FIVE STOP YOU OPENING BATTING WITH VISHNU VENABLES EX COLLECTOR CHANAMASALA STOP REGARDS WOOSTER.’
To Esmond, I cabled: ‘WOULD TAKE TOO LONG TO EXPLAIN WHY NOT KNOW ME STOP BETRAY NO SURPRISE IF YOU FIND ME IN UNLIKELY ROLE STOP WOOSTER’.
The elderly female did a bit more head-shaking as she bent to her task.
Since Jeeves had gone off in the two-seater to construct his wager of many parts with Dorchester’s answer to Honest Sid Levy, I thought I might try and catch a moment or two of shuteye in the third floor back. It was with some surprise that I discovered an envelope sticking out from under my door.
‘Mr Wilberforce’ was written on it in what they call an educated hand – by which I suppose they mean it was clearly not the work of Liddle, Hoad or any rude mechanical. Inside was a folded sheet of Melbury Hall paper on which the same elegant hand had written in blue ink: ‘Mr W, Knowing how busy you have been – and perhaps unfamiliar with the servants’ eating hours – I have left a small picnic lunch, including a half-bottle, on the bench in the sunken garden, far from prying eyes. Do enjoy it if you can find time.’ It was signed with an illegible hieroglyph, or cuneiform, perhaps – though I had no intention of consulting on that particular point.
It’s true that I had been at the post office when the other servants took an early lunch; true also that Mrs Padgett had dug out a knob of cheddar for the latecomer, but, while moderation is the Wooster watchword where any form of refreshment is concerned, it had been a busy day and I felt I could squeeze in a little more. The advantage of this sunken garden was that it was far from lawn-tennis court, rockery or anywhere else I was likely to encounter enemy shipping.
I approached via the greenhouse, cold frames and asparagus beds, through a rustic gate. On a wrought-iron bench sat a wicker basket with a sprig of wild flowers on top. From this last touch I deduced – being pretty quick at these things – that my benefactor was female. Inside, the half-bot was a loosely recorked red of a most fruity provenance; the solids included a wedge of veal-and-ham pie that could have jammed open the west doors of Salisbury Cathedral.
A satisfactory ten minutes later, I was just lighting a cigarette when I heard a contralto voice with a warmish timbre say, ‘Ah, Wilberforce, I thought I might find you here.’
I leapt to my feet and saw Georgiana in a straw hat, carrying a trug and a pair of secateurs.
‘Ah! What ho! Doing some pruning, what?’
Not exactly Mark Antony, I admit, nor even Beeching, P., but I hadn’t been expecting company.
She looked down at the contents of her hands, as though remembering. ‘Yes … Ah, yes, absolutely. Pruning. How was the picnic?’
‘Top-hole. Very sustaining.’
‘Mrs Padgett does make a good pie. You should try her steak and kidney.’
‘I intend to. Cigarette?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Looking forward to the game tomorrow?’