‘Will there be anything else, sir? Shall I put out your golfing clothes?’
The prospect of hacking through the Surrey heather looking vainly for the stray white pill had suddenly lost its allure.
‘This is no time for the plus-fours.’
‘As you wish, sir. A gentleman called an hour ago to see you, but I told him you were not to be disturbed. A Mr Beeching, sir. He said he would return at eleven.’
‘Good God, not “Woody” Beeching?’
‘He did not confide his first name, sir.’
‘Tallish chap, eyes like a hawk?’
‘There was a suggestion of the accipitrine, sir.’
From infancy, Peregrine ‘Woody’ Beeching and I had been pretty much blood brothers – from the first day at private school to the last commem ball at Oxford. Our parents had been the best of friends, and as a youthful partnership Woody and I had seen more scrapes than a barber’s strop. I have been lucky with my pals over the years, but I doubt that any had been more like a brother to me than this Beeching.
‘Good old Woody,’ I said. ‘Is he still a bundle of nerves?’
‘The gentleman did appear a trifle agitated, sir.’
I laughed – a merry but a brief one, as I glanced back to the tea-stained copy of the morning newspaper. ‘What brought him here?’
‘He came to seek my advice, sir.’
This struck me as odd, since Woody, while prone to fretting, is not short of the grey matter. Since coming down from university he had made himself a considerable living at the Chancery Bar and was not the sort of man to be found short of an answer – and often more than one, I gathered, when faced by their lordships’ fire from the bench.
‘You intrigue me, Jeeves.’
‘I believe the issue is a sensitive one, sir. As you know, Mr Beeching is engaged to be married to Miss Amelia Hackwood and one suspects that the path of true love has encountered some anfractuosity. However, Mr Beeching felt it improper to say more until he had properly renewed his acquaintance with yourself, sir.’
‘Quite right, too.’ I consulted the bedside clock. I had time enough to wash, shave and ready myself for the day before Woody returned. Pausing only to stipulate the eggs poached and the bacon well done, I sprang from the place of slumber and headed sluicewards with all speed.
It was a fragrant if pensive Bertram who at the appointed hour opened the door to his old friend Peregrine ‘Woody’ Beeching.
‘Ah, good afternoon, Bertie. Bit of an adventure for you being up at this hour,’ said Woody, sending his hat with a carefree toss in Jeeves’s general direction.
‘I’ve been up for some time,’ I informed him coolly. ‘I have something on my mind.’
Woody raised an eyebrow and made a visible effort to bite something back – a witticism, no doubt, at my expense.
‘Good heavens,’ he said as we went into the drawing room. ‘Are you wearing side-whiskers? Or are you going to a costume ball as Billy the Kid?’
‘All the fellows on the Côte d’Azur had them this spring,’ I said. ‘I’ll wager you’ll be wearing a pair yourself by August.’
‘Not unless I want to look like Soapy Sid and lose my entire practice at the Bar. What does Jeeves think of them?’
‘His view is of no consequence to me,’ I said airily. ‘I have not sought it.’
After a bit more of this banter, Woody got down to business. ‘The thing is, Bertie, the reason I needed to consult you, or rather your excellent manservant is … Well, it’s a bit sensitive.’
I glanced up at Jeeves, who had slipped back into the room after the old pals’ catching-up was done and now stood like an attentive gun dog awaiting the command to fetch.
‘Woody,’ I said. ‘Remember who you’re confiding in. Graves are garrulous, tombs talkative when compared to me. Is that not so, Jeeves?’
‘Your discretion has frequently been remarked upon, sir.’
Woody heaved a big one. ‘It involves a woman.’
‘My lips are sealed.’
‘Three women in fact.’
‘Even more sealed.’
‘Her name … Oh, dash it, I may as well make a clean breast of it … is Amelia Hackwood.’
‘Woody, old chap, this is hardly news. Your engagement was in the paper.’
‘Well, it isn’t any more. I mean, Amelia’s broken it off.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Woody.’
‘I knew you would be, Bertie. The trouble is …’
‘Get it off your chest, old man.’
‘Amelia is the sweetest girl who ever drew breath. I worship the grass beneath her plimsolls, the dance floor beneath her evening slippers, the—’