Jeeves and the Wedding Bells(54)

At private school in Bramley-on-Sea, I used to have a Tuesday rendezvous at midnight on just such a fire escape with a boy in a different dormitory – a freckled lad called Newcome, who later took holy orders. These moonlit shindigs over shared tuck were brought to an abrupt end by the slipper of the Rev. Aubrey Upjohn, but it was with something of this youthful sense of adventure that I mounted the fire escape at Melbury Hall.

It was a solid piece of work, a credit to the ironmonger. It neither squeaked nor wobbled. I averted my eyes from what I took to be the Hackwood boudoir, climbed another floor and turned to survey the scene of which I was monarch. There in the moonlight I could make out the gazebo in the rose garden, and beyond it the rising ground of the deer park. I crept to the corner of the house and along the south front to Georgiana’s room, where the light still burned.

Not wishing to startle the dear girl, I knocked softly. I listened hard, but there was no response. I rapped a little louder. Still nothing. I had not thought Georgiana to be so hard of hearing. Then I gave it all I’d got and was rewarded by a muffled shriek, the sound of movement from within, and finally a pulling back of curtains.

I shall never forget the face that met mine through the glass. At first I thought I had seen a ghost, or revenant. The skin was ghastly white; the hairstyle owed plenty to the quills upon a fretful porpentine. The overall expression was that of a Gorgon or Medusa. For what seemed an hour I stood transfixed; but it probably took no more than a second for the Wooster brain, relaxed as it was by the liquid contents of Sir Henry’s ottoman, to register that the apparition was Dame Judith Puxley, readied for the night in thick cold cream and curling papers.

Acting of their own accord, the lower limbs whisked me away without demur and up the fire escape. I heard the window being raised but was already one floor higher, beneath the stone parapet – over which I clambered on to a flattish piece of roof.

‘Who’s there?’ the old vixen called.

I feared more activity in the house and determined to press on across the rooftops to the relative safety of the servants’ side of things. From this great height I could hear nothing of what commotion might be going on beneath, but I was taking no chances. The roofing arrangement of Melbury Hall was complicated. I knew it had been an especially painful drain on Sir Henry’s resources and the roofers had left ample evidence of their visit: pieces of timber, dust sheets and nails – to say nothing of cigarette ends and empty bottles – lay among the broken slates.

As I made my way through the debris, up one pitch and down another into a flat gulley, I had a sudden brainwave. I was still in full evening dress and was therefore unlikely to be taken for a cat burglar: even a distant sighting would confirm an inside job. I therefore grabbed an abandoned dust sheet and wrapped it round the person, tucking it under my collar so no one could make out the dinner jacket.

Just as I thought I was above my own bedroom, a bright light caught me momentarily from below. I ducked down, crawled to the edge and gave it a minute or two. All was quiet. A cast-iron drainpipe seemed to have my name on it. With an agility bred from years of climbing back into my Oxford college, I swung on to it and slid down to where my window, propped open against the sunny day, allowed me a handhold. I clambered aboard, dropped on to the welcome floor and quickly disrobed. With the dust sheet stowed beneath the bed, I was well pyjama-ed by the time footsteps and voices were heard on the back staircase.

It was an indignant visiting valet who appeared a minute later at his door and demanded to know what the infernal noise was about.

Breakfast the following morning was later than usual, but a good deal more animated. I had told Jeeves about the events of the night when I took him up his tea, but I need hardly have bothered since he had already come to the conclusion that there was only one candidate for the role of rooftop intruder wrapped in a builder’s dust sheet.

I was not required in the dining room, but Bicknell brought back regular reports to Mrs Padgett, Mrs Tilman and me. It seemed that Georgiana had convinced Sir Henry that she had surprised a burglar in the library when she went in to find a book to take up to bed. To hinder the pursuit, the intruder had locked the door into the hall before making good his escape. All were agreed that it was a relief Georgiana hadn’t tried to tackle the fellow, who was described as large and of repellent aspect. There was no question of telephoning the police since the line was still out of action.

‘Why did Miss Meadowes want to see you earlier, Mr Wilberforce?’ said Bicknell, plonking down an emptied salver.

‘She wanted me to … to ask my advice about something.’