Jeeves and the Wedding Bells(63)

‘I know, sir. I found it most gratifying.’

‘You mean that after all these years something must be rubbing off?’

‘I was always given to believe that one’s education did not finish with the closing of the school gate, sir.’

‘So this moment represents a … What’s that thing on a mountain top where one drop of rain goes to the Pacific and one to the Mediterranean?’

‘A watershed, sir.’

‘That’s the chap. Here’s to watersheds, Jeeves. Next left, isn’t it?’

Having lunched in London, there was no need to revisit the Death’s Head at Darston, though we were making such good time that we did stop at a rather fine converted manor house near Blandford Forum for a cup of tea and an egg-and-cress sandwich.

‘I’m rather looking forward to this, Jeeves,’ I said. ‘I have a feeling things are all going to work out just fine and dandy.’

‘The news about Mr Beeching and Miss Hackwood is certainly encouraging, sir.’

‘Yes, and I’m sure Venables will see sense. They’ll be very happy together. We’ll say no more about that idiotic idea of yours that Georgiana had – what did you call them?’

‘Feelings, sir.’

‘Yes. Imagine! She would have tried to improve me. It would have been worse than Florence Craye. I’d have been forced to go to concerts by Stravinsky.’

‘Not necessarily, sir. When Dame Judith brought up his name once at dinner, Miss Meadowes affected to believe he was a member of the Politburo.’

‘Still, better off as we are.’

‘As you wish, sir.’

It was shortly after six when the two-seater, with Lord Etringham now at the wheel, turned off the high street of Kingston St Giles and into the lime-tree avenue that led to Melbury Hall. Mrs Tilman was at the tradesmen’s entrance, as though she had been listening for the sound of a car; to my embarrassment she welcomed me with a peck on the cheek.

Being back so soon felt pretty odd – like returning unexpectedly to school only five days after you’d signed off for the summer hols. You somehow imagine that such establishments cease to exist when you wave a cheery goodbye in July, rematerialising only in time for the new boys’ tea in late September. I went meekly to my quarters, an old lag who knows the ropes, and was surprised to find a small pot of wild flowers on the table. Something about the bed looked different, too. I gave it a tentative prod. All clear. I gingerly lowered the posterior. To my surprise, I was not impaled, but sank an inch – and then some. Whipping back the bedclothes, I saw that someone had laid a sort of over-mattress on top of the old fakir’s palliasse.

I was wondering whether I should take the early dinner with my fellow servants or if I could face another solitary evening at the Hare and Hounds when there came a knock at the door. It was Bicknell.

‘Mr Wilberforce, I’m afraid I shall have to call on you for an extra pair of hands again.’

‘Hoad?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘He’s not much use to you, is he?’

‘It was a temporary appointment. I don’t think it’s going to be made permanent. He’s not reliable.’

I had a sudden thought. What could make a chap have funny turns, be both sluggish and impetuous, then liverish? I made a gesture with my right hand to suggest the raising of a substantial glass.

Bicknell nodded, gravely. ‘He was discovered flat out in the cucumber frames at teatime. Mrs Tilman tried to revive him with a glass of water. She got him on his feet but then he started singing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”.’

‘So he’s trampled out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored,’ I said, aiming for the light touch.

It didn’t wash. Bicknell’s face was impassive. ‘He’s locked in the stable. He won’t be let out till morning.’

‘Won’t he frighten the horses?’

‘He’s on his own. He’s in Jude the Obscure’s box.’

‘And where’s Jude the Obscure?’

‘He’s standing at Newton Abbot.’

‘Well, jolly good luck to him. And to the mares. I hope they don’t have gloomy foals.’

Bicknell turned to leave, then stopped in the doorway. ‘Hoad said he found a half-burnt builder’s dust sheet near the cold frames.’

‘In the bonfire area?’ I asked airily. ‘I mean, that’s where it got burnt, I expect?’

‘Yes. Odd, don’t you think?’

‘Not really. Messy chaps, builders.’

Bicknell gave me a long, hard stare. A lesser man, I dare say, might have flinched or looked away. Not Bertram, though.