The
Case of the Missing Valet Chapter Five |
When I lived in New York, I came across all sorts of writer chappies and
other artistic sorts, so I knew dashed well that although I’d grown up reading
his books, I didn’t know the real Doctor John H. Watson from the proverbial h.
in the g.; more awkward circumstances under which to get to know the real man
could not reasonably be found. It came as a pleasant surprise, then, that the
actual man couldn’t have been kinder or more ready to make a chap at ease. While Mr. Holmes sat in the front seat of my roadster with a
frighteningly Aunt Agatha-like expression on his face, Dr. Watson and I loaded
up the car. He patted the hood. “This is a beautiful machine, Mr. Wooster. It’s a
Gwynne-Albert, isn’t it? Same aluminium body, but I see they’ve added front-wheel
brakes. May I have a look at the engine? Ah, excellent, they’ve kept the
overhead valves, but enlarged it a fair bit … how many ccs?” “Nineteen hundred forty-four,” I answered proudly. “I say, you know your
cars!” “The doctor is an enthusiast,” Mr. Holmes said a little coldly, and I
thought I recognized the tone; it’s the same one my Aunt Dahlia uses when
referring to Uncle Tom’s silver collection or his firearms. I smiled a bit at
the comparison until I remembered that these two didn’t have much time
together, and my heart grew cold at the thought. “Is there something wrong, Mr. Wooster?” the doctor asked kindly. “Oh, no, no,” I said quickly, and then another thought hit me. “Would
you like to drive?” “You’re too kind, Mr. Wooster,” the doctor said, grinning. “It’s a pleasure to indulge a fellow enthusiast,” I told him airily,
sliding into the back seat behind the great detective. At least I would be
spared his eagle eye upon the journey. I usually don’t like riding in the back of the car, but it was well
worth seeing these two old coves happy as larks as they drove down the
coastline, nattering away as if they hadn’t a care in the world. For a while I
listened to their talk – mostly about places I hadn’t been and people long
dead, although Dr. Watson kept making an effort to bring me into the
conversation – but soon I found myself dozing off, my mind on the most
wonderful morning of my life, not two weeks ago. I have long grown used to waking slowly, at about eleven or ten, and
having my man waiting at my bedside with a piping hot cuppa all ready for me. I
am surprised, therefore, to find myself awake at seven by the bedside clock,
and even more surprised to find myself in a different bed. I sit up, looking
around me in confusion. This is Jeeves’ room. I’ve only been in here a few times, but I
recognize it readily enough, even though the pictures have been taken down and
the bookshelves are empty. His trunks sit at the foot of the bed, unpacked
slightly, and I stare blankly at them, wondering why I am in my valet’s bed and
why it looks like he is moving out before I remember the events of last night.
I blush heavily, remembering how he drank not only from the fountain of my
lips, but also from a less mentionable part of my anatomy, and when I recall
the look on his face as he let go and poured himself into me – quite literally
– I find myself trembling with emotion, wondering how soon we can do it all
again. Just as I’ve started to wonder whether I should get up or roll over and
try for a few more hours of shuteye, Jeeves shimmers in with the tea-tray, just
as if I was in my own bed and it was my regular time to wake rather than some
god-awful hour of the day. He pours me out a cup as usual, but then pours himself one as well, and
without a word, snuggles into bed with me, handing me my cup with a kiss upon
my cheek. It is only then that I notice that the man is not in his usual suit,
but only wearing the bottoms of a pair of pyjamas, the tops of which seem to be
adorning the Wooster form. A discreet wriggle of my hips reminds me that I am
clad in nothing else, but this does not seem to concern my gentleman’s
gentleman, who sits down next to me, propped up with a pillow, sipping at his
tea as if it were the most natural thing for us to be sharing not only a bed
but a single set of pyjamas. There is something else different about the man, but I am having a hard
time concentrating, what with Jeeves’ bare chest distracting me so sweetly. Now
that I can remember the exertions of the evening, I recall how soft those dark
curls of hair were, and how delightful it was to burrow into that chest as his
strong arms encircled me round, keeping me warm and safe all night long. We still have not spoken, and there seems to be no need for speech as we
both put aside our cups and roll to face each other, our mouths meeting in a
delicious Darjeeling-flavoured embrace. As I run my fingers through his hair, I
realize what it is that is different. “You’ve left the lime-cream out of your hair,” I murmur in between
kisses. “I like it that way.” He nuzzles me tenderly, chuckling a little. It’s strange and wonderful
to see the man’s face when he laughs; his eyes light up brightly, accented by
beautiful crinkles at the corners, and his whole face is so beautiful that I
find myself kissing every bit of it I can. I remember from last night that his
neck is particularly sensitive, and I begin nibbling at it, and am rewarded by
a decidedly un-Jeeves-like moan. We continue this pleasant diversion for some time before my stomach
starts complaining. I try to ignore it for as long as I can, but soon the
growling becomes loud enough for people on the ground floor to hear, and Jeeves
pulls back, touching my cheek with a smile that makes me feel as soppy as
Madeline Basset. “Shall I cook breakfast, si—Bertram?” Apparently, I’m not the only one
who’s having a hard time getting used to this. It only takes me a minute to
know that although I shall look forward to having this man cook me breakfast
for the rest of my life (what wonderful shivers at that thought!), I do not
want him acting like my servant, not this morning. “I should learn how to cook,” I say. “Then we could take turns, what?” Jeeves smiles again. “Your sense of equality does you justice, Bertram,
but I do not mind providing this morning’s repast.” “Well, I’ll come down to the kitchen with you,” I say. “Then you can
show me how it’s done, at least.” “That is very kind of you.” “Actually, I’m being totally selfish, Jeeves. I don’t want to quit your
side, is all.” This remark earns me another chuckle as he draws me into his
arms. I’ve never been the sort of chap to think about all that bedroom stuff
before, but last night was an education in itself, and Jeeves is an excellent
teacher. I do my best to show him exactly how much I’ve learned as we roll
around upon the bed a while, but soon my stomach starts complaining again, and
we pull apart, laughing. Reluctantly we leave the bed and pull on some clothes
(Jeeves has brought in a suit for me and makes quite a production of kissing my
chest in between each button he does up), before toddling over to the kitchen. Our first meal together as lovers is an informal affair, partly because
yesterday’s folderol interfered with Jeeves’ usual marketing day, but mostly
because I keep distracting him for “just one more” kiss. I’d always thought
that line about kisses sweeter than wine was so much rot, but I find I can’t
get enough of the man’s lips. When he actually burns the first round of eggs,
however, I am sternly told to sit still and let him cook. In fact, he – “I said, Mr. Wooster, which way now?” the stern voice jolted me out of
my reverie, and I flinched to see Sherlock Holmes shooting me another Aunt
Agatha look over his shoulder. “The boy’s an idiot, I tell you,” he said to his
companion. “Not everyone can be a genius, Holmes,” the doctor sighed, pulling the
car over to the side of the road. “Which way, Mr. Wooster?” It took me a moment to get my bearings, during which time Mr. Holmes
kept shooting me progressively nastier looks. “The left road will take us to Totleigh Towers,” I said, “but everyone’s
probably at the church in the village, that is, for the wedding.” “That would be the marriage of Lord Sidcup to Madeline Basset,” Mr.
Holmes remarked. “Their second go at it, yes. The first ceremony never got off the
ground.” “I remember reading about it in the society page,” Dr. Watson said, as
he put the car in gear once more. “Wasn’t there some sort of plumbing
accident?” “Unfortunately, yes. They blamed me at the time, which is ridiculous,
because I want to make sure la Basset gets married off as soon as possible.” “And why does it matter to you whether or not Miss Basset marries?” Mr.
Holmes frowned. “Because the poor kid has gotten it into her head that I’m hopelessly in
love with her,” I explained. “She thinks I caused the sewage explosion at the
church to stop her wedding, you see, and if she doesn’t marry someone else,
she’ll marry me by way of a last resort.” “Really? What is wrong with the girl?” “Nothing’s wrong with her. She’s just a little soppy, that’s all.” “Hmmm. And yet she prefers the prospect of marriage to you rather than,
say, entrance into a convent or even a lonely spinsterhood? Absolutely
incredible.” “Holmes!” “I’m just trying to understand the boy, Watson.” Even I knew better to answer this, and we drove the rest of the way in
silence. The first thing I noticed when we got to Totleigh Towers was that
there seemed to be quite a few extra people milling about on the front lawn,
upcoming nuptials or no. The second thing I noticed was that quite a few of the
extra people seemed to be policemen, which definitely didn’t fit in with the
wedding theme. When we stepped out of the car and a hysterical Madeline Basset dove
screaming into my arms, I knew there was trouble afoot. However, with all these warnings staring me in the face, I still didn’t
realize I was the one in the soup until Sir Watkyn Basset, red-faced with
anger, strode toward me, with several of Britain’s finest trailing along behind
him. “This is the man, officers!” he barked, pointing at me. “Arrest him at
once.” Holmes stepped in between me and the advancing squad. “I wish to know on
what charge my client is to be arrested,” he said quietly. “Your client?” Sir Watkyn growled. “And just who, sir, are you?” “My name is Sherlock Holmes.” It was as if I’d just stepped into a novel by Rosie Banks, right at the
part where the humble but dashingly handsome hero reveals himself to be the
Duke of Somesuch-or-Other. The policemen snapped to attention, the guests stood
open-mouthed in shock, and Sir Watkyn’s eyes grew wide as his jaw dropped to
his chest. Even Madeline stopped her blubbing and wheeled around, gaping at Mr.
Holmes as he turned to the policemen. “Which of you is the officer in charge?” he asked calmly. A serious-looking chap stepped forward. “I’m Detective-Inspector Bowes,
CID,” he said with a salute. “It’s an honour to meet you, sir. I’ll do whatever
I can to assist you in your investigation.” Mr. Holmes flashed the man an odd flicker of a smile; if I’d blinked, I
would have missed it. Considering that it was the first time I’d seen the man
smile, I thought it a very poor showing, indeed. “That is very kind of you,
Inspector Bowes,” he said, “but in fact, I do not wish to interfere in your
investigation. Mr. Wooster engaged me for a completely different matter than
the murder which brought you here.” “Hold on a moment!” Sir Watkyn snapped. “If Wooster engaged you for
something different, then exactly how do you come to know there’s been a
murder? We didn’t discover the body until this morning, and I threw that
wastrel off the estate before supper last night, so he must have –” “In fact, Sir Watkyn,” Mr. Holmes interrupted coolly, “it was an
elementary deduction that led me to the conclusion that Lord Sidcup has been
murdered. Any idiot could see –” “Sidcup is dead?” I gasped. “Don’t you dare feign ignorance, Wooster!” Sir Watkyn shrieked, shaking
a finger at me. “I’ll see you hanged before I see you married to my daughter!” Madeline erupted into a fresh torrent of sobbing, collapsing into the
arms of a nearby constable. I looked at her and considered that while hanging
sounded like a rum go, at least it would be over quickly. “Exactly when did the murder take place?” Mr. Holmes asked. “We haven’t had a post-mortem done yet,” Inspector Bowes admitted. “But
if you and Doctor Watson would be so kind as to come into the ice-house –” “You mean you moved the body prior to post-mortem?” Dr. Watson frowned. Mr. Holmes favoured his friend with a grim smile. “I’m sure our young
friend here has been taught the proper forensic methods, old friend; after all,
your text is the standard for that subject at the Yard. No, he has not moved
the body. In fact,” he continued, “the ice house is where the murder took
place, am I right, Inspector?” “Either Wooster’s confessed to you, or you are the devil himself!” Sir
Watkyn yelped. Mr. Holmes turned to him, scowling heartily. “It was not any infernal
knowledge,” he said in a stony voice, “but rather the wet sawdust upon the
knees of no less than three constables’ uniforms that informed me of the murder
site. Now, Sir Watkyn, as the owner of this estate, you may either aid or
inhibit the Inspector’s search for the truth; however, if you truly wish to
discover who killed Lord Sidcup, you will allow me to collaborate with the
inspector unimpeded by your unhelpful and prejudicial comments directed toward
my client.” Sir Watkyn huffed a little at this, crossing his arms. “You still haven’t
told us why Wooster has retained your services.” “Certainly that is between Mr. Wooster and me.” Sir Watkyn’s frown deepened. “It’s about his bloody missing valet, isn’t
it? The boy’s lost without him; the fellow’s more like his nursemaid than a
manservant. In any case, it’s obvious why he left,” he sneered. “Everyone knows
now that he’s Lord Cheltenham’s bastard; most likely the man has crept away in
shame. There always was something shifty about that one,” he finished in a low
voice. Mr. Holmes greeted this remark with a look that went beyond even Aunt
Agatha’s capacity for sheer disdain. This time, Sir Watkyn withered under the
man’s glare, eventually stammering an apology directed mostly at his feet. Sherlock Holmes turned to Inspector Bowes. “Shall we proceed to the scene of the murder? I’m sure the good doctor would like to inspect the body as soon as possible.” |
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