more.’
‘Which was?’
‘The Turf, sir. I shared with him some information I had gathered about the field in the three-thirty at Ascot tomorrow. A friend of mine at the Junior Ganymede has a brother who works at a well-known Lambourn stables.’
‘So you gave him a hot tip?’
‘I was in a position to make a number of recommendations, sir.’
‘And he was grateful?’
‘Sir Henry was already well informed, but we seemed to strike up a considerable rapport. He asked Bicknell, the butler, to bring up his last bottle of Warre’s 1885 to drink to our success with the bookmaker tomorrow.’
‘A decent glassful?’
‘I found it a most helpful digestive, sir.’
‘Talking of which, Jeeves, I don’t suppose you packed any emergency supplies for a nightcap, did you?’
‘I shall prepare it at once, sir.’
Ten minutes later, agreeably capped, I went up to the bedroom to find that Jeeves had laid out my heliotrope pyjamas with the old gold stripe. It had been a long day and I felt ready for a full ration of the deep and dreamless.
I don’t know how it is with other chaps, but I tend to feel pretty bobbish first thing in the morning. The tea and newspaper bring a smile to the features; between the ablutions and the breakfast table there is generally a show tune or two to receive its premiere from the Wooster lips.
This June morning was no exception. Jeeves had made up for lost time at the local shops. The eggs had a pleasing orange glow and the bacon came from a beast far removed from the baleful husbandry of any Jude, obscure or otherwise. Yet despite the cloudless blue sky over Kingston St Giles, the day’s task was a serious one, and I felt it would tax my resources to the last drop. Little did I know, as I set fire to an after-breakfast gasper in the cottage garden, what the lead-filled sock of fate had in store for me.
It started well enough, as I moved swiftly on to Chapter Seven of The Mystery of the Gabled House , in which a third body was found, this one behind the potting shed. I was contemplating a spin down to the seaside to sniff out a bit of fish for luncheon, when Jeeves came out on to the lawn to announce that he had had some news.
‘I have received intelligence from the Hall, sir, that a further house guest is expected this afternoon.’
‘Right ho. Who is he?’
‘She, sir. Dame Judith Puxley.’
Even on such a sunny morning I felt a shudder run through the lower vertebrae. ‘What on earth brings that preying cannibal to Dorsetshire?’
‘It appears she is an old school friend of Lady Hackwood, sir.’
I found the mind boggling a bit. ‘It’s hard to imagine that particular schoolroom, isn’t it, Jeeves?’
‘It does lie, sir, at the extremity of one’s power to conjecture.’
‘Had old Isaac Newton done his stuff by then do you suppose?’
‘One supposes that the physical sciences were in a markedly less advanced state of knowledge, sir.’
I was about to be a little more humorous at Dame Judith’s expense when a sobering thought struck me. ‘If Dame Judith was at school with Lady Hackwood, then it follows that Lady H must also have been at school with …’
‘I believe so, sir.’
‘…Aunt Agatha.’
‘The three ladies appear to have been contemporaries at the academy.’
‘Which means that Lady H must also be a friend of Aunt Agatha.’
‘Inevitably, sir.’
‘This ups the stakes a bit, doesn’t it?’
‘I see no immediate danger, sir, though it would be as well to remain on the qui vive .’
Dame Judith Puxley, I should explain, had featured in a painful episode in my younger life. She was a house guest at a Victorian pile in Shropshire where, following a crossed wire over the bolting of a second-floor hatch, I was discovered on the main roof late one night dressed as Julius Caesar, and had to be brought down by the local fire brigade. Dame Judith was the relict of the late Sir Mortimer Puxley, a big cheese in the world of chemistry, and was
‘Which was?’
‘The Turf, sir. I shared with him some information I had gathered about the field in the three-thirty at Ascot tomorrow. A friend of mine at the Junior Ganymede has a brother who works at a well-known Lambourn stables.’
‘So you gave him a hot tip?’
‘I was in a position to make a number of recommendations, sir.’
‘And he was grateful?’
‘Sir Henry was already well informed, but we seemed to strike up a considerable rapport. He asked Bicknell, the butler, to bring up his last bottle of Warre’s 1885 to drink to our success with the bookmaker tomorrow.’
‘A decent glassful?’
‘I found it a most helpful digestive, sir.’
‘Talking of which, Jeeves, I don’t suppose you packed any emergency supplies for a nightcap, did you?’
‘I shall prepare it at once, sir.’
Ten minutes later, agreeably capped, I went up to the bedroom to find that Jeeves had laid out my heliotrope pyjamas with the old gold stripe. It had been a long day and I felt ready for a full ration of the deep and dreamless.
I don’t know how it is with other chaps, but I tend to feel pretty bobbish first thing in the morning. The tea and newspaper bring a smile to the features; between the ablutions and the breakfast table there is generally a show tune or two to receive its premiere from the Wooster lips.
This June morning was no exception. Jeeves had made up for lost time at the local shops. The eggs had a pleasing orange glow and the bacon came from a beast far removed from the baleful husbandry of any Jude, obscure or otherwise. Yet despite the cloudless blue sky over Kingston St Giles, the day’s task was a serious one, and I felt it would tax my resources to the last drop. Little did I know, as I set fire to an after-breakfast gasper in the cottage garden, what the lead-filled sock of fate had in store for me.
It started well enough, as I moved swiftly on to Chapter Seven of The Mystery of the Gabled House , in which a third body was found, this one behind the potting shed. I was contemplating a spin down to the seaside to sniff out a bit of fish for luncheon, when Jeeves came out on to the lawn to announce that he had had some news.
‘I have received intelligence from the Hall, sir, that a further house guest is expected this afternoon.’
‘Right ho. Who is he?’
‘She, sir. Dame Judith Puxley.’
Even on such a sunny morning I felt a shudder run through the lower vertebrae. ‘What on earth brings that preying cannibal to Dorsetshire?’
‘It appears she is an old school friend of Lady Hackwood, sir.’
I found the mind boggling a bit. ‘It’s hard to imagine that particular schoolroom, isn’t it, Jeeves?’
‘It does lie, sir, at the extremity of one’s power to conjecture.’
‘Had old Isaac Newton done his stuff by then do you suppose?’
‘One supposes that the physical sciences were in a markedly less advanced state of knowledge, sir.’
I was about to be a little more humorous at Dame Judith’s expense when a sobering thought struck me. ‘If Dame Judith was at school with Lady Hackwood, then it follows that Lady H must also have been at school with …’
‘I believe so, sir.’
‘…Aunt Agatha.’
‘The three ladies appear to have been contemporaries at the academy.’
‘Which means that Lady H must also be a friend of Aunt Agatha.’
‘Inevitably, sir.’
‘This ups the stakes a bit, doesn’t it?’
‘I see no immediate danger, sir, though it would be as well to remain on the qui vive .’
Dame Judith Puxley, I should explain, had featured in a painful episode in my younger life. She was a house guest at a Victorian pile in Shropshire where, following a crossed wire over the bolting of a second-floor hatch, I was discovered on the main roof late one night dressed as Julius Caesar, and had to be brought down by the local fire brigade. Dame Judith was the relict of the late Sir Mortimer Puxley, a big cheese in the world of chemistry, and was
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