‘His name is not of the essence, Jeeves. What is of the e is that he went off on his afternoon out, came back in an advanced state of intoxication, set the house on fire and tried to dismember me with a carving knife.’
‘A most unpleasant experience, sir.’
‘Having heard noises down below, I emerged from my room and found him wrestling with the grandfather clock, with which he appeared to have had a difference. He then knocked over a lamp and leaped up the stairs at me, complete with cutlass. By a miracle I avoided becoming the late Bertram Wooster, but only by a miracle. And you say there are no men of ill will in the Junior Ganymede club. Tchah ! ‘ I said. It is an expression I don’t often use, but the situation seemed to call for it.
Things had become difficult. Angry passions were rising and dudgeon bubbling up a bit. It was fortunate that at this juncture the telephone should have tootled, causing a diversion.
‘Mrs. Travers, sir,’ said Jeeves, having gone to the instrument.
CHAPTER Two
I had already divined who was at the other end of the wire, my good and deserving Aunt Dahlia having a habit of talking on the telephone with the breezy vehemence of a hog-caller in the western states of America calling his hogs to come and get it. She got this way through hunting a lot in her youth with the Quorn and the Pytchley. What with people riding over hounds and hounds taking time off to chase rabbits, a girl who hunts soon learns to make herself audible. I believe that she, when in good voice, could be heard in several adjoining counties.
I stepped to the telephone, well pleased. There are few males or females whose society I enjoy more than that of this genial sister of my late father, and it was quite a time since we had foregathered. She lives near the town of Market Snodsbury in Worcestershire and sticks pretty closely to the rural seat, while I, as Jeeves had just recorded in the club book, had had my time rather full elsewhere of late. I was smiling sunnily as I took up the receiver. Not much good, of course, as she couldn’t see me, but it’s the spirit that counts.
‘Hullo, aged relative.’
‘Hullo to you, you young blot. Are you sober?’
I felt a natural resentment at being considered capable of falling under the influence of the sauce at ten in the morning, but I reminded myself that aunts will be aunts. Show me an aunt, I’ve often said, and I will show you someone who doesn’t give a hoot how much her obiter dicta may wound a nephew’s sensibilities. With a touch of hauteur I reassured her on the point she had raised and asked her in what way I could serve her.
‘How about lunch?’
‘I’m not in London. I’m at home. And you can serve me, as you call it, by coming here. Today, if possible.’
‘Your words are music to my ears, old ancestor. Nothing could tickle me pinker,’ I said, for I am always glad to accept her hospitality and to renew my acquaintance with the unbeatable eatables dished up by her superb French chef Anatole, God’s gift to the gastric juices. I have often regretted that I have but one stomach to put at his disposal. ‘Staying how long?’
‘As long as you like, my beamish boy. I’ll let you know when the time comes to throw you out. The great thing is to get you here.’
I was touched, as who would not have been, by the eagerness she showed for my company. Too many of my circle are apt when inviting me to their homes to stress the fact that they are only expecting me for the weekend and to dwell with too much enthusiasm on the excellence of the earlier trains back to the metropolis on Monday morning. The sunny smile widened an inch or two.
‘Awfully good of you to have me, old blood relation.’
‘It is, rather.’
‘I look forward to seeing you.’
‘Who wouldn’t?’
‘Each minute will seem like an hour till we meet. How’s Anatole?’