In imitation of Wodehouse VII

 Continued from a previous chapter

It was Tuesday morning and the weather, which had been so glorious, returned to the soft grey and damp veil of a more typical London. As I breakfasted, my uncharacteristic frown must have alerted Jeeves. He brought me an extra egg to cheer me up and hovered by more often than usual with the coffee pot.

‘Jeeves,’ I said, after much consternation, ‘I require your council.’

‘Yes sir?’ You could tell he was ready for this eventuality. He laid the coffee pot down and stood to attention. I found the largeness of his head reassuring.

‘You recall yesterday Angela and me talking about strychnine?’

‘Oh yes sir. Was the young Ms Travers interested in the murder mystery you are reading? She certainly did seem to possess a good knowledge of the history of the poison.’

‘She certainly does – you see, because she wanted to give it to Tuppy!’

‘Sir?’ Jeeves looked as shocked as his placid face can possibly look. He might have even moved a half inch back, so surprised was he by my statement.

I took a big gulp of black coffee and told him the whole conversation. Tuppy’s betrayal, Angela’s vengefulness, and how I am trapped as Angela’s accomplice in the potential future murder of Tuppy.

‘So you see Jeeves, I need your help to get out of this predicament.’

Jeeves stood silent for a moment, undoubtedly shocked. He is thinking possibly of his young master, being led to the gallows with an unironed shirt and hair all amess. How could the poor man ever go to the Guild of Valet’s Christmas party ever again?

‘Do you know what exactly Miss Travers’s plans are sir?’ Jeeves asked.

‘Not yet, but she plans to tell me this weekend, when I’m due to visit Aunt Dahlia.’

‘Perhaps one way to forestall this is for you to find Mr Glossop and endeavour to find out whether indeed he was seen about town with a young lady. If it is a misunderstanding, then he can explain this to Ms Travers. If not, then we can try to persuade him to apologise to Ms Travers before she attempts her revenge. My feeling is that strychnine should be avoided if at all possible.’

I thought that to be a grand idea – whether Tuppy was indeed seen with the mysterious blonde gallivanting about town is yet to be confirmed. If not, the entire problem would solve itself. And even if it was true, I’ll beat the man to within an inch of his life if I have to to get him to grovel on Angela’s door and beg her for forgiveness.

I, being a man of action, leapt right into it, after engulfing the extra egg, demolishing the hash brown that escaped my unenthusiastic attempt at breakfast before Jeeve’s intervention, and guzzling down the third cup of coffee. I was ready for Tuppy.

I thought I’d find him at the Drones Club so there I went. Having arrived, I barely hung up my hat when I bumped immediately into a willowy, blonde creature with a disarming smile known simply as Barmy Fungy Phipps, or the man formally known as Cyril Fotheringay-Phipps.

‘Hello Barmy! Long time no see.’

‘Hello Bertie!’ the young man smiled from ear to ear, ‘How are you? Come to have lunch?’

‘It’s barely eleven Barmy! No I’m looking for Tuppy.’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘Haven’t seen him around have you?’

‘Tuppy?’ Barmy blinked. Everyone likes Barmy, but there is no arguments, and Barmy would be the first one to agree, as to whether he is one of the foremost intellects of our age.

‘Tuppy. You know, Hildebrand Glossop? Smiles like a cat, voice like an adolescent bulldog?’

‘Oh! Tuppy!’ A light of comprehension glinted from Barmy’s eyes followed by a big grin that would have warmed the hearts of mothers nationwide.

‘Where is he?’

‘No idea Bertie. I haven’t seen him. So, what about lunch?’

I brushed Barmy aside with some excuse and ventured in. I’m not sure if I can trust Barmy as I’m not sure if he actually remembered who Tuppy is. If anyone needs to get marries, it’s Barmy. A woman will love to mother him, and can remind him what day it is and where his socks are kept.

A quick traipse around the various rooms of the drones unearthed the usual assortment of what my Aunt Agatha would undoubtedly call the remnants of a once great civilization. But there was no sign of Tuppy. And no one has seen him at the Drones for days. Not stopping for a chinwag with the lads, a coffee with the nearest and dearest, or a game of cards-in-the-hat, I ventured out once more on the hunt for the human excrescence.

As I hesitated on the pavement outside the door of the Drones Club, a chap sidled up to me from the shadows. It startled me somewhat, but the ghostly figure was none other than the aforementioned Barmy.

‘Barmy! What are you doing sneaking up on a fellow like a smiling assassin?’ For the man had a big grin on his mug.

‘Hello Bertie! I was wondering if you wanted to get lunch with me.’

I was just about to brush him off for the second time when I detected a hint of something different. The grin was not the customary one that one might find to be perched on the face of Barmy six days out of the week. It had the intimation of something more.

‘What is it Barmy? Do you have something to tell me?’

‘Well, Bertie, as a matter of fact, I do.’ Barmy blinked earnestly.

Barmy is one of those mysterious chaps that you can know for years but actually not know very much about. I’ve known Barmy since Eton, but I can’t for the life of me guess what this is about. But the man did look pleadingly into my eyes and, as all women who have experienced Barmy’s company will tell you, he had a puppy-like quality that made it very difficult to say no.

Because I had no immediate idea of where to go to continue on my hunt for the phantom known as Tuppy, I accepted Barmy’s invitation and the two of us went to a secluded tea shop tucked away in a little close around the corner. I fancy the place sometimes for discrete conversations with the fellows at the drones who wished for my council about sensitive subjects, away from prying ears.

The place was called The Yellow Iris Tea Room, and the décor certainly lived up to the name. Yellow sign, yellow menus, yellow teapots, a surprisingly fresh iris in a little glass vase on the table, and even a waitress with a full head of blonde hair. It wouldn’t surprise me if her name was Iris. We ordered some strong tea and scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream for elevenses.

The place was quiet, with an old couple having a leisurely tea by the window and another portly gentleman well settled into his nth cup of tea while combing through the Telegraph like a detective.

Barmy and I talked about cricket and the like for a bit, until the waitress, I’ll call her Iris, had brought our order. After she is out of earshot, I turned to the genial if vacant face and said, ‘So! Pour out your worries old man.’

Barmy, whose head was lit up like a halo from the light filtering in from the window, looked more than usual like a sinless choir boy. That unlined face was worried, and that worried Bertram.

‘Well, Bertie, it’s about my brother, George.’

‘George?’ I was somewhat taken aback. Barmy’s brother, unlike Barmy and yours truly, decided early on to make an honest living. He was a policeman, and a good one by all accounts. He even arrested Barmy one Boat Race night in Leicester Square, showing his devotion to law and order. He was probably the last person I would have thought that needed worrying about.

‘George was walking the beat on Regent Street on Sunday you see, and he bumped into Tuppy, who was with a girl.’

‘Tuppy with a girl?!’ My eyes bulged. The appearance of a second eye-witness to the infidelities of the blighter Tuppy rather dashed my hopes that it was all a misunderstanding.

‘Yes – and it turned out that the girl is called Elizabeth Conner, my cousin!’ Barmy finished in the tone that Sherlock Holmes might have used to unveil the murderer while everyone was gathered in the drawing room. But I needed more information.

‘Wait, Elizabeth Conner? The daughter of the American textile tycoon? She was with Tuppy? She is your cousin?’

It was a bit like squeezing water from a rock but eventually, after my third cup of tea, I got the story out of Barmy. You see, Barmy’s (and George’s) maternal grandfather was one P. Middlemass Poskitt, an American businessman, and it turns out that he is a second cousin of Benedict Conner, thus making Barmy (and George) cousin to Elizabeth Conner. The two branches of the family had lost contact somewhat, but George, while having a chin wag with Tuppy on Regent Street, and undoubtedly using his police skills, found out that the girl Tuppy was chaperoning was his long lost cousin.

‘That’s a turn for the books!’ I patted Barmy on the shoulder, ‘Congratulations on finding your cousin! I hear she is a looker.’

‘I don’t know, I haven’t met her yet.’ Barmy looked oddly gloomy.

‘Why so gloomy? You just got yourself a rich, beautiful American cousin! You should be getting the itinerary out to show her a good time. Not Wednesday though, I’m meant to have dinner with her. Did you know my aunt Agatha is setting us up?’

‘George arrested her.’

‘What?!’ I yelped rather loudly. The elderly couple looked around in alarm, the portly man peered over the Telegraph with disapproving eyes, and even Iris came hovering to make sure we hadn’t broken any of the yellow chinaware. I lowered my voice to a hoarse whisper.

‘Why in God’s name did the fathead arrest his own cousin?’

‘She started driving on the wrong side of the road, almost resulting in a serious traffic accident involving a minor, he said. He also suspected that she was under the influence of drink.’

‘And?’

‘According to the Licensing Act of 1872, George took her and Tuppy in, they are locked up at the station because they refuse to pay the fine.’

‘You mean they’ve been there since Sunday?’ I reeled. I knew George was straight, but I didn’t realise he was a plank.

‘Yes, and I was wondering if you can lend me a fiver to get them out? I mean a tenner, because there’s two of them.’

‘Well, of course Barmy! Why the Dickens didn’t you just say so at the Drones? Let’s hustle!’

And hustle we did – we got to the station barely fifteen minutes later, thanks to a young cab driver who, when I mentioned it was urgent, especially after I mentioned that a beautiful blonde was wrongfully arrested, did the game thing and drove like the devil.

Bursting in, there he was. Cool as a cucumber, was George, doing paperwork behind the counter as if all’s well with the world.

‘George!’ Barmy called out to his younger brother, whose hair was also the colour of fresh butter.

‘Hullo Cyril!’ George blinked and came around the counter. He looked very much like Barmy, but more focused.

‘And Bertie! How are you, hope all’s well.’

‘All is not well, George!’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘I heard you locked up your own cousin, Elizabeth, and Tuppy, for a minor traffic offense?’

George’s face turned official, ‘The Licensing Act of 1872 clearly states that operation of a vehicle, a horse or a cow while intoxicated carries with it a fine or a prison sentence. Plus the vehicle in question was going on the wrong side of the street. Ms Conner and Mr Glossop were not willing to pay the five Pound fine and therefore they were placed under arrest. I assure you they were not mistreated.’

I sighed, as I knew I wouldn’t get through to George. He is a policeman through and through. Robert Peel would cry tears of joy had he been around to see George putting the icy cold shackles on the delicate wrists of his own fair cousin.

‘Well, I’m here to pay their fine. Please release them.’

‘But they have been released already.’ George said, ‘This morning; in fact, it was your man Jeeves who came and paid the fines.’

To the next chapter