"No, no, you are thinking of Rotarians. I am a Rotationist, which is quite different. We believe that we are reborn as one of our ancestors every ninth generation."
"Ninth?" said Monica, and began to count on her fingers.
"The mystic ninth house. Of course you've read the Zend Avesta of Zoroaster, Sir Roderick?"
"I'm afraid not. Is it good?"
"Essential, I would say."
"I'll put it on my library list," said Rory. "By Agatha Christie, isn't it?"
Monica had completed her calculations.
"Ninth ... That seems to make me Lady Barbara, the leading hussy of Charles the Second's reign."
Mrs. Spottsworth was impressed.
"I suppose I ought to be calling you Lady Barbara and asking you about your latest love affair."
"I only wish I could remember it. From what I've heard of her, it would make quite a story."
"Did she get herself sunburned all over?" asked Rory. "Or was she more of an indoor girl?"
Mrs. Spottsworth had closed her eyes again.
"I feel influences," she said. "I even hear faint whisperings. How strange it is, coming into a house that you last visited three hundred years ago. Think of all the lives that have been lived within these ancient walls. And they are here, all around us, creating an intriguing aura for this delicious old house."
Monica caught Bill's eye.
"It's in the bag, Bill," she whispered.
"Eh?" said Rory in a loud, hearty voice. "What's in the bag?"
"Oh, shut up."
"But what is in the ... Ouch!" He rubbed a well-kicked ankle. "Oh, ah, yes, of course. Yes, I see what you mean."
Mrs. Spottsworth passed a hand across her brow. She appeared to be in a sort of mediumistic trance.
"I seem to remember a chapel. There is a chapel here?"
"Ruined," said Monica.
"You don't need to tell her that, old girl," said Rory.
"I knew it. And there's a Long Gallery."
"That's right," said Monica. "A duel was fought in it in the eighteenth century. You can still see the bullet holes in the walls."
"And dark stains on the floor, no doubt. This place must be full of ghosts."
This, felt Monica, was an idea to be discouraged at the outset.
"Oh, no, don't worry," she said heartily. "Nothing like that in Rowcester Abbey," and was surprised to observe that her guest was gazing at her with large, woebegone eyes like a child informed that the evening meal will not be topped off with ice-cream.
"But I want ghosts," said Mrs.
Spottsworth. "I must have ghosts. Don't tell me there aren't any?"
Rory was his usual helpful self.
"There's what we call the haunted lavatory on the ground floor," he said. "Every now and then, when there's nobody near it, the toilet will suddenly flush, and when a death is expected in the family, it just keeps going and going. But we don't know if it's a spectre or just a defect in the plumbing."
"Probably a poltergeist," said Mrs.
Spottsworth, seeming a little disappointed. "But are there no visual manifestations?"
"I don't think so."
"Don't be silly, Rory," said Monica.
"Lady Agatha."
Mrs. Spottsworth was intrigued.
"Who was Lady Agatha?"
"The wife of Sir Caradoc the Crusader.
She has been seen several times in the ruined chapel."
"Fascinating, fascinating," said Mrs.
Spottsworth. "And now let me take you to the Long Gallery. Don't tell me where it is.
Let me see if I can't find it for myself."
She closed her eyes, pressed her finger-tips to her temples, paused for a moment, opened her eyes and started off. As she reached the door, Jeeves appeared.
"Pardon me, m'lord."
"Yes, Jeeves?"
"With reference to Mrs. Spottsworth's dog, m'lord, I would appreciate instructions as to meal hours and diet."
"Pomona is very catholic in her tastes," said Mrs. Spottsworth. "She usually dines at five, but she is not at all fussy."
"Thank you, madam."
"And now I must concentrate. This is a test."
Mrs. Spottsworth applied her finger-tips to her temple once more. "Follow, please, Monica. You, too, Billiken. I am going to take you straight to the Long Gallery."
The procession passed through the door, and Rory, having scrutinized it in his slow, thorough way, turned to Jeeves with a shrug of the shoulders.
"Potty, what?"
"The lady does appear to diverge somewhat from the generally accepted norm, Sir Roderick."
"She's as crazy as a bed bug.
I'll tell you something, Jeeves. That sort of thing wouldn't be tolerated at Harrige's."
"No, sir?"
"Not for a moment. If this Mrs. Dogsbody, or whatever her name is, came into—say the Cakes, Biscuits and General Confectionery and started acting that way, the store detectives would have her by the seat of the trousers and be giving her the old heave-ho before the first gibber had proceeded from her lips."
"Indeed, Sir Roderick?"
"I'm telling you, Jeeves. I had an experience of that sort myself shortly after I joined. I was at my post one morning—I was in the Jugs, Bottles and Picnic Supplies at the time—and a woman came in. Well dressed, refined aspect, nothing noticeable about her at all except that she was wearing a fireman's helmet—I started giving her courteous service. "Good morning, madam,"
I said. "What can I do for you, madam? Something in picnic supplies, madam? A jug? A bottle?"' She looked at me keenly. "Are you interested in bottles, gargoyle?"' she asked, addressing me for some reason as gargoyle.
"Why, yes, madam," I replied. "Then what do you think of this one," she said. And with that she whipped out a whacking great decanter and brought it whizzing down on the exact spot where my frontal bone would have been, had I not started back like a nymph surprised while bathing. It shattered itself on the counter. It was enough. I beckoned to the store detectives and they scooped her up."
"Most unpleasant, Sir Roderick."
"Yes, shook me, I confess. Nearly made me send in my papers. It turned out that she had recently been left a fortune by a wealthy uncle in Australia, and it had unseated her reason. This Mrs. Dogsbody's trouble is, I imagine, the same. Inherited millions from a platoon of deceased husbands, my wife informs me, and took advantage of the fact to go right off her onion. Always a mistake, Jeeves, unearned money. There's nothing like having to scratch for a living. I'm twice the man I was since I joined the ranks of the world's workers."
"You see eye to eye with the Bard, Sir Roderick. 'Tis deeds must win the prize."
"Exactly. Quite so. And speaking of winning prizes, what about tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow, Sir Roderick?"
"The Derby. Know anything?"
"I fear not, Sir Roderick. It would seem to be an exceptionally open contest. Monsieur Boussac's Voleur is, I understand, the favourite. Fifteen to two at last night's call-over and the price likely to shorten to sixes or even fives for the S.p. But the animal in question is somewhat small and lightly boned for so gruelling an ordeal. Though we have, to be sure, seen such a handicap overcome. The name of Manna, the 1925 winner, springs to the mind, and Hyperion, another smallish horse, broke the course record previously held by Flying Fox, accomplishing the distance in two minutes, thirty-four seconds."
Rory regarded him with awe.
"By Jove! You know your stuff, don't you?"
"One likes to keep au courant in these matters, sir. It is, one might say, an essential part of one's education."
"Well, I'll certainly have another chat with you tomorrow before I put my bet on."
"I shall be most happy if I can be of service, Sir Roderick," said Jeeves courteously, and oozed softly from the room, leaving Rory with the feeling, so universal among those who encountered this great man, that he had established connection with some wise, kindly spirit in whose hands he might place his affairs without a tremor.