"For heaven's sake! Don't tell me the old boy has paid his telephone bill!" he cried, astounded.
Monica took up the receiver.
"Hullo? ... Yes, this is Rowcester Abbey ... No, Lord Rowcester is not in at the moment. This is his sister, Lady Carmoyle. The number of his car? It's news to me that he's got a car." She turned to Jill. "You don't know the number of Bill's car, do you?"
"No. Why are they asking?"
"Why are you asking?" said Monica into the telephone. She waited a moment, then hung up. "He's rung off."
"Who was it?"
"He didn't say. Just a voice from the void."
"You don't think Bill's had an accident?"
"Good heavens, no," said Rory. "He's much too good a driver. Probably he had to stop somewhere to buy some juice, and they need his number for their books. But it's always disturbing when people don't give their names on the telephone. There was a fellow in ours—second in command in the Jams, Sauces and Potted Meats—who was rung up one night by a Mystery Voice that wouldn't give its name, and to cut a long story short—"
Monica did so.
"Save it up for after dinner, my king of raconteurs," she said. "If there is any dinner," she added doubtfully.
"Oh, there'll be dinner all right," said Jill, "and you'll probably find it'll melt in the mouth. Bill's got a very good cook."
Monica stared.
"A cook? These days? I don't believe it. You'll be telling me next he's got a housemaid."
"He has. Name of Ellen."
"Pull yourself together, child. You're talking wildly. Nobody has a housemaid."
"Bill has. And a gardener. And a butler. A wonderful butler called Jeeves. And he's thinking of getting a boy to clean the knives and boots."
"Good heavens! It sounds like the home life of the Aga Khan." Monica frowned thoughtfully.
"Jeeves?" she said. "Why does that name seem to ring a bell?"
Rory supplied illumination.
"Bertie Wooster. He has a man named Jeeves. This is probably a brother or an aunt or something."
"No," said Jill. "It's the same man.
Bill has him on lend-lease."
"But how on earth does Bertie get on without him?"
"I believe Mr. Wooster's away somewhere.
Anyhow, Jeeves appeared one day and said he was willing to take office, so Bill grabbed him, of course. He's an absolute treasure.
Bill says he's an "old soul," whatever that means."
Monica was still bewildered.
"But how about the financial end? Does he pay this entourage, or just give them a pleasant smile now and then?"
"Of course he pays them. Lavishly. He flings them purses of gold every Saturday morning."
"Where does the money come from?"
"He earns it."
"Don't be silly. Bill hasn't earned a penny since he was paid twopence a time for taking his castor oil. How could he possibly earn it?"
"He's doing some sort of work for the Agricultural Board."
"You don't make a fortune out of that."
"Bill seems to. I suppose he's so frightfully good at his job that they pay him more than the others. I don't know what he does, actually. He just goes off in his car. Some kind of inspection, I suppose it is. Checking up on all those questionnaires. He's not very good at figures, so he always takes Jeeves with him."
"Well, that's wonderful," said Monica.
"I was afraid he might have started backing horses again. It used to worry me so much in the old days, the way he would dash from race-course to race-course in a grey topper that he carried sandwiches in."
"Oh, no, it couldn't be anything like that. He promised me faithfully he would never bet on a horse again."
"Very sensible," said Rory. "I don't mind a flutter from time to time, of course. At Harrige's we always run a Sweep on big events, five-bob chances. The brass hats frown on anything larger."
Jill moved to the French window.
"Well, I mustn't stand here talking," she said. "I've got work to do. I came to attend to Bill's Irish terrier. It's sick of a fever."
"Give it a bolus."
"I'm giving it some new American ointment.
It's got mange. See you later."
Jill went off on her errand of mercy, and Rory turned to Monica. His customary stolidity had vanished. He was keen and alert, like Sherlock Holmes on the trail.
"Moke!"
"Hullo?"
"What do you make of it, old girl?"
"Make of what?"
"This sudden affluence of Bill's. There's something fishy going on here. If it had just been a matter of a simple butler, one could have understood it. A broker's man in disguise, one would have said. But how about the housemaid and the cook and the car and, by Jove, the fact that he's paid his telephone bill."
"I see what you mean. It's odd."
"It's more than odd. Consider the facts. The last time I was at Rowcester Abbey, Bill was in the normal state of destitution of the upper-class Englishman of today, stealing the cat's milk and nosing about in the gutters for cigar-ends. I come here now, and what do I find?
Butlers in every nook and cranny, housemaids as far as the eye can reach, cooks jostling each other in the kitchen, Irish terriers everywhere, and a lot of sensational talk going on about boys to clean the knives and boots. It's ... what's the word?"
"I don't know."
"Yes, you do. Begins with "in"."
"Influential? Inspirational? Infra red?"
"Inexplicable. That's what it is. The whole thing is utterly inexplicable. One dismisses all that stuff about jobs with the Agricultural Board as pure eyewash. You don't cut a stupendous dash like this on a salary from the Agricultural Board." Rory paused, and ruminated for a moment. "I wonder if the old boy's been launching out as a gentleman burglar."
"Don't be an idiot."
"Well, fellows do, you know. Raffles, if you remember. He was one, and made a dashed good thing out of it. Or could it be that he's blackmailing somebody?"
"Oh, Rory."
"Very profitable, I believe. You look around for some wealthy bimbo and nose out his guilty secrets, then you send him a letter saying that you know all and tell him to leave ten thousand quid in small notes under the second milestone on the London road. When you've spent that, you tap him for another ten. It all mounts up over a period of time, and would explain these butlers, housemaids and what not very neatly."
"If you would talk less drivel and take more bags upstairs, the world would be a better place."
Rory thought it over and got her meaning.
"You want me to take the bags upstairs?"
"I do."
"Right ho. The Harrige motto is Service."
The telephone rang again. Rory went to it.
"Hullo?" He started violently. "The who? Good God! All right. He's out now, but I'll tell him when I see him." He hung up. There was a grave look on his face.
"Moke," he said, "perhaps you'll believe me another time and not scoff and mock when I advance my theories. That was the police."
"The police?"
"They want to talk to Bill."
"What about?"
"They didn't say. Well, dash it, they wouldn't, would they? Official Secrets Acts and all that sort of thing. But they're closing in on him, old girl, closing in on him."
"Probably all they want is to get him to present the prizes at the police sports or something."
"I doubt it," said Rory. "Still, hold that thought if it makes you happier. Take the bags upstairs, you were saying? I'll do it instanter. Come along and encourage me with word and gesture."
For some moments after they had gone the peace of the summer evening was broken only by the dull, bumping sound of a husband carrying suit-cases upstairs.
This died away, and once more a drowsy stillness stole over Rowcester Abbey. Then, faintly at first but growing louder, there came from the distance the chugging of a car. It stopped, and there entered through the French window a young man. He tottered in, breathing heavily like a hart that pants for cooling streams when heated in the chase, and having produced his cigarette-case lit a cigarette in an overwrought way, as if he had much on his mind.