Missing Mashie

My first long-ish story, a P.G. Wodehouse tribute. (More or less.)

THE CASE OF THE MISSING MASHIE
By Doc Walton

It’s all quite so, you know. Only this afternoon, being about and at large, if that’s the phrase I’m looking for to point out an absence of anything worthwhile to do, I rang up my Auntie Paisley and found her in some sort of large colorful tither. This is a condition not wholly unfamiliar to her, but one to which I generally have no response beyond summoning the staff and the salts.
“Dear Auntie,” I shouted into the phone, using my most authoritative and commanding tone which, I now recall, is the one I use when enlightening my butler Jeeves on a subject about which I know nothing at all and the very one he says is reminiscent of amphibian love calls. “Do get a grip on yourself and tell me what IS the matter.” I waited for a moment, visualizing the old girl looking about for some sort of hand hold on her copious frame, then was startled by my aunt’s somewhat softer voice, and I say softer if one is cognizant of the difference between thunder and a nearby head on, responding, “Bertram, you spineless lizard, is that really you?” Auntie’s affection for me knows no limits. “Something dreadful has happened,” she continued without waiting for my reply, which I have noticed of late is a thing all but those who don’t know me frequently do. “My mashie is missing, and I am completely knocked up about it.” Auntie is not here, as some might surmise, speaking of a condition caused by Uncle Willingly Paisley, but rather a golf club, a mid iron, and one of a set of oddly designed implements used in swatting a small dimpled ball about a large lawn in hopes of losing it in a hole. A not unpleasant way to while away an afternoon and rid yourself of unnecessary self-esteem, simultaneously. Auntie, you see, is a bit of a champion, having won her Club’s annual tourney twice running and lacking but this year’s upcoming to have the trophy renamed the Paisley Cup, a feat she has dedicated herself to arduously, if that’s the word I’m looking for.
Uncertain how to reply to a dear one who has had the grave misfortune of losing her mashie at such a critical moment, I fell back on the one thing that has always served me well in times of crisis: I blurt out whatever comes to mind. “Auntie Love,” I heard myself saying, “how about I pop into the two seater, point it your way, and come have a look about?” The quiet on the line went on for such a long time I was beginning to suspect mechanical failure or that my aunt’s enthusiasm for the idea was so great she was momentarily dumbstruck. “I could bring Jeeves along for,” I was about to say “company,” when my aunt, recovering her voice, was suddenly bubbling into the telly about my being a grand nephew and how delighted she would be to see me and by all means to bring that splendid man of mine.
I cradled the receiver a moment later, feeling excited and eager, two emotions starting with the letter “E” that I hadn’t felt together since that time with cousin Gladly Wentfort in the back seat of the Bentley on the water to the theatre. She had accidentally dropped the tickets in my lap and spent just ages looking for them. This time I was E and E to solve the mystery of the missing mashie, if that doesn’t sound too Perry Mason. Jeeves, when I told him, was more than E and E. He was triple E’d, the last being elated, and it occurs to me that a monograph on emotions starting with the letter “E” might be just the thing to establish me with that crowd that’s always writing monographs and polygraphs and such. Jeeves’ elation, when I told him of the mystery and my plan, was clearly visible to me by the slight and momentary uplifting of his left eyebrow, a move he uses to express nearly all his passions and a dead giveaway that he is among the living, a thing that comes into question more often than you would think.
“Jeeves,” I said, “the game is a-something. The game is a-what?”
“Afoot, sir. The game is afoot.”
Now where had I heard that before?
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“Jeeves,” I shouted above the wind to my companion as we swept through the English countryside at a speed I calculated as fast-as-we-could-go and one that apparently caused some degree of consternation to my old chum as he tightly clutched his bowler with both hands and tried almost successfully not to grimace, “why would someone pilfer just a mashie and not the spoon or the niblick or, indeed, the whole set for that matter? It makes no sense at all if you ask me, and I’m certain Auntie P will do just that. Could the dear old girl,” I continued without waiting for an answer, “be getting on, slipping, losing a bit of the old memory edge and merely have misplaced the mashie?”
“Memory traits are,” Jeeves responded, with, I think, a verbal elbow to the ribs, “rarely passed from nephew to aunt. Your aunt’s edge, it seems to me, has always been quite keen.”
I slowed the two seater to lessen the gale, knowing that Jeeves found shouting on a par with spitting tobacco for social acceptability. It was appalling and just not done in better circles, that is, the circles he wished I would become acquainted with.
“As to your first query, Master Bertram, I admit I haven’t as yet a clue. But in hopes of obtaining one, may I ask of you, sir, is your aunt longish or shortish off the tee, and aren’t we getting a tad too American in our driving habits?”
I steered us back to the left lane, the right one, knowing how fussy Jeeves was about that sort of thing and, taking just a second, searched my entire mind for an image of Auntie P on the links. We had played together but once a season or two ago when, desperate to fill a foursome, she had rung me up. Oddly enough, I thought, she had not invited me back, though I had played well under my 41 handicap and we had only lost the match by two. I clearly remember three-putting the eighteenth for a personal on-green best. I suggested to Auntie P that we request a rematch, but she mumbled something about the members objecting to special assessments for course repairs, so I let the matter drop. It was during the second second of probing deeply into my memory bank, or novelty shop as Jeeves calls it, that the reference to the American side of the road brought to mind the picture of the great U.S. cricketeer, Stanley Musical, all crouched and coiled, ready to do much harm should the bowler challenge him.
“Long,” I shouted, speeding up. “Auntie P is very long off the tee.” Though I hadn’t the foggiest idea why that mattered.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Blimey if we hadn’t just planted our bags on Auntie P’s oval drive when Jeeves and Mulligan, Auntie’s latest houseman, got into a furious row over who would see to the disposition of the aforementioned luggage. I could tell Jeeves was more than just out-of-sorts by his tone of voice, which was, in a word, loud. By loud I mean to say that one could hear him up to three or perhaps even four steps away. Standing at five, I caught no more than something surely Shakespearean that included the words “crude” and “cretinous.” I suspected that Jeeves and Mulligan had met on some other occasion. The matter was settled by Auntie P herself who, appearing at her doorstep in a most timely fashion, shooed this Mulligan fellow away while beckoning Jeeves and me to her ample bosom for welcoming hugs. I say ample bosom because it is the cliché used by polite society to describe women of a certain breast size that even science, with all its wonders, atom splitting, gene splicing, clap-on-clap-off, cannot account for their defiance of gravity. No man’s back could withstand the curious cantilever, and I’m sure there had to be architects employed in the brassiere design. Jeeves, showing first class butlerian restraint, refrained from rushing to Auntie’s embrace and used instead a deep formal bow accompanied by expressions of gratitude, humility, honor-to-be-in-presence, that sort of thing, while I, taking the low road, rushed to Auntie’s outstretched arms that weren’t quite pointed at me and planted myself firmly amidst the wiggling, a sensation not unlike flopping on a gelatin-filled waterbed, if that’s the image I want, and I’m not sure it is.
“Ah, Bartie dear,” says Auntie P, pushing me out to arms’ length, or roughly two inches clearance. “It’s good to see you again. How HAVE you been? You’re looking ALMOST well. Now don’t say another word until we’ve tea in hand. Come along, Jeeves. I can see that you could do with a spot and a crumpet, too. Not another word, just follow along. I have much to talk about and little time. Come, come.” All this and more was said mostly to Jeeves, which I’m sure was Auntie’s way of trying not to be a snob, as we followed her through the great hall and into the library. I could tell she was happy I was there to solve the mystery.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The moment we were ensconced, if that means seated, in the library, steaming Earl Greys in hand, Auntie P began her tale.
“Barney,” she began.
“Bertie,” I corrected.
“Whatever,” she continued. “I’m at a loss, a total loss, over this mashie thing. As you know, the finals of the Rollinginit Country Club tournament are this Saturday, and I’ve drawn a most worthy opponent in Lady Plodsforth. Blast if I can see a way to beat her with an untried new mashie. Why, the last time we contested I barely eked out a three up with two to go even though Lady Plodsforth did not have her wits about her the entire back nine. She had learned of her favorite dog Daisy’s untimely death at the turn. The poor thing had been accidentally shot by Lord Plodsforth during that morning’s ride to the hunt when, as he tells it, he mistook Daisy for the fox itself. Daisy, a Dalmation, was Lady Plodsforth’s favorite and last in a long line of pets to die accidentally in proximity to Lord Plodsforth, who, it is rumored, is quite the great white hunter and boasts of never returning from a hunt empty-handed. One reason, it is also rumored, that Lady Plodsforth doesn’t hunt with him. So you see, Baxter . . .”
“Bertie.”
“Yes, of course, . . .that I must have my mashie for the match or I will feel worse than Daisy by Saturday’s eve.”
Feeling worse than a dead dog was something I was intimately familiar with, having had to arise before nine on several occasions.
“My dear Auntie,” I started at her ramble’s end, “you are not to worry a moment more. I am completely confident that we will get to the bottom of this missing mashie mess in no time at all. Aren’t I, Jeeves?” I ended, turning to my butler, my pal, and the larger part of my deductive reasoning, who by dint of greater fish consumption was often able to see the light while I was still mentally stumbling about in the dark, and to whom Auntie P had directed most of her remarks, though she had almost used my name several times.
Jeeves, for his part, had sat quite still during Auntie’s discourse but was now suddenly, though quietly, on his feet making the shush signal of index finger to pursed lips at a small sound we all heard outside the library door. Indicating with a hand puppet gesture that we should keep talking, Jeeves made way on tiptoe to the distant door. Picking up on his meaning and intent, I quickly broke the silence with the first thing that came to mind. The subject, though not particularly relevant, having to do with this month’s Big Bottoms’ centerfold, was one I usually could count on when chatting with chums, and while in this instance was uttered perhaps a bit too nervously loud, was still lengthy enough to get Jeeves across the room to the door which, with great gusto, he yanked open to reveal the red-faced, startled-eyed, still bent-at-the-waist-keyhole-level hulking visage of Auntie P’s man Mulligan.
“Aha!,” I said, leaping to my feet and looking accusingly at the now erect, trying to compose himself butler, an act that left me pointing a bit like Daisy before her unfortunate accident, but without a further thought to say.
“Aha, what?,” I whispered to Jeeves.
“Aha, Mulligan,” said Jeeves, right on cue, but softly, without quite the caught-you-red-handed emphasis I was looking for.
“Perhaps you could explain, Mulligan,” Jeeves continued, in a voice that sounded somewhere between haughty and private eye, “your presence outside this door when you clearly have not been summoned.”
“Precisely,” I added.
“Indeed,” chimed in Auntie P.
“I . . .I thought, perhaps more tea,” said the, I was now certain, foul villain.
“You thought perhaps more tea; well, well, well,” I said cleverly, then added even more cleverly, “What do you think of that, Jeeves?”
“I think no more tea is required. Am I correct, Lady Paisley?” replied Jeeves, glaring at the shifty butler.
“Indeed,” said Auntie P once more, then adding, “Leave at once, Mulligan. This is none of your concern.”
Mulligan began backing from the doorway, his eyes darting guiltily from Auntie P to Jeeves. He was clearly about to bolt when Jeeves asked him in a quite friendly tone of voice--you know, the kind of tone one might use when petting a stray before grabbing its collar and hauling it off to the catchers-- whether he had ever been in the employ of Lord Peter Plodsforth, the noted fox hunter.
“Why yes, sir,” answered Mulligan, closing the door as he spoke. “And good references he give me.”
The instant the door clicked shut Auntie P and I looked to Jeeves, whose left eyebrow was raised a full inch above his shining orb, signaling a eureka of the first order.
“What have you, Jeeves?” queried Auntie P. “Surely you don’t suspect the Plodsforths?”
“Surely not,” I added, quickly summing up all the facts and cleverly deducing I hadn’t a clue.
Jeeves paused a pregnant moment, if that’s the word I’m looking for, as I’ve heard it means filled with intensity or child, then looked ceilingward while placing a finger diagonally across his lips. All to very dramatic effect, I might add, and do.
“I believe, Madame and Bertram Sir,” he began, “that though the prevailing evidence would indicate a lone culprit, the outcome will show that two men acting in concert, with profit as a motive, are responsible for the cruel and heinous crime of pilfering Lady Paisley’s mashie.”
Jeeves runs on like that sometimes for no apparent reason. It could be all that fish.
“But what about the grassy knoll and missing bullet?” I fired back. “Don’t they matter?”
“Bertie dear,” said Auntie P to me softly and, I’m sure this is the word, sincerely, “you are a putz. A very sweet putz, but a putz nevertheless.” Then to Jeeves, “Do go on.” I took no offense. Auntie is such a great kidder, and she’d gotten my name right.
“Madame, I cannot as yet point an accusing finger despite my suspicions. There are further inquiries that need to be made.”
Auntie P looked disappointed and distraught. Those two D’s are how one looks when they’ve just gotten the swing of things and the barman says its closing time.
“The match, the cup, my hopes are but two days away. Is there time?” Auntie implored, which is, I think, a kind of wishful asking.
“Not to fear, good lady,” said my man Jeeves, somehow looking taller, straighter, bolder. “With young Bertram’s help and his extensive knowledge of certain, um, areas, we shall have this matter cleared up before Saturday’s end. Your mashie, like Lassie, shall come home.”
Auntie took this last with a huge smile, said something about a dear man, kissed us both upon the cheeks, then left the room whistling a cheerful tune. I, on the other hand, was feeling dazed and distressed, these D’s being the condition one feels when they’ve just gotten the swing of things and find themselves short of funds.
“What in the world was that?” I asked the moment the door clicked shut again.
“I believe it’s the Colonel Bogie’s March from the film Bridge on the River Kwai in which William Holden and . . . “
“Not the tune, Jeeves,” I interrupted before getting the whole plot outlined. “The bit about my having special knowledge. I haven’t a whit of special knowledge of anything I know about and I know everything I know about, if you catch my drift.” I was on a roll now, voice and blood pressure rising. “And, furthermore, I can tell you with absolute certainty, I don’t know about anything at all,” I declared proudly.
Jeeves paused a moment, during which I suspected him of considering my physical restraint, then, seeing I was calming, looked at me steadily and said, “Perhaps you could tell me, young Bertram, where is the nearest place to make a wager?”
“Oh, sure,” I said, “I know all about that.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Shortly after dark, at Jeeve’s insistence, I found myself lightly rapping “shave and a haircut” on a door on a pad on a street whose address I’d been told to forget.
“I’m certain this is it, Jeeves old chum,” I said to my butler and constant companion, who was, at this moment, crowding my backside in hopes of escaping the accusing light of the street lamp, “I’d bet my reputation on it.”
“I trust you are right, young Bertram, though I know if you were really certain, you would have wagered something of value.”
I sensed another elbow to the ribs in that one and was trying to reason it out when, from the other side of the door, came an answering “two bits,” followed by a muffled female voice saying, “Ralph, get lost; me ‘usband’s ‘ome,” which I took to mean this was not Reggie the Greek’s place. It also saved me from having to give Jeeves a verbal oneupsman to his last remark. I had “Oh, yeah?” in mind. Instead it was back to the two seater and round the block to a place that looked exactly the last one except for its color and shape, details one couldn’t be expected to remember in a pinch, having taken to heart the earlier instructions to forget it.
This time my “shave and a haircut” summoned a voice more closely resembling a snarl than a whisper, but one I nevertheless recognized. It asked for the password. Lowering the pitch, tenor, and tone of my own voice so as to seem more masculine and to mimic that which I had just heard, I chirped the following: “London Bridges, Picadilly Square, even Shakespeare Canterbury there.”
Once inside, a large dram of brandy dissolved the glaze from Jeeves’ stunned eyes. Reggie, the proprietor, on the other hand, being a man of many moods ranging from dark to black, was not entirely pleased to see us. His first words had something to do with Jeeves’ likely dismemberment and far worse for me if we couldn’t immediately explain our presence and knowledge of the password.
“Reggie, old chum,” I blurted, bucking up with sudden inspiration. “It’s me, Bertie Wooster, and this is my man Jeeves,” I said, turning to my butler and dear companion who was just now coming round to his full senses and was taking this all mutely until I added, “who will explain everything.”
Reggie’s glower, if that word means fierce and menacing, became even moreso as he cast it upon my butler, my ally, and the man I now entrusted with saving my hide.
In some circles, say Trappist monasteries, Reggie might be considered talkative, maybe even verbose, but here a guttural “Speak,” accompanied by an even tighter narrowing of the eyes, was enough to convey his meaning: this better be good.
Jeeves, for his part, seemed unafraid now that the wicket had turned to flypaper and was straightening his back and pulling himself up to full butlerian height, still some half meter shy of Reggie, when I noticed a kind of light appear in the circle directly below his now arching eyebrow.
“Reg? Reg?” Jeeves was suddently aglow with recognition. “Reg Sheepstalker, is it really you?”
I turned back to our host and captor just in time to see his hairline separate from his brows as his eyes opened wide with a degree of interest behind the menace.
“’Tis me, all right, then” he said, Reggie Sheepstalker. “But who the ‘ell are you?”
“You mean you don’t remember me, Jasper Jeeves, from the old gang in the old neighborhood in the old days?” Jeeves ran on, I thought, a bit too pleadingly. “Bully bully bitobearl, let’s tag a bloke and steal his girl,” he added, and I knew I’d remind him of that one later. But as I was looking for a mental pen to write a mental note, if that’s at all possible, hulking Reggie grabs up Jeeves and begins to bear hug him in a manner that makes me fear, if not for his life, then at least for several major organs.
“Jasper Jeeves, Jasper Jeeves,” he’s growling crazily, all the while spinning the fellow about in what I am sure he felt was a masculine, good ol’ boy, hale fellow well met way, but was in fact one that was turning Jeeves a color that only paramedics see on a regular basis. I was looking about for the nearest blunt instrument when Jeeves’ feet returned to the floor and his lungs were allowed once more to partake of their function, a fact noted by the world’s largest inhale. “SSSSSsssshhhhhh” was its sound, and even though a drowning man bursting to the surface could not have made a louder one, it was, in Jeeves’ case, delivered with restraint and dignity. I don’t know how he does that.
“So,” I heard myself venturing boldly on what I surmised was fairly safe ground, “you know each other.” At this, even Jeeves, whom I had never known to guffaw, and I’m sure that’s the word I want, did so loudly as he and the equally heartily guffawing Reginald Sheepstalker stumbled to the other end of the room, arms about each other like tipsy sailors, leaving me to wonder at their familiarity, but also most grateful for it.
Left to fend for myself, as it were, and it certainly was, I took the opportunity to scout the premises and soon found myself several quid down and raising a bet with a poker hand full of nothing to a large gentleman lacking a neck but sporting more than his share of muscles. He had to be bluffing, was my guess, and I hoped that guess a good one as I was decidedly short of the necessary funding and I doubted this fellow would take my marker without first taking my hide. My guess looked to be wrong, and my luck, which I thought had been fairly good thus far this night, run out when No-neck saw my raise and then raised me back by a considerable sum, all the while clenching and unclenching his massive jaw muscles. I was about to fold and take my chances with flight or the miracles of modern medicine when Jeeves reappeared at my side and suggested a further raise, a plan unwise and lacking merit I was sure, but one I hopped to immediately, knowing that if my bluff were called Jeeves’ prowess in the manly art of self-defense would be less than adequate but would be the diversion I’d need to run for help. “All for one” is my motto at times like this, and when Jeeves needs help, I can be counted on to go get some.
Luckily, none of these heroic actions were called for. Something about Jeeves’ quiet assurance and upright bravado must have offset my visibly trembling, card holding hands because the most unlikely thing then occurred. After I raised back, old No-neck jumped to his feet, snarled something with the clarity and style of Boris Karloff’s most famous role containing the words “luck,” “sissies,” and we’re not sure about this last, but we think, “Smoke good,” then threw down his hand and stomped from the table.
“Come back here and say that,” I shouted after him, almost loud enough to be heard. “Jeeves and I will teach you some manners.” I continued, getting louder and louder with each departing footfall until I was at the very top of my whisper, and finishing with “You mindless buffoon.” I was very proud of this last, thinking most people would have gone for the less scholarly “oaf” or “idiot.” Jeeves, however, was not impressed. I could tell because he looked quite askance, if that means vaguely disapproving, and quietly uttered, “Really, Bertram.”
“Really,” I fired right back, but he knew I didn’t mean it.
Still, I was feeling victorious and triumphant, two emotions rare to me that don’t start with E, so I was looking about for a large elephant to ride upon at the head of my legions, when who else should reappear but Addams family lookalike Reggie the Greek with his hairline fully lowered to his eyebrows and his glower progressed from menacing to sinister.
“In a word, Bertie,” he says to me, darkening further and presenting some kind of ledger, “your accounts.”
That was two words, I thought, climbing down from my pachyderm, but not something I needed to point out.
A tip from a former friend of mine named Shady O’Grady had induced to me wager a goodly sum, and I say goodly sum in the sense that any sum that is more than I’m good for is a . . . well, you get my drift, on a horse whose name I can no longer recall and whose fate I hoped was never to sire. It was payment of that loss that I was now confronted with by our grim host and Jeeves’ old pal, Sheepstalker. When one considers the man and his name, one fears not only for himself but for the highland herds and wool futures as well. Though my poker winnings were substantial, they were but half the funds needed at the moment, so once again I called on all my mental resources, which were, as they so often are, in Jeeves’ head. Pulling him a bit to the side, I whispered cleverly, “What do we do now?” It was the “we” that was the clever part. Jeeves responded with my favorite, surely classic phrase, to wit: “Leave it to me.”
Off they went again, my hero and the sheep abuser, but this time they substituted conspiratorial whispers for their earlier guffaws. I was left alone once again to wonder at my fate, which is not a good thing when one tends to expect the worst. I won’t tire you with the grim scenarios my mind chose to give other than mentioning that most were unmentionable. The one, in fact, dealing with the term “drawn and quartered” seemed particularly visual. Fortunately, Jeeves returned in a nonce, if that means quickly rather than some transportation device, which is what it sounds like, and we were soon out the door and back in the two seater making haste and conversation.
I started with “Bully bully bitoberl?” and Jeeves countered with “Canterbury there?” and the truth was soon all out.
The sheep diddler fellow, as I now thought of him, and who is to say I’m far from the truth, and Jeeves had been, unlikely as it now may seem, boyhood neighbors who had struck an equally unlikely friendship by virtue of compatible skills. Jeeves, who as a boy differed only by the addition of the word “spindly” from his description now--tall, pale, and reserved--had then the beginnings of his quick and agile mind. His counterpart Reggie, a boy upon whom puberty had arrived shortly after sandbox, was a mite of muscle. Protection was soon exchanged for homework, book reports, and the like. This arrangement suited them both until middle school when Jeeves was sent to Academy to train for service, leaving Reggie to trade protection for grades directly with his teachers. Needless to say, he was on track to graduate with honors when he heeded his mum’s advice to “do what yer good at.” This advice led him to drop his schooling and pursue his natural calling: a profession listed in the yellow pages under the general heading “Thug.”
“Alrighty, then,” I started, after hearing all this from Jeeves, “but I’m a bit under speed as to why we had this giddy reunion with your old chum in the first place. What were we doing there, if you don’t mind me asking? Surely you weren’t placing a bet,” I mused.
“Actually, Bertram, we came not to wager but to wonder,” said Jeeves, sounding vaguely Latin. “Specifically, to wonder if there was any, I believe the word is “action,” on Lady Paisley’s upcoming golf event.”
“And was there?” I mused again, possibly making me a serial muser.
“Indeed there was, and before we departed there was quite a bit more. Did you know that your Aunt is a three to one underdog?”
“No, I didn’t know that,” I answered, somewhat surprised. “I mean, not that she’s an underdog, but that there’s wagering on the thing at all. If I had known early on, I’d have put a bob or two down on the old girl myself. Now, what with the missing mashie and all, I couldn’t see my way clear to give more than my complete moral support.” This last I said wistfully, if that’s the word I want, trying to sound as if I were following the intelligent course instead of my impulses, a feat I often attempt but never quite pull off.
“Well, act-u-al-ly,” Jeeves started but then trailed off, leaving me no choice but to respond in hyphenated kind.
“Act-u-al-ly what, Old Boy?”
“Actually, Bertram, you do have a small sum invested in the outcome of this weekend’s sporting event. You see, in order to facilitate our exit, or in your case, escape, from Reggie’s emporium, I took the liberty of placing the balance of your debt squarely on Lady Paisley’s nose. A threefold return will get you square with Reggie and leave you with a tidy sum as well. I also agreed to pay something called a vigorish. Perhaps you could tell me what that is.”
I told him about the ten percent commission and all that, then slumped in my seat to better envision my impending demise, but I like the phrase “impending demise” so much that I said it over and over until it had no meaning and I dozed off. I apparently was still saying it, “impending demise,” when Auntie P shook me awake at the end of our drive with an, “Oh, rubbish, quit your sniveling” and a “What have you learned, Jeeves?” I could tell she was happy to see me again.
A bit later, in the study, a room whose principal function has always eluded me, teas once again in hand, I was made an important cog in Jeeves’ plan to unravel the mystery, expose the villains, and regain the missing mashie. My part, critical to the whole plan’s success, was to not get in the way. I vowed to remain incognito if it were nearby.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Instead, when Saturday broke all Britishy bright and damp, I found myself among a small gallery of members, friends, and assorted officials on hand to witness the match. Jeeves was perfectly resplendent: starched, pressed, and properly dressed in white togs matched smartly to the hue of his indoorsman skin, until he added a black waistcoat against the morning chill. That addition gave him the look of a lanky but somehow dignified penguin, if that’s the image I’m looking for, and it seems unavoidable. Jeeves was Auntie’s choice to be on her bag throughout the day, leaving Mulligan, her usual caddie, behind with household chores to attend to. Though Jeeves was a skilled and competent caddie (I always used him as such to save me the cost, not to mention the ridicule of professionals), he seemed to my trained Jeeves-watching eye a touch apprehensive. I noticed an occasional shift of weight from one foot to the other. For Jeeves, this was tantamount to a fidget. To the rest of the gallery, I’m sure he appeared quite implacable, if that’s the word I want, and I’m sure I do though I have only a vague idea of what it means. I wondered if it was the match, the mystery, or the banner across his back that read “Paisley” that was causing his distress.
A “crack,” followed by the oohs and aahs of the gallery and a lone loud voice at the back shouting “You da Aunt!” startled me back from my wonder. Auntie P had just put her ample girth to her cherry wood driver, and the match was underway. As the crowd turned to see which blithering idiot had broken the hallowed rule concerning acceptable golf noises, I noticed among their faces that of Sheepstalker, his crony the Karloffian card player, and, surprisingly, as he should have been attending to duties elsewhere, Auntie’s man Mulligan. Their presence together meant what, I thought. Something . . . something . . . . Where was Jeeves when I needed him? . . . something. I know, “Not good!” I blurted aloud, and the gallery turned to glare at me again.
As the match moved along it became clear why Auntie missed her mashie. Being long off the tee frequently left the dear old girl facing a second shot that was precisely mashie distance from the green. The look of consternation she wore at such times was a near equal to the one Jeeves put on when watching me struggle with some difficult task like tying my shoes. Auntie would consult with Jeeves, then pull a club from her bag that invariably left her a bit short or a bit long. At the turn, she was three strokes down to Lady Plodsforth and had no interest in the tea that players and gallery alike were sharing. Her opponent, on the other hand, was having a spot with her caddie, a bloke whom I gathered by his intimate manner to be that noted huntsman, Lord Plodsforth himself. He appeared quite pleased and full of himself, as if he were the one swinging the clubs rather than carrying the bag. I wondered why he wasn’t out shooting pets.
The tenth and eleventh holes were played even, but on the twelfth Auntie spooned one in from the fringe to get within two. The thirteenth and fourteenth were also halved. On the fifteenth, Auntie rolled in a twelve footer to save par, and a surprised Lady Plodsforth lipped out her shorter putt. Auntie P was now only one hole down with three to play.
I had become so engrossed by the match and my aunt’s courageous performance that I’d completely forgotten the consequences riding on the outcome. I was abruptly reminded of my “impending demise” when on the sixteenth tee I chanced to look up and catch the glower of Reggie Sheepstalker. Threatening and menacing don’t quite capture the look that held my eye, but I stared back unflinchingly. I couldn’t actually, flinch that is, as my eyelids were locked open. I stiffened my spine and called up my own courage and fortitude. “Jeeves, Old Chum,” I called. “Could I have a word with you?”
“What is it, Bertram sir,” Jeeves said as he approached. “You look about to wet yourself.”
I was a bit upset that he recognized my distress, but I let that go to get my message over quickly. “Listen,” I said, hoping I sounded commanding and not pleading, knowing there was little chance. “If you really have a plan, shouldn’t we be using it soon, or maybe even now?
“Not to worry, young Sir,” Jeeves replied. “Madam Paisley’s win is virtually assured. You might even say, if I may borrow a phrase of yours, Bertram, that the match is in the bag.”
With that, he walked back to the tee box, leaving me pondering and perplexed, two words that start with P that reminded me that I’d better find a porto before locking gazes with Sheepstalker again.
When both Auntie P and Lady P knocked their drives at the sixteenth squarely down the center, I became aware how still and quiet the crowd had become. I also noticed that Lord Plodsforth was no longer smiling and smug, but rather more worried and a bit damp looking. He kept wiping a sleeve across his forehead. A mere two or three paces from the nervous Lord stood Reggie Sheepstalker, who had pushed his way to the front of the gallery. He had turned his gaze away from me and seemed instead to be staring at the back of Lord Plodsforth’s head. I was grateful for the respite. I looked about for Reggie’s Karloffian crony and found him standing on my side of the fairway and a few paces from another worried looking chap, one named Mulligan. I was going to wonder what it all meant when the clink of an ill struck iron brought me back to the match. Luckily, I’m easily distracted.
Auntie P had hit over the green into some deep rough, and Lady Plodsforth was in a greenside bunker. Neither player was able to salvage par, but both made sizable putts for bogie. They walked together to the seventeenth, a long par three, Lady Plodsforth still clinging to a one hole lead.
When Auntie’s low three iron chased up the fairway, landing some fifteen or so yards short of the green but rolling on and up and not stopping until it was no more than three feet from the hole, the pressure found her opponent. Lady Plodsforth knocked her drive hard a port, and, when it took her two swings to reach the green, she conceded the hole. The match was now all square with one hole to play, and tension filled the . . . no, that’s not the word I’m after, it’s fear that filled the air. Mine. Could Auntie win the hole without her mashie and save me from the Wrath of Reggie, whose company slogan, “We leave no bones unbroken in search for what yaz owe me,” needs a bit of editing but makes a strong point? Does Jeeves really have a plan?
That’s it, I decided. I can’t wait a Liverpool second longer. I’m not going to rely on Jeeves to save my skin this time. I’ll make my own plan and resolve this crisis decisively. When the first opportunity to take action arises, I will. I’ll run.
I was flexing my knees and committing to this plan when the sound of club to ball brought me back again. Auntie P had smacked another long and true, her ball landing near the center of the fairway, perfect mashie distance from the hole. Lady Plodsforth put wood to her shot equally well, but without Auntie’s great distance. Her ball rolled to rest some thirty yards behind my prodigious relative’s. I postponed my flight.
A cool Lady Plodsforth, being away, was first to hit. I admired her composure as she stood over her ball, some sort of wooden club in her hands, preparing to swing. Her back was to me, and I watched as she calmly went through her complete preshot routine, including a good relaxing shake of her bottom. Her composure may have been admirable, but her waggle was world class. Her swing on this particular try was also a grand thing, and the ball arched high and straight for the green. However, one of the problems that can occur with using a wooden club is the forward spin it applies to the ball. When Lady Plodsworth’s own dimpled sphere arrived at the front edge of the green, true to her aim, it hit and rolled and rolled and didn’t come to a stop until it was caught up in the first cut of fringe, some forty odd feet from the flagstick. It was, nevertheless, an excellent shot, and I was applauding along with the gallery when all pandemonium broke loose. Pandemonium will do that when no one keeps an eye on it.
During the clap (an unfortunate phrase that), I looked to Lord Plodsworth to see what he thought of the shot. He had just picked up Lady Plodsworth’s bag when a browless Reggie Sheepstalker stepped from the crowd and whispered something to him that caused the Lord’s eyes to open large as a Big Bertha head cover. I was counting my blessings—let’s see, one, Sheepstalker seems to have forgotten me, and two, who needs two, one is good enough--when the plan that I had so carefully crafted just a shot or two ago ESPed from my head right into the goggle-eyed Lord’s. He made a sudden but ill-advised, it seemed to me, break for it. I say ill-advised because he was hemmed in by the gallery and there was simply no place to run. His only hope of escape, as far as I could tell, was to crash through somewhere. Of course, that’s when he turned in my direction.
I’m quite sure I was hollering something in capital letters with an exclamation point like, “WAIT!” or “STOP!” or “HOLD IT!” when the panicked Lord crashed into me like a runaway golf cart meeting a stay-at-home tree. We went down in a jumble of bag and clubs, and we both were scrambling to get back up when Reggie, who had been snapping at Plodsforth’s heels, landed atop the pileup with what American officials would call a late hit. He was growling all his pet phrases as he tried to corral the two of us in his long arms, and I could make out the words “Maim,” “mangle,” and “murder” as I snatched up the nearest golf club, squirmed to my feet, and, with upraised arm, threatened the three M’s right back at him. I was bluffing, of course.
“Don’t move a muscle” were the words that cut through the melee and froze me in place, though I thought it a peculiar turn of phrase considering how few I have, muscles, that is. But it was Jeeves’ voice, after all, and he was using that commanding tone he summons before brushing a spider from my back, so I stood my ground. Lord Plodsforth, however, having apparently no fear of spiders at all, once again bolted for freedom, followed by Sheepstalker, in what’s usually called hot pursuit, and I see no reason to call it anything else. The two had just cleared the gallery when, amazingly, they were joined by another two streakers: Auntie’s man Mulligan, who burst from the crowd to join the fleeing Lord, and on his heels Reggie’s pal, No-neck. We all watched breathlessly—Auntie, Jeeves, the gallery, and me—until the chase disappeared over a nearby hill. It was then that I quite suddenly found myself giving off an exhale of approximately the same volume Jeeves had achieved at the end of Sheepstalker’s bear hug. My tormentors were, at least for the moment, gone.
“My dear Madam Paisley” was the next thing I heard above the murmur of the crowd. Jeeves was addressing my aunt, which I knew right off because, if he’d been talking to me, I’m sure he would have used MY name. “Allow me to present you with your missing mashie,” he said. Then, turning and addressing me, see I’ve made my point, he said, tone again commanding, “Bertram, give your aunt her club.”
“Jeeves, old chum,” “I don’t have,” and “Where would I get,” and “Are you?” were some of the things I was about to say when a glance at the shaft in my hand (another unfortunate phrase) revealed the long lost iron. “But how?” I managed to say, twice actually, “But how, but how?” before Jeeves, using his calming tone, stopped me before I but howed again, “Not to worry, Young Sir. I will explain all at the match’s conclusion.”
“The match IS concluded,” came a voice from out of the murmur. “A count of Lady Plodsforth’s clubs, with the inclusion of that mashie, puts her one over the tournament limit. The rules call for disqualification.”
It was Baxter Smallwit, president of Rollinginit Country Club, looking wonderfully puffed and pompous, making this announcement.
I’ve won! I’ve prevailed! I’ve done it all! Found the mashie, bested Sheepstalker, and saved the day, were the first thoughts in my head. I have no idea what just happened, thank God for Jeeves, and how lucky can you get were my next. Nevertheless, I had waited all my life for a moment like this, and I wasn’t going to waste it. I began my Endzone Dance. I call it The Funky Twit in honor of another pet name my aunt has for me, and I was hopping about and flapping my arms quite rhythmically, I thought, despite what appeared to be looks of horror from those about me, when . . .
“I won’t have it,” stopped me in my tracks. All eyes turned to Auntie P. “Lady Plodsforth knew nothing of the stolen mashie in her bag,” she went on, to my growing distress. “It was her dastardly husband, Lord Plodsforth, who was the culprit, and I will not see her disqualified.” Auntie can get all worked up and quite stubborn in that queerly British way when fairness is the issue. I watched as she did that chin up, back-stiffening thing that signifies no surrender.
Smallwit was quickly cowed. “All right then,” he declared with a magisterial wave of his hand and the sinking of my heart, “do play on.”
The match was rejoined, and my demise was impending again. Auntie P hadn’t hit a green from this distance all day, and with the distractions of the past few minutes and the pressure applied by Lady Plodsforth’s good shot, it seemed unlikely she would do so now. Still, she was able to stop me in mid fret. “Bertram!” she barked, “Buck up and hand me my mashie.”
I was startled to see I was still clutching the prized club. I handed it to her quickly, muttering something that came out faintly Australian like, “G’ luck, Dearie,” then stepped aside to watch her play the shot that would decide my fate.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“If you will slow to something a bit under warp time, Master Bertram, I will do my utmost to make it all clear, though I doubt, considering the question of skull thickness, bone density, and all that, that perfect clarity is possible in your case.” Jeeves was shouting at me in response to my “But how?” I wasn’t sure what he meant there, but I slowed the two seater until the wind noise was just under howling.
“Thank you. Now if you will further allow me the privilege of a small dissertation, I will detail the sequence of events as I recall them, leading to the mystery’s conclusion. Perhaps then your questions, like the mystery, will also find an end.”
Jeeves has a way with words sometimes, but I’m not without my own resources in that department. “Sure,” I answered, “dissert away.”
My companion stared at me blankly for a second before a look of something, I think it was wonder, drifted across his face.
“Yes, well the . . .,” he started. “In brief, my first clue was simply the skulking about of that disgrace to the profession, Stuart Mulligan. You see, Mulligan had been out of service for some time, having to do with charges of pilfering, which is why I refused to relinquish our luggage. When I learned that he had recently been in the employ of Lord Plodsforth and, further, that he had received good references from him, I knew something was amiss.”
“But how . . . ?”
“You see, Bertram,” he continued, ignoring me, “if there is something missing and a thief is about, one will most likely have something to do with the other. The question I then asked myself was, Why? Why would Mulligan steal a golf club that was in and of itself not particularly valuable? I had no answer until it came to me as it had earlier come to Mulligan that the club was valuable, but only to Lady Paisley. Without it, she felt she could not win her Club’s championship. Mulligan, having caddied for your aunt, knew of her dependence on the mashie shot. How could this knowledge be useful to him, I wondered, until it dawned. There was indeed a way. Remove the club; then make a wager. It was then that I suggested the trip to Reggie’s emporium.
“But how . . . ?”
“Once there, more of the puzzle came together. I was somewhat bothered by why Mulligan would take the risk. I couldn’t imagine that he could scrape together enough funds to place a bet that would return a sufficient amount to make the caper worthwhile. His position at your aunt’s was a good one and not worth losing over a small sum. And, of course, only a fool or, um, a brave man like yourself, would bet more than he could pay with Reggie Sheepstalker. Though betting is usually a most confidential thing, I traded upon my childhood friendship with Reggie to inquire as to the parties who might be wagering on such a small thing as a country club golf tournament. There were few, but amongst them was a name I knew, and it was not as I expected, that is, Mulligan. It was Lord Plodsforth. The connection was obvious. Mulligan needed Plodsforth to make a really large bet, while Plodsforth needed Mulligan to snatch the mashie, the profits from the wager to be split in some agreed upon manner, The amount they had risked, I should add, on what I am certain they felt a sure thing, was substantial. With the facts becoming clear and, of course, needing an exit, I added your paltry sum in opposition to their bet.”
“But how . . . ?”
“Upon our return to Paisley Manse, I made some further inquiries via telephone to several of my colleagues in service. Through them I learned what apparently Mulligan did not know. Lord Plodsforth was broke. He had frittered away the family fortune riding to the hunt and betting large sums on the outcome with other members of the gentry. My friends had witnessed the money changing hands on many occasions. Lord Plodsforth was now trying to recoup both his losses and Lady Plodsforth’s affection, which he had also lost by his continual elimination of her pets, in one fell swoop.”
“But how . . . ?”
“It was then I devised my plan—two plans, actually. The first required a bit of good fortune to be successful. A calculated risk, if you will. I suspected that Lord Plodsforth, having so much at stake, would want the mashie close at hand to assure that it would not be found and returned to your Auntie Paisley. The only way he could do that and conceal it while caddying would be to put the club in Lady Plodsworth’s bag. I was a touch nervous at the start of play until I was able to edge close enough to spot the club where I had hoped it would be. After that, I knew all would be well. If your aunt had played poorly, I would have revealed the club’s presence much sooner so as to effect the disqualification and put an end to the things. I didn’t know, of course, that your aunt wouldn’t settle for such a conclusion. As it was, the old girl played with such grit and determination that I just stood back and enjoyed the performance.”
“But how . . . ?”
“My second plan, should the mashie not appear in Lady Plodsforth’s bag, was simply to have Reggie and company thrash the two villains until the truth was out. I had alerted Reg to the whole scheme, and he does not take kindly to people who try to beat the odds by fixing a contest to cheat his establishment, especially when they have no ability to pay should they lose. A thrashing was now in order whether for my plan or not; hence the chase.”
But how . . . ?”
“I know what you are driving at. No scene ever plays out exactly as planned, Young Sir. I could not have anticipated Lord Plodsforth’s escape attempt before the match was even decided. I gather that with your Auntie Paisley making her gallant comeback and Reggie whispering his company motto in the chap’s ear, it was simply too much, and he cracked. I also could not have anticipated the excellent tackle you would make at that point, momentarily preventing his escape, but, more importantly, saving the mashie. How you then selected it so quickly from the cluster about you has me yet amazed. You have my highest commendations.”
“Yes, well, er, thank you, Jeeves. Bit of rugby, training, quick thinking, that sort of thing” was all I could mumble to explain my blind luck. I was finally out of “but how’s,” my questions, I thought, all answered. Jeeves, though, had more to say.
“One last thing I must mention, Bertram. Because of my first plan’s success, the match was, I shan’t say “fixed,” let’s say “assured,” in your aunt’s favor. This being the case, your winnings are, of course, forfeited. But you will, I’m sure, agree that it was all worthwhile to save the day and be witness to your aunt’s last shot.
I might have agreed; that is, if I actually had seen the shot.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Auntie has no waggle, which is a good thing. With her size, the air displacement could be threatening. Instead, she employs a kind of club twitching back and forth as she stands behind the ball and takes dead aim down the fairway. Once over the ball, she is as still and steady as the Rock of Ages. Or is it the Rock of Gibraltar? I’m not sure, so whichever one moves the least, that’s the one she’s still and steady as. Her backswing is slow and deliberate as her hips and torso turn into a powerful coil. When she actually swings, it looks a rather leisurely thing, but it somehow imparts terrific force. The ball seems to jump off her clubhead. Even with all the pressure this day had brought—the tournament, the mashie, me standing behind her saying, “Oh please, oh please, oh please”—Auntie was able to bring her best swing to the ball. “Whoosh” was the sound the mashie made as it propelled the dimpled orb into the sky, and “whoosh” was the sound that closed my eyes. I just couldn’t look; there was too much riding on it. Away flew the ball, a thing of beauty, I was told later, that bounced twice lightly on the green and then rolled to the hole, where it gently tapped the flag then disappeared. The crowd’s murmur turned instantly to a deafening roar, and I opened my eyes in amazement. Auntie’s ball had found the bottom of the cup, the match had been won . . . and the Funky Twit was back.
It was all perfect, just, and grand, if that’s the end I’m looking for, and I’m sure it is.