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Chapter Text

The rolling hills of the English countryside seemed to stretch on forever, the cresting of each hill and rounding of each bend on the simple dirt road only revealing more of the infinite farmland. The Wheel of Seasons had begun turning toward Autumn and the greenery of the fields started to take on the gentle change towards yellow, hinting at bright oranges to come, and to the traveling eye it made the landscape appear as a giant’s quilt made from repurposed floral dresses. Of course, the scenery was meant more for a traveler on foot or the passenger rather than the driver of a car. The road winding around stone walls and stubborn shrubbery made for a reasonable caution to monitor. Even with other travelers to watch for, though there had been none in the last hour, one struggled to keep their eyes on the road and not the scenery.

“I hesitate to say it aloud, Jeeves, but I dare say it’s hard to keep one’s eyes on the road,” Bertram Wooster chirped over the growl of the motorcar. His smile, his tone, and his brilliant blue eyes all competed in a brightness competition. “It really is a refresher, isn’t it! I’m not one for sightseeing and all that, but after all that gloom and rain and whatnot in dear old London, I dare say the picture of it nearly makes one forget the whole business of the trip itself.”

“Indeed, sir?” Asked his valet, Jeeves, who was doing a very good job of keeping his thoughts on the road, the driver’s attention span, and his appalling ropework in the backseat all under lock and key while maintaining the veneer of propriety in the presence of his employer. There would be a better time to express that in his usual carefully eloquent and educated manner and it would not come while he was trapped in the passenger seat.

“Indeed!” Wooster agreed, slowing the motorcar ever so slightly at the sight of the lone rabbit standing statuesque at the side of the road. It watched the approaching machine, thought better of its chances crossing the path, and dashed back into the shrubbery. “What with this whole blasted business of my dear aged A sending me out to yet another potential partnership. You’d think, after so many failed attempts to get myself tied down to a noble filly, she would have gone and declared her dratted fool of a nephew a lost cause and finally give up on the whole matrimonial endeavor. At least her influence on the matter.”

“Mrs. Gregson is a woman of great pertinacity, sir,” Jeeves mused. The loss of brightness in Wooster’s tone did not escape his attention. Nor did the arrangement of luggage shifting once more in the backseat as they went over a small pothole. Wooster had insisted on using his knot tying skills he learned at Eton while avoiding class to secure the luggage for the long ride. The talent, Jeeves hesitated to call it such, had returned to his frontal cortex after a conversation on boyhood day held during a recent visit to the Drones’ Club. Currently, only a hatbox was at risk of being lost, though Jeeves would be remiss to allow its absence. Another one of his employer’s hasty purchases in fashion, Jeeves found that it did not become him and would soon follow the same fate as the tacky embroidered handkerchiefs he had commissioned barely a month prior. “I fear she may not give up, as you say, until the young master is secure in a satisfactory betrothal.”

The observation made Wooster look like he wanted to retch. He was not entirely opposed to the concept and spirit of marriage. On numerous occasions he had his hand in organizing, maintaining, and more often than not repairing the engagements of friends and kin alike, though his success in that field was a mixed bag. He himself even considered the prospect with a young woman not too long ago, but Jeeves, his brilliant valet, saw through the rose-tinted spectacles to her more prankish nature and once again saved his young master from an unfortunate engagement. The pattern of events had not entirely escaped Wooster’s attention, though he treated it more as an observation of the past rather than a predictor of the future.

“Mmghyes,” Wooster grumbled. “And the verbal lashing she visits upon me for my failure is nearly as bad as the looming prospect of her choices in matrimony. I say, Jeeves, I’m not a lad so disposed to the idea of it,” he paused. “Is that the word I’m looking for?”

“I believe, sir, that opposed is more suited to your meaning here.” Jeeves supplied.

“Ah yes. I’m not opposed to it, but Aunt Agatha’s ideas for a bride have so far been so…” he flittered his hand in the air between them, hoping to coax the right adjectives out of the ether.

“Ill-fitting and unsuitable, sir?”

“Jolly right! I mean, take the Glossop girl, for example. A woman of that stature I would sooner take as a match at Wimbledon than as a match to the altar. Probably come away with fewer bruises, what. Not to disparage her as a brute, if that’s the word for it, but I suppose fate saw how scrawny the father was and decided to make up the difference with the daughter. It was bally good you thought to hide cats in the flat to scare away my potential in-laws. Bally good.”

“I thank you, sir, but I believe the credit belongs more to your cousins, the Mr. Woosters, who took it upon themselves to stow the apprehended felines in your flat in the first place, along, of course, with Sir Glossop’s stolen hat.”

“Ah yes! That bally well cinched the thing, didn’t it? Brilliant turn of things, it was.”

The motorcar slowed again, this time to prepare for a rather sharp turn. It had almost been enough time to slow to an appropriate speed, the motorcar shifting heavily to the right as it took the turn. In the back seat, the thumps drowned out by the motor, Jeeves watched as the hatbox freed itself from the amateur tie-downs and tumbled toward freedom. The motorcar righted itself as Wooster straightened out, killing the momentum of the box and allowing it to safely secure itself between the door and Jeeves’ own luggage bag. He frowned, as much as an impeccable valet allows himself to frown and accepted that the garish thing would continue to exist in his presence at least for another day.

They traveled a good distance before either spoke again. The gloom on the young master’s face faded immediately as a conversation-inspired idea wormed its way to the forefront of his mind. Jeeves noticed the change telegraphed on his employer's face and braced internally.

“I say…” Wooster began, mostly to himself. He looked at Jeeves and repeated himself. “I say, Jeeves, that just might be the ticket!”

“Sir?”

“It’ll be just as it was with the Glossops. All we need to do is arrange it so the Cairnwrights think I’m an ill-fit for their daughter and Aunt Agatha will have no choice but to accept the fact that there shall be no arrangement.”

“If I may take a liberty in speaking, sir.”

“Oh, of course. Always, Jeeves.” Wooster waved an opening for debate, his head bobbling about in a sort of encouragement.

“While I understand your hesitance in yet another prearranged pairing, I fear that you may be acting too hastily in removing yourself as a prospect for young Ms. Cairnwright.”

Wooster rolled his eyes at his valet, though there was no ire behind his expression. “Jeeves, you have no doubt met the girls my dear Aunt Agatha has found for me. If you thought Honoria would have been a bad match, you should have seen the women she practically threw me at before you arrived at my door. Amelia, Victoria, Liberteria nearly caught me, what. Had to rely on the old Wooster grey matter and Lady Luck to get out of that on my own.”

He looked at his valet for an expected comment, the last name mentioned being unique enough that Wooster surely thought it would trigger the impressive encyclopedia that was Jeeves’ mind. When he was met with silence, he took a chance at reading his non-demonstrative visage and gave him a soft nudge, shoulder to shoulder.

“Oh, come now, old boy. I got out of those stints just as well. With your mighty intellect and my…well, my good luck I suppose, we’ll be out of the thickets before the week is out!” It was an optimistic view, considering it was only Friday morning. Jeeves’ expression did not change, but Wooster took note that the shoulder against his did not feel as stiff as before. “We’ve still got a way to go before the village. Regale me with a story, Socrates! Tell me everything you know about the Cairnwrights. Surely there’s a story or two about them in that club book of yours.”

“I must remind you, sir, that the Junior Ganymede Society is very protective of their stories and revealing such things would request my resignation of the club, not to mention that the next meeting is not for another few weeks, preventing my access to the book entirely.” He paused, allowing the information to be processed. “And I believe you meant to call me Sophocles, sir. Socrates was a Greek philosopher, whereas Sophocles was responsible for a many number of Greek plays, albeit tragedies.”

Wooster puffed himself indignantly. “Well, a tragedy is exactly what this weekend will be if we don’t come up with a plan before the next bend. The Cairnwrights, Jeeves. What do you know?”

Jeeves began telling what he knew, starting about five generations back. He had gotten as far as explaining how Lord Castleberry had died without any heirs and his Court was inherited by his nephew, Lord James Cairnwright, when Wooster made a tittering noise that made him pause.

“Sir?” Jeeves asked innocently.

“Jeeves, not that I don’t love to hear you go on,” Wooster said, choosing his words carefully. “But I was thinking something along the lines of the Glossops and the cats, you know. Something applying to more recent additions to the family bible.”

“I see, sir. Then, perhaps, it would help to know the family tree a little better.” He held up a cautionary but respectful finger when Wooster opened his mouth to object. “I will keep the explanation limited to living parties, sir.” He waited until his employer settled back into his seat before continuing. “There is, of course, his Lord Archibald Cairnwright and his wife, the Lady Matilda. Together, they’ve had three children, the eldest having married sometime last year. As I understand from your aunt, Ms. Theodora Cairnwright is their middle child and is quite taken with the sport of Polo, going so far as to raise a few thoroughbreds, herself, with the help of a local farmer. She took on the interest from her grandfather through her mother, Lord Kitteridge, when he came to visit during her girlhood. Ah, Lord Kitteridge is still alive, sir, but I understand. I will try not to stray from the point. There is also the youngest, Charles, though he has not made much of a name for himself in the world yet, I’m afraid.”

“Bit of a lay-about, then?” Wooster joked.

“No, sir. He is eight, I believe.”

Wooster frowned, his attempt at humor once more inefficient at cracking the veneer of his impeccable valet. “Horses, then?” His frown shifted deeper into disgust as he imagined the animal as a constant presence in his future. “I’m more partial to cricket. A lot less smell to work out of the old sackcloth in the wash, I suppose. Ever ridden a horse, Jeeves?”

“I’ve not had the displeasure, sir. Though I did chaperone my niece to a fete once where there was a pony to ride. The animal, unfortunately, had grown a bit testy at the constant attention, and had to be retired back to the farm after biting the vicar.”

Wooster rolled his eyes. “Well, a terrible animal to be saddled with, regardless. Anything else that may be to our advantage?”

Jeeves thought for a moment. “It may be of use to you in the future to know that the Cairnwrights are quite against the idea of deserting, namely one's responsibility to one’s own countrymen.”

“Oh?” Wooster asked, not quite following. “I don’t quite follow you, Jeeves.”

“It is my understanding, through various rumors I’ve collected over the years, sir, that there was a former Cairnwright, an uncle of Archibald’s, I believe, that was labeled a deserter and had his rank and title stripped from him by the matriarch of the family, Lady Eliza Cairnwright.”

“A deserter, eh? What war was it?”

“It wasn’t a war, sir. It was the village fete.”

Wooster was quiet for the longest stretch he had been for the entirety of the trip, thus far. That is to say, forty seconds, before the answer fully ruminated in his think pan. “The…the fete, Jeeves?”

“Indeed, sir. Lady Cairnwright, Lord Archibald's’ grandmother, felt that the family image in the eyes of the local village was as vital to their status as it was in high society. The family’s participation the annual fete is a key part of that success. Her son, Montgomery I believe, refused to participate in his event, though whether he became disillusioned with the expectation of image, or if he simply had grown tired of participating at all, is unknown to me. From what I hear, she dismissed him from the family thoroughly and then came in second in the Wives’ Race.”

“No,” Wooster gasped, utterly astonished.

“Yes, sir. Lord Cairnwright himself is deaf in one ear as a result of his dedication to the family tradition.”

“What, he became sick with fever as a result of bobbing for apples in a frigid bin?”

“No, sir. Lord Cairnwright was already sick with fever, and, his equilibrium already dashed by it, participated in the Broom Race, which doubled his imbalance. He wandered from the course shortly after the starting gun and traversed through the direct path of the Bucket Toss, wherein he took a beanbag to the ear and ruptured the organ.”

“Good lord, Jeeves.”

Jeeves nodded in agreement. “He came in fifth in the race.”

Wooster stared at his valet for longer than what one could call road safe. Right before Jeeves could comment on it, he blinked and faced forward, his focus back on the road. “Jeeves, how I wish you would have shared that with Aunt Agatha. It could have bally well saved us the trip had she known the whole lot of them were loons.”

Jeeves cleared his throat over the sound of the motorcar. “I regret to say, sir, but it was in fact Mrs. Gregson who shared that particular anecdote with me. She found his Lordships’ dedication to tradition to be quite admirable.”

Wooster shook his head. “The village fete, then— though, Jeeves, it doesn’t escape my notice that every fete I’ve attended was during the springtime.”

“Indeed sir. It is traditional for most villages to host their fetes during the month of May.”

“Well then, I don’t see how knowing about fetes is going to help me in the Fall.”

“Forgive me, sir. My intention was not to educate you on the history of events, rather to lead to the general knowledge of the family. Perhaps, at a later time, knowledge of the former Lord Montgomery may be to your advantage.”

“You think the poor blighter is still about?”

“No sir, but the fact of his existence is indeed considered a blight on the family history and your knowledge of it could be used to dissuade the family’s interest in the union if it were paired with a positive view of it.”

Wooster thought on that for a moment. He nearly broke his record of silence in the process. “You think, if I approved of his deserting, they wouldn’t want me joining the family?”

“Only something to consider, sir. I’m sure we will have more information to collect and apply once we arrive.”

Half an hour and several retellings of the antics of the Drones’ Club members later, they passed over a wooden bridge and onto the land designated as Castleberry-Innsburough. Wooster laughed nervously as the motorcar made contact with stable earth, making some half-comment about the stability of the bridge and how he was surprised it managed to hold them. Jeeves let out a quick “very good, sir” while he privately collected his nerve. While there was a train station relatively near the village, the distance between the two would require either a vehicle or a very good pair of shoes to traverse. It was the reasoning for taking the car in the first place, rather than sending the luggage ahead via train. That, and in preparation should Wooster once again make an absolute ass of himself and be asked to end his visit early. Neither said this explicitly, of course, but it had happened enough times already to have it taken as said. His pride was still wounded, but recovering, from his last visit to Brinkly Court and the unfortunate bike ride he was subjected to.

The village appeared in pieces, at first. A mill there, a shepherd’s cottage here, a barn long since left to become part of the landscape, waiting for some descendant to inherit the land and make something of the warped wooden thing. The village proper came into view shortly after, looking for all intents and purposes exactly how a little English village should. Brickwork buildings, window gardens past their floral period but still green with big leaves, carts loaded with produce, and wood shingled roofs held together by moss and age. And the people, of course. There were people of all sorts. Boys playing, wives and mothers on the move from one errand to the next, old men crowded around a game of checkers in front of the post office. Wooster slowed the vehicle as they passed through, mindful of running children and distracted adults. He himself joined their ranks—the distracted adults, not the children—as he spotted a surprisingly familiar face disappearing into the public house.

“Jeeves, did you see that?”

“Sir?”

“I could’ve sworn I just saw Bingo, of all people! Hang on a tick, Jeeves.”

He parked the motorcar just off the side of the road against a low cobblestone wall. Jeeves remained in the car, used to his employers’ sudden moments of spontaneity, and awaited instruction. Wooster, being a man of above average stature and a singularly focused mind, made a B-line for the front of the public house. The combination of these two facts of his person caused him to completely overlook a man of a much shorter stature with his attention focused entirely on a large map until the two of them had collided just in front of the door. The damage was minimal, both of them traveling at a light pace, and the only lasting sign of it being an extra fold in the map.

“Sorry about that, there. Didn’t mean to run up on you like that,” Wooster apologized, cheery as ever.

“No, no. My fault,” said the shorter man. “I shouldn’t be walking and reading. This map’s got me all turned around.”

Wooster paused, his attention diverted for the moment. The man was out of place in more ways than one. His style of dress didn’t match the rustic aesthetic of the village, but Wooster didn’t need to notice that to know this man wasn’t a local. His voice was gravelly and warm and it was distinctly not British. It was not Scottish or Welsh and certainly not tinted with a Russian accent, which only interested Wooster more.

“Well then, this is a surprise. What’s an American doing this far from the Continent?”

The smaller man smiled and sort of blushed at the comment. “I stand out that much, huh? My wife, she tried to get me to wear something Argyle, but it just doesn’t suit me.” To further his point, he displayed his brown suit hidden under the well-worn tan coat. It did indeed suit him better, much in the same way that patched pants suit a third-born child. “My wife and I are on vacation. Well, it started as a work vacation, but she came with, and then it turned into an actual vacation. See, she’s got a Great-aunt that lives in England, but we got separated at the train station and I got the name of the village mixed up. She went to Irthlingborough. I went to Innsborough. Now I gotta figure out where I am so I can figure out how to get to her.”

The shorter man gestured to the large map again. Wooster, true to his helpful nature, peered over his shoulder. It was indeed a map of England, but not the kind one would use for travel. It was more akin to a piece of wall art a tourist would buy to show off to visiting relatives, to pin on a corkboard with colorful markers skewering the major cities and enticing people to say “Oh, you went to Oxford?” to which the owner of the wall art could say, with a keen smile, “Oh no, I went to a trade school. I did visit, though. Would you like to see pictures?” and they would all chuckle. It didn’t even have roads drawn on. Just cities and towns, not enough ink at the printers for the names of villages. Wooster frowned and knitted his brow, a solution to the man’s problem slow to approach his mind.

“Ah, well, yes,” Wooster stalled, hands in his pockets. “Not a lot to go by, what.”

“Yes, sir. It’s quite vexing,” the smaller man agreed.

“Say now, if you were to-”

“Bertie!”

The two men were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a redheaded man bursting out of the public house entrance, his familiar face split by a wide grin. Wooster greeted the man warmly.

“Bingo! I thought I saw you dip in there! What on earth are you doing here? Tutoring again?”

“Alas, it is the case. Oh, the Glossops felt like I ran out of things to teach their little brat, save for manners, and I found work over here. When did you get in?”

“Just a few moments ago!”

“And the circumstances?”

“Oh, the usual business.” Wooster shook his head, a look of playful tiredness on his face.

“Ah well. Woe is you. Already making friends, I see.”

Wooster paused, followed Bingo’s gaze, and remembered the shorter man with a start. “Ah, yes, sorry, I didn’t catch your name. Bertie Wooster, at your service. And you are, Mr…?”

“Oh, ah, Lt. Columbo.” The shorter man said, taking the offered hand and shaking it. “You were about to tell me something?”

“Hm? Oh yes. If you know where you and your wife are staying, I suppose you could telephone them. Of course, that’s a ways off. Could ring up quite the bill doing that. Better send a telegram instead.”

Lt. Columbo smiled at that. “A telegram, huh? Jeez. That’s what I like about these little places; you get off the beaten path, get out of view of the city, and it feels just like you’ve travelled back in time. Thank you, Mr. Wooster. You have a good day.”

“And you have a safe trip. Ta-tah!”

They went their separate ways, the two friends back to the motorcar and the American off towards the post office. Bertie walked confidently, assured that this was a rare treat of international friendliness and that neither of them would ever see the other again.

Chapter Text

The weather was pleasant, the drive had been long, and the distance to the manor house wasn’t too terribly far from the village. All these facts combined encouraged Wooster in his decision to send Jeeves ahead with the luggage-laden motorcar while he walked the distance with Bingo. Another challenge to his bachelordom waited at the top of the hill and he could do with a good leg-stretch and chin-wag before facing that. Besides, it had been a good while since he had last seen his dear friend Richard Little, his frustration with the man over their last encounter having long since diminished with time. Now they could laugh warmly over his position of last place in the Older Gentleman’s race, an event he was easily 40 years too young for.

“Did that lovely lass that distracted you end up meeting you at the pub later?” Wooster asked his friend, his tone still teasing.

“Oh, no,” Bingo mused half-heartedly. “We did meet, but, well, interest faded with the day and…I suppose it wasn’t meant to be.”

“On to the next would-be Mrs. Little, then,” Wooster said. He rolled his eyes while Bingo was distracted picking up a walking stick from the shrubbery. “I swear, Bingo. What it must be like to be a lad so passionate and so-” He hesitated, trying to remember the right word. Jeeves had said it just the other day. “Capsaicious?”

“What’s that mean?” Bingo cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Erm, quick to change?”

“Ah, well, Man is a slave to his own heart.” He smiled to himself, a warm glow blooming on his cheeks. “Learned that one just the other day.”

Wooster nearly rolled his eyes again, but stopped. He locked onto his friend with a hopeful stare. “You’re in love again, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes, Bertie. I’m madly in love!” Bingo picked away at some loose bark on the stick, a brilliant grin across his face.

“With Theodora?”

Bingo made a face, very similar to that of a child who, upon eating a green piece of candy, expected to taste apple and received broccoli, instead. Quickly, he caught himself and reeled in his expression to something more suited to polite society, especially over the subject of the daughter of his most recent employer. The journey of facial expressions was not missed, and Wooster let his own despairing one show. He had hoped it would be just like the situation with Bingo and Honoria, only successful this time. So much for that back-up plan.

They had reached the base of the hill that was the start of the Castleberry Court Grounds, the gravel-dirt road staying the same, but the green grass shifting suddenly from shaggy to pristinely trimmed as they passed the border of a low stone wall. The incline was gradual, barely noticeable at all, but Castleberry Court loomed in the distance all the same.

“Well, she’s an upstanding girl, alright,” Bingo said, at last finding the right words to begin with. “Respectable young lady.”

“Pretty?” Wooster tried.

“Certainly,” Bingo admitted, much in the same way one agrees the sky is very blue today.

“And, she is not the young lady you are currently infatuated with?”

“Oh, heavens no!” Bingo started, then once again collected himself. “Adelia, the barmaid. Oh Bertie, she is lovely. Like a dream!”

“Another barmaid? Really, Bingo.”

Wooster stifled the urge to shake his head. Something in the action knocked something loose and made him recall, in that moment, he meant to say capricious earlier. Truly, the word fit his friend to a T in at least matters of romantic interests. Not a single girl lasted more than a fortnight in his heart before he was on to the next infatuation, whether the girl was aware of it or not. It was most frustrating to aid him in the name of friendship over such things. A matchmaker would find themselves in the company of Tantalus and Sisyphus should they try to find a match for the man who could love like Richard Little and yet be so cowardly as to never speak his affections.

He could certainly speak at length of his thoughts on the matter, though, especially to his friend. Accepting that his chance to correct his vocabularic error had passed and the subject needed to be changed before Bingo could risk waxing poetic, Wooster cleared his throat and straightened out.

“How long have you been with the Cairnwrights, old boy?

Bingo, his eyes glazed over with thoughts of his love sharply coming back into focus, cleared his throat as well, and shoved his free hand into his pocket. “Oh, nearly a month now. Most of the time, I’m trying to get Charles to put down his cricket bat and study. I swear, he must sleep with the thing like a teddy bear. His mother sometimes has to wrestle it from him before supper.”

“Oh? Must make for a talented athlete, then?”

“As much as a nine-year-old can be, I suppose. Best not touch it if a match starts up. He’s dressed it in a cloth to tell it apart from the others. Told me it keeps the luck in, too.”

“Well, to each their own interests and all that,” Wooster chimed. “So long as I don’t have to give up my place at the dining table for a cricket bat. So, is it just you and the family, then?”

At this, Bingo betrayed some of the exhaustion hiding just below the surface and didn’t bother to hide this either. “Oh Bertie, it’s just been a parade! I wouldn’t mind a few relations visiting, it’s not my manor house after all, but I think this will be the first quiet weekend they’ll have had since I started!”

Wooster blinked. The manor house up ahead, like most he had seen, stood firm, quiet, and still. He couldn’t picture the place being overrun with visitors, even at the height of the holidays. “I’m afraid I can’t picture it, old boy.”

“Aunts, uncles, legions of nephews and distant cousins. I made the mistake of asking the connection of one of them during supper one night, and it wasn’t until the third course was nearly finished did he finally explain that they weren’t relatives at all! Their fathers, or uncles, or groundskeepers maybe, were boys in school, together.” He sighed, reliving the unfortunate evening. “Well, it’s calmed down some, at least. Center of the storm, or whatever the phrase is. Elizabeth and her husband are visiting for the month. Albert Fetterling is his name.”

“Another Bertie? Oh, that could be confusing.” Wooster mused.

Bingo waved the stick to cut off that train of thought. “Ah, best not, old chap. Old Fetters is a stiff fellow. Not one for nicknames of any sort. I tried giving him one the first night and I thought he was going to break my face from the look on his mug. Won’t call others theirs, either. Every time it’s ‘Mr. Little this’ and ‘Mr. Little that’. Chap has a talent for making a person feel a bit, well….”

“Small?” Wooster offered. He was met with a half-smile that said well enough.

They walked a little distance in silence, now halfway up the drive. Wooster took a moment to appreciate the scene, or at least what there was to appreciate. Most of the area was lawn, bordered by a combination of oaks, willows, and a few variety of trees he didn’t know the names of but would have to ask Jeeves about, should he remember it later. There was a statue of a horse that served as a roundabout near the front of the house, but at this distance, he did not see anything special about it. Granted, he was not one to appreciate statues even at a close view, so the decor held his attention for only as long as it took to register that it was there.

To the north side of the property, the slope of the hill was much more pronounced. The lawn was maintained, no doubt a feat the groundskeeper should be commended on, regularly, for pulling off, and continued down the slope about twenty yards. There, the lawn was absorbed by the shade of a long copse of trees. Briefly, he caught sight of some water flowing, perhaps a river or a very large creek. The sight reminded him of another time he and Bingo crossed paths, and the unfortunate swim he was subjected to, in the attempt to help him woo his affection, at the time. For now, he would leave the investigation of the grounds to someone else.

“Oh, there’s also another fellow visiting,” Bingo said suddenly, as if just now remembering the man. “Not a relative. An associate of his Lordship? I’m a bit fuzzed on the details. Only see him at dinner. Try to avoid him, mostly. He’s a bit…um, what’s the word? Preachy?”

“Man of the cloth?” Wooster asked.

“No, not the sort. Military, maybe. His name escapes me, though he puts me in mind of a potato.”

“A potato?” Wooster frowned, clearly confused. “In appearance, then?”

“Perhaps. Like a spud.” He chewed the inside of his lower lip, trying to work out the right words, or the forgotten name. He stopped immediately as they got close to the manor house. “Ah, there’s the fellow now.”

Wooster followed his friend’s gaze up towards the front entrance. His midsection grew tight and ice-cold. Their last encounter wasn’t that long ago, but even if decades had passed between meetings, it would be too soon. Walking just past the large horse statue and towards the front door were two men. One was hunched slightly with age—balding and barely holding onto what was left of his white hair around the lower half of his scalp—and dressed in a fine black tailored suit. It put one in mind of the kind of mortician only found in the illustrations of ghost stories, though his face was nowhere near as gaunt as that. Beside him, dressed in a dark brown suit and a hunting cap, was a man with a harsh face, sharp eyes, and a mustache Wooster often saw in his nightmares. His cousin Gussie had been right on the mark when he described it as if someone had squashed a fat fly on his upper lip. It was to his mild relief that neither man took notice of the approaching two, instead they were clearly deep in conversation as they disappeared into the fancy abode.

“Spode…” Wooster gasped. It was barely a whisper, but his companion heard the name and snapped his fingers.

“Ah! Yes! Spode, not Spud.” His relieved smile faded as he took in his friend's distraught expression. “Something wrong, Bertie?”

Wooster let his mouth hang open for a moment before pulling himself together, taking the stick from his friend, and plastering on a smile that absolutely did not meet his eyes. “Well, won’t this be an adventure, eh? By Monday morning I’ll either be wed to a strange woman, beheaded by a child with a cricket bat obsession, or dead at the hands of the Amateur Dictator. Well, best to go in armed, what?”

Wooster tested his swing just above the ground, sending a few loose pebbles skittering across the drive. One of them collided with the base of the horse statue and cracked loudly. The statue, thankfully, did not shatter into a thousand pieces and create one more problem for him to be blamed for. The pebble did, however, hit a corner and ricochet hard enough to bounce back and smack him square in the shin. As Wooster checked the damages from his prone position on the ground, he vaguely hoped that this would be the only blood drawn this weekend.

***

Sending a telegram proved to be a much more cost effective decision than attempting to pay the bartender to use his telephone for a long distance call to Irthlingborough. It would take the better part of a day, by car, to get there from here, according to his questionable tourist map. It also meant a lot of cable and connections and even more waiting for the Lt.’s wife to answer the call, all that time running up the bill the bartender would no doubt be minding closely.

Time was better spent waiting in said pub with the friendly company of the locals coming in for lunch, and then later, for an early supper. Lt. Columbo had been nursing a pint for the majority of the afternoon, taking sips of water in between. He would have preferred a wine, something imported, with a good vintage, but the mere suggestion of a drink not containing any hops or barley made the grizzled face of the bartender scrunch.

At first he just watched the ebb and flow of regular visitors while he listened to the pub’s radio. After a while, though, the monotone report of the news faded into background sound as the din of conversation grew. He had taken an open spot at the bar, because it had been mostly empty when he came in, but now farmfolk and their kin started to take up the space around him, not quite crowding him, but approaching it. Arms and elbows bumped, sometimes leading to apologies, and once or twice a few additional sentences would be exchanged between him and the local. Only once, however, did an encounter with another patron of the pub lead to a full conversation. It wasn’t long before Lt. Columbo had taken up a table off to the side with a fellow man in blue. Or, in this case, black, as was the uniform of the local constabulary.

“Scotland Yard? You mean the force, or the building itself?” the constable, who introduced himself as Thatcher, asked over a pint. His shift had ended and he popped in for a quick bite and a nip before turning in for the night.

“Well, I suppose I mean the force,” Columbo said after a bit of hemming and hawing. “And it wasn’t just a visit. My department—they wanted to send me over so I could learn a thing or two about how the boys here operate. Cutting edge technology, I’m told.”

“Oh, I see,” Constable Thatcher said. He sipped his lager, his thick reddish-brown mustache narrowly avoiding a coating of foam. The feature deceived the viewer into thinking he was older than he actually was. “And was it?”

“‘Fraid I couldn’t say. I wasn’t there an hour before being pulled into a case.”

“Hm, pity. I could use a few tips of the trade. I’m a bit green at this myself. Uncle is the Sergeant, you know. Brought me in because he needed an extra hand when the festivals started up, and then he kept me on because he liked the company, I think. There’s only four of us on the force.” He paused, perhaps remembering something, perhaps to savor another sip of lager. “So, did you solve the case?”

“Oh sure. Had to do a bit of leg-work, most of it was sorting out the story of an umbrella the victim owned. In hindsight, I’m glad the training was derailed; I mean this nicely, no disrespect to the boys in London, but I think they would have passed the death off as an accident if I hadn’t happened to be there.”

“What tipped you off?” asked Constable Thatcher, leaning forward slightly. “You see, this is a peaceful village. The last time anyone spent the night in the gaol, the old guestroom, my uncle calls it, was when a pig farmer and his neighbor got into a tiff over a sow in the radish patch. It would be easy to get, well, a bit lax about things in a place like this.”

Lt. Columbo ruminated on this for a moment. It had been about a week since then, and there was a lot to the case that had tipped him off. What was the first thing that bothered him about it? The theater actress’s reaction to the funeral, in the presence of the press, had been odd. The fact that her and her husband’s alibis had the exact same wording, as if rehearsed together? No. He knew this was a murder before he even met the pair.

“It was a few things. The victim, you see, he was found dead in his home at the bottom of the stairs. Butler found him, I think. The man I was with, his nephew-in-law and the Chief Detective Superintendent, too, as a matter of fact, he believed that the old man went down from his study to get a snack and tripped on the stairs.”

“And that was suspicious?”

“It was when we found his reading glasses in his breast pocket. Intact. You’d think they would have at least broken a lens from the fall. But now that I think about it, what first tipped me off was the matter of a book. First edition Alice in Wonderland book, if you can believe it. The man was a collector, he knew how to appreciate things, and yet this book he was supposedly reading was left open, face down on the table. That sort of thing can damage the spine of the book. The Superintendent saw that and believed it evidence of the story told to him about an accident, but that’s when I knew the scene had been staged; no man who collected rare books would dare leave one out where it could get damaged like that.”

Constable Thatcher shook his head, stunned. “And you knew the theater actors had killed him from that?”

“Oh, no. I learned that later. But that’s the thing about my work. I work in homicides, I don’t think I mentioned that yet. I get called in for what looks like an accident, sometimes, mostly as a formality, and then something just jumps out at me. It’s the little things, they bother me. The way things are laid out, the way people react to what others say; something about it will feel off and it’ll nag at me until I figure out why. Or,” he chuckled to himself, “until I annoy my wife and she figures it out, instead.”

The younger officer looked like he was readying himself for another question, or preparing to discreetly belch, when the bartender called for the Lt.s’ attention. Columbo turned that way and approached, once the man gave him a somewhat annoyed wave.

“Yes?”

“Telegram for ye’,” the grizzled bartender growled out over the din. Columbo took it as him being a smoker, and not as any personal dislike for the American. “Postboy just brought it in.”

“Oh, thank you,” Columbo said, taking the letter. “I told the gal at the post office I would be here. Thank you.”

The Lt. waited until he was safely back at his table before reading the telegram. After a minute, he smiled. It was not a pleased smile. It was more of an indescribable emotion that one only sees on the faces of those who have been married for many many years to a person with quirks and cons and pleasant traits that made married life equal parts charming and infuriating.

“Can you believe that?” Columbo said, mostly to himself.

“Y’alright?” Constable Thatcher asked. He popped a potato chip—they call them crisps here, Columbo reminded himself—into his mouth.

“My wife made it to Irthlingborough.” Columbo presented the little slip of paper to his companion, who took it gingerly with his non-eating hand. “Says she’ll wait with her aunt for me to catch up to her. I’m on my own.” He clicked his tongue. “That station outside of town, does it have a train that goes to Irthlingborough?”

Constable Thatcher thought for a moment, his frown showing under his mustache. “Erm, lemme see. Hrm, no, I think they changed….” He rambled as he looked about the room. Eventually his eyes landed on a graying man making his way back to his friends with several pints balanced between his hands. “Ah, Brumes!”

The man, Brumes apparently, jumped at the call of his name and the drinks he carried sloshed foam over their rims. “Eh?”

“Got a question for ya.”

“Aye?” Brumes sarcastically asked, clearly wanting to be done with this small task before finishing his more important one. Constable Thatcher huffed, but proceeded anyway.

“Where does the train go from here?”

“Swindon. Next one tomorrow, just after eleven.” With that, Brumes made off for his own table before Thatcher could ask him a follow-up question.

“Well, there you are from the station master hisself. Sounds like you’ll be staying the night, eh? Have you got lodgings?”

Columbo shook his head. “I don’t suppose there’s an inn in Innsborough?”

“There are some rooms to let out here in the public house, I’m sure. I’ll ask Adelia about it for you. But first, I want to hear more about your trip to the Yard. You mentioned a lab, of sorts. Bally-sticks?”

“Ballistics,” Columbo corrected. “I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention to that part of the tour. Not one for firearms.”

“Ah, well, neither am I, I suppose. Billy Club works just as well and I’ve yet to use it myself. Well, on people. Had to arrest a goose once. Ornery old fellow, that was.”

Columbo smiled. “Now that sounds like a story worth sharing.”

As he listened, he ordered a meal for himself when the barmaid came round to collect his empty glass. Thatcher sweet-talked her for a bit before remembering his promise to secure a room for the Lt.

It was a nice room, all things considered. It had a bed and a light and clock, which really was all a man needed while he waited to catch a train. He had finally acclimated to the time change and fell asleep quickly to the low sound of a public house winding down for the night.

Chapter Text

While the trip so far proved ominous in its potential for chaos, it was not yet enough of a current disaster to send Wooster back to his welcoming flat in London. By the time he had recovered from his unintended action of self-harm via a returning pebble, his potential future father-in-law and his potential future pain-in-the-rear had moved further into the manor house and away from the foyer. Instead, waiting for them, was the lady of the house, Lady Matilda Cairnwright. Regal in dress, befitting of her title, and wearing her silvering brown hair up in a tight woven bun. The feature made her face appear tight, as well, and put him in mind of a cat being pet too aggressively. She smiled at him, a standard cordiality for a guest, and held her hands clasped tightly together by her stomach.

Behind her stood Jeeves, no doubt already finished in his tasks of preparing the young masters’ room, greeting the lady of the house, and far more Wooster could only boggle at should the impeccable valet list it for him. His face was its usual mask. If the man had already manifested a plan to escape the impending betrothal, it was not telegraphed to Wooster in that brief moment of eye contact.

Instead, Lady Matilda commanded the attention of the men present. She greeted Wooster, dismissed Jeeves to prepare for drinks in the parlor, and commanded Bingo to track down her son for his afternoon lessons in quick succession. Both men followed the commands obediently, one in the demand of his feudal spirit, and the other possibly out of fear of his employer, and in a matter of seconds, Wooster was alone with the impressively oppressive (or perhaps oppressively impressive) matron of the manor.

Wooster was born with the gift of gab, though the manner of it truly being a gift and not a curse on others was a topic of debate for those that knew him. He could talk at length, expositing long yarns on the subject of most any errant thought that passed through the echo chamber between his ears. Random recollections of boyish pranks told in garden path sentences, realized to be better kept to himself only after the consequences of the confession were made manifest. Occasionally, he was smart enough to utilize this trait to his own advantage. That is, if he could get a word in edgewise.

Lady Matilda did not allow for conversation and, therefore, a chance for Wooster to make an ass of himself right from the word Go. Castleberry Court possessed a storied history, at least in her eyes, and Lady Matilda was intent on sharing it uninterrupted as they walked. Wooster tried, he really did, but she either didn’t hear his attempts at interjections or simply didn’t care to listen to him. He was helpless as she led him further into the richly decorated building, deep in the retelling of how the wood trimming was added to the rooms over the course of several generations.

It came to a surprise to him that he would long for this tortuous tour once he was passed along to be entertained by Theodora. The reason she wasn’t in the foyer waiting to greet the new guest, was because she was preoccupied with her hobby. The entire sitting room was decorated in her works. Now, one could admire the hobby of a painter or a quilter, even at an amateurs’ level. There was a certain charm to someone’s first attempt at a mountainscape covered in snow and dotted with what the artist insists are supposed to be little patches of pine trees, but look for all the world like a flock of toupees migrating south in the foreground. If there was charm to be found here, it was lost on the Last of the Woosters. He came out of the distracted haze of the historical tour and into a chamber of thousands of staring, glassy eyes.

Theodora was a taxidermist. Self-taught, if one had to go by the evidence presented. The high walls were dotted with deer, goats, a few bulls, and one elk, to his immense surprise. It must have been imported. There were also many, many birds. Pheasants, hawks, owls; the deer antlers over the mantle were decorated with a small flock of sparrows. Theodora also dabbled in reptilian taxidermy, though her skill with this was mixed. Draped over the mantle was an impressively sized Boa with a small army of mice running along its flank, perhaps in the rough pantomime of the narrative of a folktale on display. In a case next to that was a taxidermied amphibian that reminded Wooster of Jeeves during the few instances he truly managed to offend the man's feudal spirit.

The branch of the animal kingdom she was least skilled at was that of local quadrupedal predators, Wooster noted when he took an offered seat on a sofa. Perched on an end table, positioned in a place of honor, was a fox. At least, it was when it was alive. The expression on this new form of the vexed vulpes vulpes looked, not to be too crass, but in desperate need of some prunes. The glass eyes did not match, the mouth was too wide, and the frame underneath was too small in too many places to ignore, as if anything in this room could be ignored at all.

“One of my first works,” Theodora said, her voice shy and quiet.

“Is it?” Wooster boggled and forced a smile. She had caught his staring and mistook it for admiration. “I can tell! Heh. Hm. Um, do you…hunt them yourself?”

“Oh, no. I find them, mostly.”

“...Find them?” His eyes darted to the elk again.

“Oh yes. In the forest.” Theodora smiled then, as if that was enough of an explanation.

Wooster was born with the gift of gab, but it failed him in the presence of Theodora Cairnwright. Bingo was right; she was pretty, but off. She wore her dark chestnut hair in a short curly bob. It framed her impossibly pale green eyes well. Her face had two smiles, in a way. The more natural one was painted with a light burgundy shade and the other came in the form of a dusting of freckles over the bridge of her nose. She was of a smaller frame and sat shyly, her shoulders resting a little bit forward as her tiny hands rested on her crossed legs. She was pretty, quiet, and polite. She seemed to appreciate the lull in conversation, relaxed by it even. It was a good sign in a relationship, to be able to pass silent moments together with nothing but the ticking of a grandfather clock to fill the space. Less so for first meetings that, by the powers of aunts and future in-laws, were intended to determine the possibility of proposals.

She also stared. It wouldn’t be as unnerving if she had brown eyes, or blue, or even a rich hazel-gray with gold flecks in the right light. The pale green hue made it feel scientific somehow, examining him much in the same way a, oh what was the word? Lapis–lipid–, oh whatever those odd ducks that collect dead butterflies are called. Woosters' eyes gave a quick scan around the room for a display of them.

“I quite like your eyes,” Theodora said suddenly. In the silence, any comment would feel sudden.

“Oh, is that so, Dorie?” The attempt at giving a nickname helped hide the tremor in his voice. Had he said something aloud about hers to trigger the thought? Would it be unreasonable to ponder if she could hear his thoughts in this silence? See them telegraphed with her great staring eyes?

“Yes. They remind me of a hound I had when I was a girl.”

Before Wooster had a chance to express confusion or offense at the comment, Theodora directed his attention to a corner of the room he could not see until sitting down. Standing there, as if waiting at attention for a command from its master, was a dog. Wooster nearly jumped out of his skin when he locked eyes onto it. Or, really, when it locked eyes with him.

It was a hound, a pointer, with pale glassy beads for eyes. They were indeed a match to his own. The resemblance was uncanny. They boggled at each other and it took far too long for Wooster to be sure that this animal was not about to spring forward and chase him out of the hall, down the hill, and all the way back to London. Instead, Wooster let out a noise that was somewhere in the area of a squeak, grunt, and groan.

“Very, um…lifelike,” he forced out. “You did that yourself?”

“Oh no. Father helped. I was much too young to hold some of the tools.”

Silence was preferable to whatever came from follow-up questions. If his shin didn’t still ache a tad from earlier, Wooster would suggest a walk around the garden. As it was, he wasn’t up for much of a walk, nor was he keen on staying in that room for much longer. Instead he asked if there was a music room (thank the Heavens there was!) and decided to work out some of his nerves on the old ivories. Theodora did not follow, instead electing to return to her hobby which, Wooster realized upon taking his leave, was the preparation of little clothes. Far too small for an infant. No, these were meant for the mice on the mantle, surely.

Suppertime came round just as Wooster managed to shake the image of those staring, pale-blue dog eyes from his mind. Jeeves had selected a nice black suit for the occasion, one of his favorites, though Wooster was somewhat sad that he no longer had his monogrammed handkerchiefs to decorate the breast pocket. He thought they were spiffy, but Jeeves disagreed, going so far as to burn them once he had the opportunity to do so. Of course, he only revealed that fact after Wooster had given him permission to throw them out. Still, one more tally for Jeeves in their Cat-and-Mouse game.

“Jeeves,” Wooster said, applying his cufflinks as he inspected himself in the mirror.

“Sir?”

“You’ll be pleased to hear you won’t need to persuade me against my own affections. Nooo, sir!”

“Indeed, sir?” Jeeves asked. There was a twitch of a smile there; Wooster saw it in the mirror.

“Well, not like it was something we were worried about in the first place, what?”

“Indeed, sir,” Jeeves repeated in affirmation.

“Now’s the trouble of finding a way to make Dorie feel the same. Bingo’s out of the running. Old chap’s gone and gotten himself wound up in silent amor for a girl in the village. Besides, he’s seen Dorie’s ‘hobby’ room.” The last part came out in a groan.

“I did happen upon the displays while bringing out afternoon tea. Ms. Cairnwright does seem to have a passion for the art. I understand that his Lordship requested the majority of the collection be kept in the sitting room and only the finest pieces be allowed to stand as decor elsewhere. Some of her earlier pieces, em, unnerve some of the staff,” Jeeves said carefully. He selected a white handkerchief from the closet and placed it in his employer's breast pocket. With his usual grace and delicacy, he pulled and adjusted the corners until it sat as prim and unwrinkled as if it were made of the purest marble.

“Well?” Wooster asked.

Jeeves inclined his head. “Sir?”

“Well, I say. Jeeves, I have trouble believing you haven’t already formulated pots of plans in that fish-fed mind of yours. Out with it, man!”

“I regret to say, sir, but I have not learned much other than what I’ve exposited on earlier. You may recall my mention of the deserter uncle?”

“Ah, yes! Old uncle Monty! Nearly forgotten the chap. I imagine the family would prefer it,” he added, smiling to himself.

“It would seem most likely, sir. However, I have learned that that tactic may not prove useful to you just yet. Nor would mention of your disinterest in taxidermy. I’ve learned from the staff that appreciation of the craft is not a requirement of residing amongst the Cairnwrights. It would, however, encourage you in your endeavors to keep in mind that if Ms. Cairnwright was to be your bride, her works would no doubt decorate the whole of the newlywed home.”

Wooster allowed that thought to reside in his head long enough to grow sick. He shook himself to be rid of it. “Jeeves, I permit you to have a say in my choice of dressing. I’ll thank you not to dictate the narrative of my nightmares, too!”

“If you insist, sir. I only make mention of it as I’ve learned it is best that you should not speak at dinner tonight.”

At this, Wooster blinked, knitted his brows in amused confusion, and shook his head at his valet. “Jeeves, how am I to prove I’m unfit to join Theodora’s collection of staring things if I’m to keep my mouth closed? No, I won’t hear of it. I’ve had too much of the gallery of silence to permit another showing. I must cut into anything Bingo would say in favor of my character. Theodora, too!”

“And Sir Roderick Spode, sir.”

Wooster had meant to leave with the last word, having made his way for the door as he spoke it. At the mention of his mortal enemy, Wooster froze mid-stride and his confidence left him the same as the buoyancy left a ship in the heat of battle. Well, far quicker than that, and he didn’t need a torpedo to do it. Mere mention of the man was more than enough.

“Oh, dash it. I’d forgotten about him, too. Well, at least that one is easily solved. Think that codeword that reduces him to a quivering jelly of apologies still works, Jeeves?”

Jeeves looked to the ceiling, a gesture which Wooster had learned represented the man accessing his infinite encyclopedic knowledge on any subject ever asked. Wooster both admired and feared the depth of his mind, much like how a sailor would the sea. He knew that if he ever found himself within the confines of that maze of a mind, Wooster would starve before finding his way out.

“I would say so, sir. Mr. Spode is still involved with his gaggle of followers, the Black Shorts. It would not benefit him if they were to learn of his more private interests.”

“Hmmyes. What the devil is he doing all the way out here, anyway?”

“From what I understand, sir, it is related to your last encounter with Mr. Spode. Do you recall your brief arrest following the Bassett’s fancy dress Ball some weeks ago?”

“Oh, well, yes of course. With Stiffy pinning that nicked policeman’s hat on me.” Wooster recalled bitterly.

“Yes, sir. I had engaged Mr. Spode to take credit for the indiscretion, upon threat of exposing the meaning of Eulalie, in your stead. It, unfortunately, resulted in Mr. Spode losing some favor with Lord Bassett and he has had to find a beneficiary to his cause elsewhere.”

Wooster’s hand fell from his hips and his shoulders slumped, the gears in his head clanking away as he made connections. “Do–do you mean to say, Jeeves, that Old Cairnwright is one of his blasted Black Shorts now?”

“No, sir. Only that Mr. Spode wants him to sponsor them.”

“Oh. Any success?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to play it by ear, then. Thanks for the tip, and for the reminder about Eulalie. Erm, it is Eulalie, is it?”

“Precisely, sir.”

“Ah, bally good, then! Best to go in armed, eh Jeeves?”

Wooster headed for the dining hall, pleased that he could make the same joke twice in a day. Jeeves went off to assist with the serving of courses, as was expected of his duties. Wooster took his time arriving, having had to avoid hallways that even remotely looked like they could harbor a decorative mounted head in the meager hope to not be reminded of those staring blue dog eyes. He entered the room just as seats were being taken and took that opportunity to sit beside Bingo.

The seating arrangements were no doubt to his advantage. On his side was Bingo and Albert Fetterling, a man he should absolutely not call “Fetters” at this close distance, and young Charles. Sans cricket bat. Heading the ends of the table, as to be expected of propriety, sat Lord and Lady Cairnwright. Across the table, acting exactly as the barrier Wooster hoped it would be, was Elizabeth Fetterling, Theodora, and Roderick Spode sitting closest to his Lordship. The latter of the three seemed to register the arrival in waves. Acknowledgement, then confusion, then rage. Wooster had seen it too many times in his life, most from his school days at Eton. He braced for the outburst.

When it didn’t come, Wooster chanced a peek. Spode sat silently fuming, his frown so tight, all that was left of it was his squashed-fly mustache. There was also his right hand gripping his napkin, which was red in the palm and white at the knuckles, and Wooster silently thanked someone above that it was not his butter knife.

The first course came, a triplet of Devils-on-Horseback on fine china, and was soon cleared with nary a mention of the quality of the flavor of the meat nor a question of whether the stuffed fruit portion inside it was a date or prune. Even young Charles, trapped with a look of wishing to be off in his room or out in the garden despite the late hour, ate silently. Clearly, the mood needed lifting. He only needed another set of hands to hoist the other end. Wooster looked up and was met with staring pale green eyes. He suppressed a flinch. No, that wouldn’t do, but it did give him an idea.

“Eh-hem,” Wooster ejected after a sip of water. “Dorie tells me that–”

“None of that!” snapped Lord Cairnwright with a look sharper than any utensil at the table.

Wooster blinked, doing his best impression of a surprised trout. “Sorry?”

“I won’t have any of that nonsense at my table.” He waited a moment, testing Wooster to see if he would push his buttons, before acknowledging the arrival of the next course. It was a soup, rich in smell but lax in hearty bits, and could very well have been the chef’s own creation.

“Oh! Oh, the name! Well, sorry old chap. Force of habit, you know. Anyway, Theodora tells me–”

Lord Cairnwright cut him off with the clattering of silverware against the china. “Mr. Wooster. You may be uncomfortable with silence, but I for one. Am. Not. I’ve spent the better part of the season playing host to friends I detest and relations I was unaware I even had! I’ve developed tinnitus from all the constant chatter.”

“Ah, well, maybe that was from when you–”

“Enough!” Lord Cairnwright boomed. “Not another word. And Mr. Wooster? If you make the mistake of seeing me about the hall, take a page out of Roderick’s book and speak in short sentences.”

As Wooster floundered silently, he looked about the table for support. Spode, despite his initial ire warping his face, sneered faintly when their eyes met. Fetterling let out a short exhale, which could have been a schooled laugh. Bingo, ever the disappointment in support, kept his eyes to his soup.

—

“A dashed, rummy, thingummy, Jeeves!” Wooster declared. “And if it wasn’t bad enough having his Lordship daring me to speak up and have good enough reason to add me to his daughter's collection with his own cutlery, Spode was staring daggers at me the whole meal and Theodora was just plain staring! I say, it puts a man off his appetite.”

Socializing clearly not being an important part of the meal, there was no gathering in the sitting room for entertainment post-supper. Instead, the parties involved went off separately to perform their own nightly habits. Wooster, not wanting to run the risk of encountering any of the Cairnwrights, retired to his chambers to pace. He was far too riled up to relax. Jeeves, professional that he was, had beaten him to the room and already laid out a set of heliotrope pyjamas for Wooster.

“Erm, not yet, old thing,” Wooster said hesitantly, gesturing to the clothes on the bed. “I’m far too riled up to relax. Need to change up the strategy of attack, you see. Can’t really use Old uncle Monty as leverage if I can’t open my mouth in the first place. It’s all so jolly rummy!”

Jeeves paused, absorbing the young master’s words. “Jolly rummy, sir?”

“Ah, well. You know what I mean to mean. It’s all terrible,” Wooster backpedaled, shifting off his evening jacket and passing it along to Jeeves’ waiting hand. “Any rate, I can’t think properly about this. I think I’ll take a stroll in the garden. Clear my head a bit.”

“I wouldn’t advise it, sir,” Jeeves began. The jacket had disappeared from his hand, having been expertly stored away to be tidied for the next need of it in the short moment it took Wooster to glance at the time. What a wonder he was at that. “The hour is late and there is a rainstorm expected later this evening.”

“Oh come now, I’ve turned in at much later hours than this. It’s only after nine. Besides, I’d hope you of all people would think I had enough sense about me to notice a bit of rain falling on the old lemon!”

“It was not my intention to apply such an assumption, sir. Merely a reminder of the weather.”

“Well, at any rate, no need to wait up for me. I shall be perfectly alright turning myself in for the night.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Ah. Actually, now that I think of it; better if you catch a few winks now. I may need you to stand vigilant tonight. Theodora might sneak in to pluck out my eyes for her collection.” Wooster spoke with a shudder.

“A tragic loss that would be, sir,” Jeeves said with one of his rare almost-smiles. “I will endeavor to keep an eye out for you.”

Wooster began to preen at the implied compliment, only to suddenly frown at the reveal, it being a set up to a pun at his expense. And not a very good one at that. “Come now, Jeeves. I expect better from you.”

“My apologies, sir. The hour is growing late. I will come up with something more to your approval in the morning.”

Wooster let him have the last word and left the room. Finding his way down to the main floor while avoiding any of Theodora’s decorations proved difficult, and in thrice the amount of time it would normally take, he was out in the gardens.

He hadn’t seen it during the day. Garden mazes took on a rather ominous feeling at night, the statues reading less as decoration and more as cover for waiting parties. Wooster himself had taken nightly strolls in a garden several times and had begun to have a negative association with them, simply on the merit of these strolls often ending in unintended engagements. Even so, he was alone, which meant that he was unlikely to become engaged during this stroll, and the decor was made of stone and not fur or flesh. By comparison to Castleberry Court and all its sitting rooms, the shadowy garden was the most peaceful place in the world to him.

Wooster walked for a bit, the gravel crunching under his feet. The lights did not extend far from the manor house, restricting his steps as far as the little pond just a few yards out. He sat on a stone bench, stood, walked about again, tried to see his reflection in the pond, nearly fell in when he found a loose stone, sat back on the bench, and had a staring contest with a stone rabbit statue. How in blazes did Jeeves manage to do this so quickly, he wondered to himself. All the man had to do was glance upwards for a few seconds as if the solution to everyones’ problems was engraved in the ceiling, and yet here Wooster sat, Bertram the Brain no one called him, with nary a thought coming to him. Perhaps the stone rabbit wasn’t the best conversation partner for this.

He exchanged a few words with a stone Venus at the far end of the pond, the light reflecting off the surface enough to mark the edges of the water, and lit a gasper. The Venus wasn’t much for conversation either, but it was easier to look up at her rather than lean down to speak with the rabbit.

“I mean, really, what am I supposed to do? If I can’t talk to the man, how am I supposed to convince him to hate me? Well, he does already, but not enough to forbid my marriage to that horrific artist of his. Can’t go back to dear old London on my own, either. If I did, and dear old aged A. hears of it, she won’t be convinced. No, it has to be your Lordships’ idea. If only I can get around that dratted Spode. Old fellow still hates me over all that rot with Madeline and Gussie. Shame I can’t get him on my side about all this, what?”

Wooster took a puff of his gasper and nearly choked on the smoke as the thought hit him. He turned to the statue, eyes brilliant.

“I say! I mean to say, that might be the ticket! The real piece of it! The whatsit! I see now what they mean when they talk about Muses and all that! Well done, you!”

If the statue had anything to say about being a goddess of love mistaken for a muse, it fell on deaf ears. Wooster was busy snuffing out his gasper in the gravel and pocketing the spent butt. He was so distracted by the action that he did not hear the gravel crunch elsewhere, nor did he notice the other party until he had nearly ran right into his dense form.

“Oh!” Wooster exclaimed. “What ho, Spode! I was just coming to find you. Or, well, find you in the morning. But, here you are!”

Spode did not match his excitement. He stood with an almost serene smile, one often seen on the faces of a chessmaster two turns before securing a win. “Here I am.”

“Yes, well, um. Look here, old chum. I think I may need your help with a spot of bother I’ve found myself in.”

“Is that right? Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Wooster, taken aback at this, frowned. “I haven’t even said what it is, yet.”

“Oh, yes, I noticed. I’m just not interested.”

Wooster took on his superior tone, one he often used to wiggle his way out of accusations of constable helmet thievery and general misconceptions of his character and intelligence, and held his fists at his hips. “Now Spode, I don’t think you are in a position to refuse me. Remember: I know about Eulalie.”

He waited for Spode to drop his serene smile and quiver like a jelly, to beg his pardon and fall over himself to help Wooster with whatever plan came to mind. To not see it now was, in a word, strange.

“Oh, yes. I know you know, Wooster,” Spode admitted, shifting his weight and looking down for a moment. “You’ve taken great pains in reminding me that you know.”

“Y–yes, well–” Wooster started.

“Do you know what you remind me of, Mr. Wooster?”

“I–”

“A worm, Mr. Wooster. A mite, a bug, a little pest that thinks it’s very clever for finding a space in between the floorboards where I can’t easily crush it.”

“No–”

“It occurred to me earlier this evening,” Spode continued, with the determination of the militaristic leader he thought he was. “You know my secret, and yet you’ve been keen to not share it, lest someone else attempt to use it against me. I must applaud you; I didn’t think you were intelligent enough for such a feat.”

“Now see here–”

“I’ve let you push me around in regards to that blighter Fink-Nottle and his blasted newt obsession. No more. The best way through a problem is to remove it entirely. Mr. Wooster, I intend to tear out the floorboards.”

Wooster took a step back away from Spode. Further away from his imposing form, he could now see that Spode was holding something to his side, something long and wooden with a white cloth tied around the middle.

“I say, Spode, what are you doing with that cricket bat?”

“Simple: I’m going to bash your head in.”

“Now, Spode–”

Wooster’s attempt at a plea was cut off by his own yelp. Spode cried out as he hefted the wooden implement and swung. Wooster dodged it, the bat connecting with the statue with a loud crack. Bits of stone skittered down on him. Woosters’ earlier joke about going in armed briefly crossed his mind as he brushed the bits from his hair. He looked up from his crouching position. Spode no longer had that serene smile. It was replaced with a much more natural look of absolute rage, one he had seen when Spode donned the armor of a Roman General for the fancy dress party and spent the entirety of it chasing Gussie around the garden.

They were doing a pretty good reenactment of that now. Wooster darted from the garden, the maze of greenery impeding his escape just as much as it impeded Spodes’ chase. The dark of the night hid him just as well as it hid everything else. Once, Wooster tripped over a low hedge and tumbled across the grass. A few seconds later, he could hear Spode suffer the same misstep. Something dense bounced through the grass and landed just a few steps from him. The cricket bat. He could see the silhouette of Spode picking himself out of the hedge. It was a chance to run out of range and Wooster took it. The bat and the head start.

Running back to the manor house was out of the question; he couldn’t get near it without having to pass by Spode in the process. Armed or not, the man was a menace. Instead, he ran further into the dark until the ground began to dip under him at a slant. He had reached the hill that led down to the river along the side of the property. He looked around. There was the front of the manor house, the area lit by a single light near the door. A few lights in the manor house were still on, as well. Perhaps one of them was Jeeves awaiting the return of his young master. Perhaps Jeeves, in all his brilliance, anticipated this attack and was on his way to rescue his unfortunate y. m. Perhaps he already had, and was carrying a now unconscious Spode back to his room where he would convince the madman that it had all been a very strange dream.

There was a snap in the darkness. Wooster backed down the hill, cricket bat held in front of him, wide eyes trying to see anything in the dark. Halfway down the hill, his backside met with something dense. He yelped and twisted around. His hand found purchase on the something and relaxed when he felt bark and not cloth.

“Spode?” Wooster gasped once he found his voice again. “I’m warning you, I’m armed!” He was met with silence. He stepped forward, ears straining for something, anything, that told him where the Amateur Dictator was hiding. “What do you say we continue this in the morning? Rest on it, what?” He stepped again and waited for a response. “Spode?”

The silence behind him broke with a battle cry as Spode charged down the hill at him. It was dark, far too dark to see anything, much less the imposing attacker. Wooster swung more on instinct than anything else.

There was a loud wooden crack. The cricket bat connected with something dense. Wooster felt it sharply in his palms. He opened his eyes, only now realizing he had closed them, and was met with the same darkness.

Thud.

Wooster took a step back as the earth shook next to him a few seconds later. There was something by his feet. His hand shook as he retrieved his lighter. It was a tiny flame and produced almost no illumination, but it was enough to show him that the mass was not a fallen tree branch. It was Roderick Spode, flat on his front in the grass.

“...Spode?”

No response. Wooster dropped the cricket bat. The flame extinguished as he dropped that, too. He lost sight of the man, but the afterimage remained. Surely, this was a trick. He hadn’t swung that hard! Spode was just waiting for him to let his guard down and he would spring up to throttle the Last of the Woosters. Any second now.

Wooster tested the man with a nudge of his foot. Nothing. He tried again, this time a little harder, and he felt movement. His heart leapt to his throat as he stumbled back out of reach. The retaliation did not come, instead he heard a whump-whump-whump sound ending in a light splish as Roderick Spode rolled down the hill and into the river.

Bertram Wooster ran.

—

Even though his employer told him to take a nap, Jeeves knew better than to let a quiet reprieve pass him by unfulfilled. As soon as Wooster left the room, he set to tidying things about it. He prepared tomorrow’s clothing, turned down the master bed in preparation for the occupants return, did several other miniscule things to maintain the veneer of his unmatched talent in perfecting perfection, and found he had time to retire to his room and sit with an evening drink and one of Shakespeares’ best works.

It had been some time since he last visited “The Tempest” and had just started the second act when there was a loud slam of a door in the next room. Correctly assuming it was the return of his young master, Jeeves set the drink and the book aside, righted his attire where it was needed, and glided into the adjoining room.

He saw the grass stains on the back of the dress shirt before anything else and felt a pang in his heart. Whatever rot his employer had gotten into this time, he needed to steel himself for more stains and their kin to come. He glided further into the room and saw Wooster fully with his back to him. Jeeves’ eyes widened. Woosters’ hair was disheveled, more so than his dress shirt, and clung together in strands. The man was standing before the fireplace, locked onto a glass and a bottle of brandy that had been placed on the mantelpiece earlier. He downed what remained in the glass, and began pouring himself another with shaking hands.

“Sir?”

Jeeves kept his voice low, but Wooster jolted at the sound, all the same. He whipped around, the brandy mercifully not sloshing out from either container, nor falling from his grasp to the white carpet below. Wooster was pale, horribly pale, with eyes so wide they looked like they would fall out at any moment. There was a cut on his cheek, a small one that did not bleed, but the color stood out against the paleness as would a lantern in the fog. Wooster forced a smile and a laugh.

“Ah! Jeeves, what ho! Did I wake you, old thing? Terribly sorry. Didn’t mean to slam the door like that.” As he spoke, he huffed as if catching his breath. He stopped to sip the brandy and cleared his throat. “Go on back to it, then. Don’t mind me.”

“Sir, you appear to be injured.” Jeeves gestured to the cut with a nod and stepped forward.

Wooster reached for his cheek and winced, finding the cut on the first try. It was enough to color his finger and he paled impossibly further as he registered it. He forced a laugh and sidestepped his approaching valet.

“Ah–ha, ha. Just a little, a little, um, nothing to worry about. Just got myself into a spot of bother. Nothing to trouble yourself over.”

“Then, if it is alright with you, sir, I’d like to treat those stains before they have a chance to set.”

“No!” Wooster exclaimed. He blanched at his outburst and scratched at his wrist. When he spoke again, it was soft. “No, that’s quite alright. I’d rather you’d turn in. Damn the shirt. It’s not worth saving, I’d say. Toss the whole suit out if you’d like. Burn it, if it pleases you, Jeeves.”

“Sir?” Jeeves asked with a hint of concern.

“Better yet, I’ll do it myself. I–” Wooster swallowed and continued to stare at the carpet. “I’m really in the soup this time, Jeeves. You’ve gotten me out of plenty of soups of all sorts, but I think this is the soupiest of soups. I’ve…I’ve really dove headfirst into the pot on this one.” He slung back the last of the brandy and set the empty glass and bottle on a nearby table.

“Mr. Wooster–” Jeeves started.

“No, Jeeves. I won’t hear of it.” Wooster sniffed. “You’re a fine valet, the finest in the world, I’d say. I won’t have you getting mixed up in all of this. You don’t–” he stopped suddenly, trying to school the crack in his voice. “I’ll be sure to write you a stellar reference. Your next employer won’t know how lucky he is.”

“Mr. Wooster, I have no intention of seeking employment elsewhere,” Jeeves said coolly.

“Jeeves, I won’t have you involved,” Wooster snapped, his words fast and frantic. “God forbid you suffer for any of my foolishness for this. I haven’t nicked a helmet, Jeeves. I’ve done worse, so much worse than a simple five pound fine crime.”

“Sir–”

“It won’t be long before they come for me, Jeeves. You best pack your things now. Leave out a nice suit for me, would you? I’m sure the old feudal spirit would want me dressed well for every event, Gallows included.”

“Bertram!”

There were several things that Jeeves did not do. Or, rather, he had no need to do. He did not use the first names of his employers, as it wasn’t proper to address them as such; his sense of propriety would not allow it. Last names worked well enough and commanded the necessary amount of attention.

He did not raise his voice; again, there was no need. During his time within the social circles Mr. Wooster kept, he had cultivated an image that was knowledgeable in all things. He would only need to speak aloud and others would listen with rapt attention. The soft clearing of his throat was enough to silence a room.

Most importantly, he never grabbed his employer. Touch was not forbidden; he dressed the man for God’s sake, but such touches were delicate, correcting, light and hardly noticeable if the object of the attention was deep in conversation. All that considered, Jeeves’ snap of a command froze his employer to the spot, and his hand on the man’s shoulder was as effective as scruffing a cat.

Steely blue stared into pale blue as the latter of the two found his voice again.

“I killed Spode, Jeeves,” Wooster said, barely above a whisper. His face was so stricken, it made his valets’ heart ache at the sight of it. “In the garden. Well, in the river now.”

“How, sir?” Jeeves asked gently.

“I think he was trying to kill me. With a cricket bat, of all things. He dropped it and I got it from him and he charged and–and–” This time, he could not suppress the sob bubbling up.

There are an incalculable number of things a valet of Jeeves’ caliber could do, but there was a very short list of things valets of all skill levels were never expected to perform. Holding their employer in a comforting embrace was at the top of said list. Jeeves maintained the veneer of servitude firmly in any public situation, taking pride in it, even, but in the rare moments when both were certain of that delicate state of privacy, he allowed that the feudal spirit could relax some.

“Easy, sir,” Jeeves murmured, his hand on the center of Woosters’ back.

“He’s still down there,” Wooster mumbled into Jeeves’s shoulder.

“I will see to it, sir.” Jeeves spoke as he gently coaxed his young master from the embrace. “Think, sir; did you leave behind anything that could identify you? A glove? Your pocketbook? A handkerchief?”

Wooster shook his head. “Still have mine.”

Jeeves nodded subtly. “I will prepare a bath for you.”

Wooster attempted to turn down the offer, but his stubbornness had left him. Jeeves treated the grass stains as Wooster soaked, silent, save for the occasional splish as he moved in the water. When he had dried and dressed in his heliotrope pyjamas, Wooster tried again to convince Jeeves to leave while he still had deniability. Once more, Jeeves shot him down.

“Please rest, sir. I will return momentarily.”

Jeeves shut the door and headed out to the garden, having procured a torch along the way. The cricket bat was easy to spot in the grass, as was the lighter when caught in the torchlight. He tucked the former under one arm and pocketed the latter, carefully moving down the hill to inspect the river. There was mud, which he found too late to avoid stepping in. Not that he needed to venture far to see that Spode was nowhere to be seen.

A distant rumble brought his attention upwards. There was a flash on the horizon and the faint smell of petrichor on the breeze. If there was anything he had missed, then the coming storm would finish it. Jeeves walked back to the manor house, taking the servant entrance so as to not track any lingering mud in, and considered where he could stash the bat.

“Did you see..?” Wooster began and quickly trailed off when Jeeves returned at last returned to the room, the question too nauseating for him to finish.

“On the contrary, sir, I saw very little,” Jeeves said calmly. “Only that you had left your lighter behind.”

“And what of–of–”

“I did not see Mr. Spode, sir.”

“But, the river–”

“Unlikely, sir.” Jeeves interrupted. “Someone of his stature could not wade in such shallow waters, much less be swept away by them. I imagine he has returned to his rooms, sir, if only to lick his wounds, as the common man would say, and nurse his injured pride at being bested in such a way. Now, sir, if you would please rest. It is nearly midnight.”

“Y–yes. Yes, of course, Jeeves. That must be the case.” Wooster agreed, though he did not sound entirely convinced.

Wooster laid down in his bed, but his eyes did not close for some time. He stared at the door to the hall, as if waiting for Theodora, Spode—either as a specter or an enraged guest, or the whole of Scotland Yard to come bursting through and rip him from the sheets. Jeeves indeed stood vigilant that night, or rather he sat vigilant nearby in a well-stuffed occasional chair. He waited until his employer at last closed his eyes and drifted into the embrace of Morpheus before retiring himself to his own lodgings.

Chapter Text

Thumpthumpthumpthump

Lt. Columbo shot upright in bed, eyes bleary but alert. Immediately confused by his surroundings, the man fell back onto his elbows and looked around. He had been waking up in different hotel rooms during this whole trip and the confusion was just as strong now. The last time he had been woken with such a shock was when he had stayed overnight at a military academy to work on a case. Granted, whoever was at his door this time was kind enough to knock rather than burst into the room and smack him on the rear as the academy grunt had done. The lieutenant smiled to himself, recalling the mess of dedicated youths and the nasty case they were involved in, and began to lean into a hunch as sleep tried to take him.

Thump–Thump–Thump

The second chorus of knocks was enough to chase away the last of the sleep from him. Before a third verse could be drummed out, Columbo was up and out of bed, though reasonably, still in his nightclothes when he answered the door.

“Yes?” Columbo asked as he peered into the hallway from behind his door, his voice even more gravelly than usual.

“I’m sorry to wake you, lieutenant,” began Constable Thatcher, “but I wouldn’t have come if it weren’t important.”

“What time is it?” Columbo blinked blearily.
“Nearly seven.”

Columbo rubbed at his good eye and opened the door wider. With a clearer view, he assessed the man before him. Last night, Constable Thatcher was a relaxed, jovial young man who seemed very pleased to meet such a seasoned fellow in his relative field. The man standing in the hallway, lit only by the frosted window at the end of it, was anything but. Tense, tired, wrung out in both appearance and posture. Even his mustache sagged.

“You said the train leaves at eleven, eleven-ish, right?” Columbo asked. Perhaps he misheard the stationmaster last night. If so, he had only minutes to pack and run for the station.

“Quite right,” Thatcher said, slightly caught off guard by the question. “However, I must ask you to extend your stay.”

“Oh, well, I’m sure it would be lovely, but my wife is–”

“There’s been an incident, sir. A murder.”

“Is that right?” Columbo was now awake, though he would still need his coffee soon.

“Yes, lieutenant. Up at Castleberry Court, on the hill.”

“Well, I’m not exactly within my jurisdiction–” he began.

“As a consultant, then. Please, sir.” He stopped, looked around, and leaned in to speak sotto voce. “The chief constable and the sergeant–that is, my uncle–nearly caught their deaths of cold from dealing with the rainstorm last night.”

“Oh?”

“Yessir. It’s just me and Constable Helms and I’ve had to leave the poor blighter up the hill to deal with it on his own while I went and fetched you. Please sir, we haven’t seen a murder in years. It’s a right mess.”

Columbo made a sort of a sigh/groan/exhale noise that could have meant any number of things and looked at the floor. Constable Thatcher could have pondered what this reaction would lead to if he had not been shocked out of that thinking by one of the lieutenant’s eyes still being trained on him. It was a good reminder to the younger man how out of his element he was; to have spent the better part of the evening enjoying the stories and company of this friendly Yankee and only now in the light of morning notice he had a glass eye.

“You said it’s seven now, right?” Columbo asked, looking up at the younger officer with both eyes. “Do you think I can still catch the train if we hurry? To the scene, I mean.”

At this, Thatcher’s mustache fell even further–so much so that Columbo half expected it to fall right off and flutter to the floorboards like a punchline to a stage show. “No sir, I mean to say, you can’t get to the station. The rainstorm flooded the river a bit, and the bridge from here to there collapsed. Log hit one of the supports, my uncle said.”

“The road’s out?”

“Yessir. The one to the station is.”

Columbo paused, thinking. “Let me get dressed. Oh, and Constable?”

“Yessir?”

“See if you can find me some coffee?”

In a short while, Lt. Columbo was dressed in his suit and coat–his hair brushed to something a step away from unruly, but still in range for conversation–and holding a ceramic mug filled with what Thatcher insisted was coffee, but was a bit different to what he was familiar with. Since the mug belonged to the public house, the older of the two could only get a few sips of the drink before being asked to leave it behind. The pair, one a bundle of nerves and the other just now escaping the clutches of Morpheus, made their way to the formers’ motorcar.

They were interrupted by another pair, red-faced and far too loud for the early morning. Constable Thatcher would have side-stepped the local row, matters of greater need pressing and all that, however, the pair of men were blocking the driver’s side door. A mediation of the conflict was unavoidable.

“Yer a damned liar and I’ll see to it you’ll repay every drop of it!” cursed a portly man dressed in earthy linens, bald with bushy eyebrows that rivaled Thatcher’s mustache.

“Call me that again, you cad! I’ll bash you!” cried his opponent, who was not so portly, but more beefy, and sported a stained leather apron over his linen wear. “Yer kicking a fuss, is all!”

“Gents! Please, what’s all this?” Constable Thatcher pleaded.

“Oh! Nicky, lad,” groaned the portly man. “Go fetch yer uncle. Boris here is back to his thieving ways!”

“You–” spat the beefy man called Boris.

Incensed, Constable Thatcher stepped between the men. “Now see here, I’m just as much the law as my uncle. I won’t have a scrap in the square so early in the morn’. Now, what’s the trouble?”

The portly man pointed a calloused finger at Boris. “I sold him a pig, just the other day, fer half what I would’ve gotten normal, I did. Said he’d save me the meat and a bucketful to make my own pudding to make up the difference, and when I come to collect it this morning, ‘twas gone!”

“He’s twisting it, lad!” snapped Boris. “He said he’d come collect it last night, ‘fore I turned in, but he didn’t come, so I left it in me workshop for him to pick up. Never lock it, y’know, since nothin’s in there most times. It was gone when I woke up in the morn’, so he must’ve took it. Now, he’s here accusing me of cheating him of a deal, just like he did with my Pa back in ‘83!” His tirade ended in a growl.

“Oh, stuff ‘83! Yer Pa was cheating me then just like yer doing now!”

The men stomped towards each other, and Thatcher, God love him, stayed as a wall between them. Whatever this argument was about, Columbo was too tired, too out of the loop, and too unfamiliar to try stepping in. Instead, he walked around the men and the motorcar and hopped into the passenger seat. He rubbed his head, a small but sharp headache brewing. Despite his time in the country, he still wasn’t quite used to the time change. That, and he hadn’t had breakfast yet. Maybe someone up at the manor house would be kind enough to give him a hard boiled egg after he had a look around.

Columbo half-listened to the row as Thatcher, somehow, settled it enough for the men to clear out and allow him passage to his own vehicle. The suspension dipped as the younger man climbed in. If that jolt wasn’t enough to rouse Columbo from his half-sleep, the loud CLACK and cough of the engine certainly finished the job. He winced as they lurched forward and something below the hood squealed. He committed it to memory, knowing his cousin the mechanic would no doubt want to hear about the English cars he saw when he returned to the States.

“Sorry for the delay, sir,” Thatcher said over the engine. “It’s not far from here.”

“What was all that about?” Columbo shouted back.

“Butcher and Farmer. They go and have a row once a month, I’d say. This time, it was over an apparent missing bucket.” I told them my uncle would be along later to see to them.” He grimaced and spoke lower, almost low enough to blend into the groan of the engine. “Not that that will happen soon enough to suit them. Probably knock down my uncle’s door before long.”

In barely any time at all, the motorcar made a sharp turn up onto a gravel drive. Castleberry Court loomed in the distance as manor houses seem wont to do. Halfway between them and that, however, was a small collection of people standing about just off the road. Constable Thatcher slowed to a stop and killed the engine. There was silence for a moment, and then the local birds decided that they weren’t actually hearing angelic trumpets signaling the end of days and continued on with their merry songs as before.

Columbo exited the motorcar and procured, from somewhere in his coat, a cigar. He didn’t light it, mindful of the ash mixing with the scene. Rather, it served to distract his mouth from his steadily hungering stomach. There were more pressing matters at hand and Constable Thatcher seemed keen on showing him such.

It was a cloudy morning, the sunrise somewhat blinding him as he walked and blinding him anew when a cloud passed over the sun just as his eye had gotten used to the light. His eye adjusted now to the darkness and any thoughts of a hearty breakfast left Columbo’s mind entirely.

He was not a stranger to gruesome scenes. After all, as a homicide detective, he had seen all manner of deaths and the scenery that explained them or at the very least alluded to the cause of them. He’d seen a few drownings that were quite tidy, a few gunshot victims that barely made much of a mess, aside from a call to the carpet cleaners, and even a plane crash that only inconvenienced a small hillside. This, however, reminded the lieutenant that despite his choice of vocation, he was a squeamish man.

Oddly, everything seemed exactly as it was before anyone had the misfortune to stumble up or down the hill. He was used to being called in when a rich man’s mansion or penthouse or secluded cabin was already swarming with cops– the body sent away with the coroner and all that was left was evidence his fellow boys in blue had yet to take notice of and a few suspects and witnesses who kept the important bits of their stories to themselves. Here, it was just him and the two constables, two of the staff who sounded like they were interviewing each other more than being interviewed themselves, and one older gent in a dark suit–Columbo assumed him to be the coroner–and walked with Thatcher to greet them.

“Where is your uncle, lad?” snapped the older gent. It was becoming a pattern, Columbo noticed.

“I’m sorry, your Lordship,” Constable Thatcher said, quickly. “M’afraid the river and the rainstorm put him out with a cold. Captain Coolridge, too.”

His Lordship reddened at that. Not wanting to witness another tirade lobbed at the poor man, Columbo made his way over to Constable Helms who stood not far off, looking down the hill towards a line of trees.

“I’m assuming you’re Constable Helms?” Columbo called in greeting.

“I am,” Helms agreed, giving Columbo the once over. “And you are?”

“Lt. Columbo.” He offered a hand, which Helms shook cautiously. “Thatcher asked me to help out with the murder. Um, has the coroner already left with the body?”

“Hasn’t turned up yet.”

Columbo blinked at the bluntness of the statement. “No body? Then, how do we know there’s been a murder?”

Helms gestured to the hillside, and again, Columbo felt squeamish. A little bit of light peeked through the clouds and the recoloring of the green was clearly visible. Dark red streaked the hill. It was as if the hillside was a landscape painting only just finished, and the artists’ son, angered at having been sent to bed without supper for being so unruly, snuck into the studio, took the largest of his fathers’ brushes, and made a chaotic exhibition of the dark maroon paint normally used in detail work. Columbo steeled himself as he took note of the long streaks in the grass, some splashes on the nearby tree trunks, and a long trail of color leading down the hill and ending in the shade by the river. Most notable to him was a touch of pale in the center of the carnage. Not a person, to his relief, but a piece of wood. Sitting like a centerpiece of a grand table set for the massacre was a bloodied cricket bat, bent slightly in the middle where the sturdy wood had broken.

“This much blood? No man is walking home on his own.”

“Jeez,” Columbo groaned around his cigar. “Tell you what…do you mind if I have a look around? See what I can find?”

Columbo, despite what many hapless suspects overlooked about his character, was actually a very observant man. At that moment, this skill of his painted it quite plainly that Helms was just as out of his element, when it came to detective work, as Thatcher–likely more in line with the beat-cops he knew back in L.A., who stood by crime scenes and told people to ‘move along, nothing to see here, have a nice day.’ Helms seemed relieved that someone else was taking a lead on the case, and gestured again to the hillside in invitation.

“And who are you supposed to be?”

Columbo whirled around as the clamorous conversation shifted its attention towards him. He pulled the cigar from his mouth and kept it in his left hand while offering his right. “Oh, uh, Lt. Columbo with the LAPD. Constable Thatcher asked me to help out.”

Lord Cairnwright kept his hands as fists by his side and turned to Thatcher. “Young man, do you mean to tell me you could get the police in America to come, but not your Uncle?”

“Oh no, sir. I’m just on vacation, and happened to be in the area,” Columbo mercifully cut in. “I’m just here as a sort of consultant. Um, do you know if anyone is missing, sir? Did anyone not come down for breakfast, I mean.”

Lord Cairnwright breathed a second and spoke with a calmer tone, like one would to a child. “Not everyone breakfasts at the same time, lieutenant.”

“No, of course not. In that case, sir, you may want to do a headcount of the staff and family. That way we can know if we need to be looking out for anyone.”

Lord Cairnwright nodded sharply, not one used to be given orders, but at the very least taking it in stride for now. “Burton.”

“Understood, sir,” said the older butler, nearby. He left quickly up towards the house, though not before taking a quick glance at the carnage along the way.

The attention of the Lord shifted back to hapless Thatcher, and Columbo took it as a chance to begin his examination. He gestured for Helms to follow along, though he didn’t say why. He simply returned the cigar to its rightful place and began treading down the hill, giving the mess a wide berth.

“Careful, lieutenant. Grass is wet.” Constable Helms warned.

“Yeah…” Columbo said slowly.

The grass was wet, as were the wide streaks of blood. Something about that itched at him, though he couldn’t place why. Carefully, Columbo stepped around a long streak and found a trail that led down the river, where it stopped abruptly at the muddy edge. Here, he asked the constable to shine a light. All around were footprints in the mud. Mostly large ones being lapped away by the flow, and one neat print of a notable shape and length. Columbo asked Constable Helms to measure the footprints and take note of sizes and how many there were. As he worked on that, he followed the trail back up on the other side.

Here, his back was to the sun, metaphorically and literally shining a new light on the subject. The grass was wet under the shade trees, as well, likely from the morning dew. Columbo stepped carefully, avoiding places that looked like he could slip. Walking sideways like a distracted crab, he nearly bumped right into the tree that suddenly appeared in his periphery. This too had spots of color running up the bark, but here it was dry and dull in shine. His forensic mind tried to set the scene, glancing at the distant center of the act and following it along to this tree. It seemed too far a distance to make sense. The itching continued. As he traced back to the bark, an interruption of a different color caught his eye. The bark looked damaged in places, as if something very blunt had struck it. To be specific: there were two. One was about shoulder height, which was not very high up the trunk for a short man such as himself, and another two feet above that. The latter seemed notable, as it looked like there were little bits of white fabric caught in the chipped bark. Columbo measured the dents with his hands and found the sizes matched. He held up the same hand and imagined the cricket bat close up.

“Hm…could be…” he mumbled around the cigar.

He let his arm fall and turned to head up the hill, stopping short when yet another change of color caught his eye. Just a little ways up the hill was a bush, some kind of decorative hedge-thing allowed to grow wild and away from its well-manicured cousins near the manor house. Columbo was not a casual botanist, he could kill his wifes’ African violets by accident if left alone with them for a weekend, but it wasn’t the greenery that interested him. Rather, instead of the unusual blossom he initially thought it to be, he inspected closer and found it to be a handkerchief. Namely, a whitish handkerchief caught in the fork of a branch. The blood spatter on this was so neat that, if found anywhere other than a crime scene, he would assume it was part of the pattern. One could almost admire the presentation of it, and, as he did so, another pattern began to appear. In one corner of the handkerchief, positioned as if laid intentionally as a table setting, were embroidered letters in the same color.

B.W.W.

Columbo made a mental note of it and left the evidence where it lay. He looked up and confirmed that this bush was not under the shade trees. Satisfied with what he gathered, he made his way up to the loitering group of locals. His lordship was still speaking with Constable Thatcher, or rather they were standing near each other with a few words traded between them. Lord Cairnwright looked to be developing a migraine and raised his hand whenever Thatcher began to speak, silencing his excuses for the time being. A little ways away was the gardener. He stood about–not sure of himself, and likely waiting for someone to dismiss him so he could be on his way and get to work. The older butler, Burton, was on his way back from the manor house.

“Are you waiting on me?” Columbo asked the gardener. The man jumped at the attention.

“Yessir? I think so. You’re the Yank detective?” he asked nervously. He seemed to catch himself looking at the crime scene and schooled his expression. It was a familiar reaction to the lieutenant.

“Lieutenant, actually. Name’s Columbo.” Perhaps, when he moved inside to investigate, the whole family could gather so he only had to make one introduction.

“Bennings,” the nervous gardener responded automatically.

“You were the one who found this first?” Columbo asked, more as confirmation to his guess. Bennings nodded.

“I live in the village, sir. His Lordship likes me to start early in the morning. I was coming up before sunrise, when–” He stopped and swallowed. “His Lordships’ son, the lad is quite fond of cricket, you see. I saw the bat on the ground and thought he’d left it there. As lads do, you know. I went to fetch it, and then I–well, I saw the hillside. I ran to tell Burton, sir.”

At the mention of his name, Burton spoke up with his report. “Lieutenant. All of the staff are accounted for.”

“And the family?”

Burton coughed faintly. “Some of his Lordships’ guests are late risers, sir. I’ve yet to see to everyone. His Lordship asks that this…misfortune– be kept as a private matter of the estate so as to not alarm the village.” At this, Burton sent a faint glance of warning at Bennings who shot his eyes to the gravel.

Columbo nodded slowly. “I see…um. Constable Thatcher?”

“Yessir?” Thatcher turned towards the Lieutenant.

“You said it rained last night?”

“Yessir.”

“About what time?”

“Oh, well, it started trickling about quarter to one, turned into a real downpour after a bit, and kept on until just after two.”

“Huh, and it was enough rain to take out the bridge?”

“The bridge is out?” whimpered Bennings. Burton shot the lieutenant a reproachful glare.

“Ah, yes, I’m afraid. The one that leads to the station, I’m told.” He did not wilt at the scolding, but he did turn away towards the treeline. “That stream down there; where does it go?”

“Um, well.” Bennings mulled a bit. “Heads east for a bit, through farmland and all, and then joins up with the river a few kilometers from here.”

Columbo hummed. “Tell you what, folks. I’m going to go for a little walk, see what I can find. I’ll be back when everyone is awake.”

And with that, the American left the assortment of British men. He walked along the gravel road until he passed the scene of the crime. Gingerly, he stepped onto the lawn and began descending the hill. As he went, the assortment watched him go, backlit by the steadily rising morning sun.

Lord Cairnwright addressed Constable Thatcher with a cough.“Young man, do you expect me to trust this stranger?”

“Yessir, your Lordship, sir. I was privy to all sorts of fascinating crimes he’s solved in the past, sir. I’ve no doubt that the lieutenant will have this sorted out before long.”

Lord Cairnwright watched the American as he tolerated the praises being lobbed at him. A stone’s throw from the group, the lieutenant was surprised by a dewy patch of grass and slipped. He slid a good few meters before slowing to a stop, after which he quickly stood, brushed off the excess moisture, and waved at the witnesses to his folly. His distant assurances that he was alright did not seem to appease his Lordship.

***

Elsewhere, Jeeves watched the proceedings from a kitchen window. The angle and distance revealed nothing but the movement of familiar and unfamiliar persons. The activity surprised him–not that it would show on his face, but it did make him pause mid-stride as he prepared the morning tea for Mr. Wooster.

The gossip surrounding the scene had not reached the house staff yet. Or at the very least, it had not yet reached the kitchen. He would need to entice Mr. Burton into being conversational with him, or, being a more likely candidate to ramble on about such things, simply ask Mr. Bennings the gardener about his morning. He could see the two of them speaking, one far more animated than the other. It was odd to see, considering how he had left the hillside last night, and Jeeves couldn’t help but linger with the serving tray.

The two men turned, their attention suddenly on something, and Jeeves followed it. At first it was just a black policeman’s helmet bobbing upwards, the bearer of the article struggling against the incline and the damp of the morning dew. Soon after, Jeeves saw that the Constable was labored with a weight and therefore could not use his arms to steady his ascension. The significance of the weight put ice in his veins. Gingerly held, so as to not contaminate it, the majority of the coloring facing out towards the onlookers, was a bloodied cricket bat.

Jeeves’s jaw set. That was not present during his inspection last night. He had removed the cricket bat, the only damage to the item being some tears to the cloth. What other surprises lay just out of view, he could only guess. For now, he would do what he did best. Wait, listen, gather what knowledge he could, and see what plan would form. There was a more pressing matter at hand, literally, and it simply would not do to let the young masters’ tea chill to room temperature.

He glided through the halls and up to Woosters’ rooms with nary a rattle of the tray nor a step made heavier than what would be considered acceptable. It was a habit of his to travel about this way, making no noise and hardly producing a presence unless otherwise called on. It seemed to unnerve some people how he could seemingly appear out of the ether, but Wooster had grown used to this after a few months. Still, caution would be needed to proceed on certain matters. One could only hope the night passed peacefully for the poor man. It was this reason that Jeeves, fighting against his nature as the most perfect servant to have ever graced the Kingdoms, entered Woosters’ room with the sound of footfalls and rattling china on silver.

The caution proved unnecessary. Wooster was not in his bed, sound asleep and deep in the land of Nod as he typically would be at this time of day, and therefore could not be startled awake by a sudden intruder. Jeeves looked about the room. His intrigue was rewarded with the visage of a rather glum Wooster sitting in an armchair, still in his nightwear and robe, looking out the window.

No, that wasn’t quite right. There was a window, and there certainly were things to look at on the other side, but Wooster was not looking through it. His eyes were unfocused, bloodshot, and the natural pale blue color of his irises had dulled considerably. His face was smushed some, his thin hand folded over and pressed against his mouth in the facsimile of deep thought. His hair was a mess of rat’s nests and had it been any other time, Jeeves would feel it necessary to remedy that.

“Good morning, sir,” Jeeves said in his usual charming tone. His greeting was met with silence. He continued undeterred. “I’ve brought you your morning tea, sir. Would you like to know the weather today?”

The weather was as obvious here as it was any time Wooster had inquired about it, cloudy with a good chance of worsening later on, but it was as much of the morning ritual as was the cup of tea. The continued silence, however, was not. Wooster didn’t even react to the clattering of china as Jeeves set the tray on the small table in front of him. With nothing else for it, Jeeves reached over and gave his employer a gentle shake on the shoulder.

Wooster reacted like he had been shot. Life returned to his eyes in the form of panic, his arm raising up to defend himself, a small sound sticking in his throat. It took every ounce of experience Jeeves had in maintaining control of himself and his work to take the reaction in stride. After a moment, Wooster came back to himself and forced a mask of a smile into place.

“Ah, Jeeves. Hello. Didn’t hear you come in.” He spoke with a warble and his hands would not stop fiddling with the belt of his robe. It was already tied, but it seemed important to quadruple the security. At least, four knots was what he could manage before he ran out of material. “Something amiss?”

“Your tea, sir,” Jeeves repeated, gesturing to the tray with a nod.

“Oh? Oh, yes. Thank you, Jeeves.”

“Did you sleep well, sir?” Jeeves looked to the nearly-made bed, which normally was a mess of sheets and comforters, post-waking.

“For a bit, yes. The brandy helped, but…had such a terrible nightmare and when I woke up, well, I found I couldn’t quite fall back into it. You know?” He paused, as if he needed a moment to will away the memory of it returning unbidden. “Any news?”

“Sir?”

The mask cracked and Wooster looked ill. “Oh, dash it, Jeeves. You know very well what I mean. I may not be the brainiest cove in all of London and I may not be able to see much out of this-this-this pane of frosted whatsit, but I can tell a bobbie from the post and I’ve seen the worser of the two going up and down the road!”

Jeeves glanced disinterestedly at the window. Indeed, the glass was frosted, more for the design of privacy for a bedchamber than the natural effect of morning condensation. Still, one could peer out well enough to see colors and shapes of passersby without much detail to their purpose. Being on the third floor and facing away from the copse of trees, Jeeves had earlier hoped, would have protected Wooster from the same scene he had witnessed earlier. It did obscure the stage, but in turn lent focus to the actors preparing to take their cues.

As he looked, Wooster huffed and reached for the cup. The Oolong steamed lightly, the trip up from the kitchen having cooled it to a more drinkable temperature. Wooster gripped the handle and lifted it. The cup did not travel far. Woosters’ hand trembled substantially, as if the weight of the drink was too much for his frazzled nerves. The tea sloshed from one side to the other, quickly, like a typhoon in a bathtub, and in his attempt to steady his hand, the drink escaped its confinement and decorated him.

It didn’t burn, mercifully, but the sudden change was a shock and Wooster reacted much in the same way he always did; forcefully and without thought, only making a bad situation worse. The cup returned to the saucer with a loud, sharp clink. Tea spilled further, as the base of the cup was now cracked from the impact, rendering the dish useless. Wooster cursed as he tried to set it right. Jeeves, as was his nature, swiftly and silently moved into the space to remedy the mess.

“Do not trouble yourself, sir,” Jeeves said calmly, collecting the broken pieces and dabbing the tea with a cloth napkin. “I happened to notice other pieces of this Sweejar set bearing chips at the edges. Your destruction of this piece should be seen as a mercy and encouragement to dispose of the set entirely.”

“They’re going to find him, Jeeves.”

Wooster hung his head in his hands, the palms muffling his breaking voice. Jeeves had never seen the man before him so distraught. It pained him to see, but it pained him even more to think about what he was about to do. Pained him the most to think what would happen to this man if he didn’t follow through.

Jeeves was the brains of the operation. After so many months in each others’ acquaintanceship, this was a known fact to both the pair of them and anyone lucky or unlucky enough to require the assistance of said brains for some elaborate plan. By contrast, when Wooster was set about to come up with a plan of his own, they were often impulsive, short-sighted, and almost always doomed to fail: if not under the weight of their own poor planning, then by indirectly going against Jeeves’s own plan already secretly in the works. One event that came to the mind of a follower of their exploits was the time, in the attempt to soothe Gussie Fink-Nottle into public speaking for an award ceremony for school boys, neither had shared their plan, and in doing so, both had snuck half a bottle of the good stuff into the man’s lemonade. Thusly, the unfortunate teetotaller had gotten the whole bottle and subsequently launched a campaign on a school boy’s merit in earning the award he was supposed to be presenting him with.

It went a long way of explaining that Jeeves, as so often would be the case, had a solution to the problem his employer found himself in, and it would naturally fall apart should said employer be allowed to disrupt it, either through his ignorance or knowledge thereof. Still, in the end, Jeeves found a way. He would, in the end when all things were sunny again and Wooster was recovering from whatever misfortune he needed to experience to complete their goal, explain it all in simple terms. Wooster would fuss a bit about being damp or having to spend a night in the village gaolhouse or even bear a cold for the twenty kilometer bike ride in the rain, but Jeeves would explain his plan and the success of it. Wooster would pause his fussing and a little smile would dawn on his face as all the details lined up in his mind. Jeeves, despite himself, began to treasure that little smile. It would be the same this time, surely, to keep his full knowledge of the police’s presence a secret. He would smile like that again, surely, when he finally explained how he knew things were amiss from the word Go. Surely.

Of course, there was a bit of schadenfreudistic satisfaction in indirectly punishing Wooster for his lack of a sartorial sense. Too many schemes were convenient fodder for settling a dispute over Wooster’s ugly mess jacket or purple ties or even those damn, tacky handkerchiefs. This, though? This wasn’t worth the ugly hat he’d hidden out of sight at the bottom of the wardrobe. Let the man wear a hundred ugly hats if it meant Jeeves never again heard his voice break the way it had just broken now. There had been no sign of that second cricket bat last night; someone was playing a game with Wooster. God help them if Jeeves found out who.

“I can assure you, sir, that that is not the case.” Jeeves maintained his calm tone, if only to no further frighten the man before him.

“How–” Wooster began.

“The police forces in smaller villages tend to be excitable, often due to their lack of adventure and crime, sir, and often jump to poorly thought out conclusions. If, in the unlikely event they come to some conclusion that gravitates towards your person, you can rest assured that any long-term outcomes will not be able to subsist on it.”

“But–”

“That is to say, sir, in simpler matters, if they were to consider you suspect, there will be no evidence to support such a thing.”

“Jeeves, I’m a murderer!” If his hoarse voice allowed him any volume, Wooster would have undone his valet’s scheme then and there. As it was, it came out as a desperate croak.

“Only if you are convicted of the crime, sir,” Jeeves said slowly and smoothly.

“Now Jeeves, you’ve turned up your nose at helping with such soups before–”

“You will find that this differs greatly from the theft of a policemans’ helmet, sir.”

“All the more reason! Really, old thing. I should spare you the suffering of saving me again and turn myself in now and–”

“I think, sir,” Jeeves raised a hand to keep Wooster from rising from his chair, the other appendage busy with retrieving the tray. “It would be best for you to stay here and rest. Your voice sounds rather ragged and it is still early. I think it would be best if you spoke with the police after you’ve recovered your voice and your wits.”

Wooster gaped like a fish, the pieces of this command falling onto the table but not quite into place. He in no way sounded eager for the suggestion he had just made, likewise he looked unsure in taking the escape route Jeeves had just provided him. “I…yes. If, if that is what you think is best, Jeeves. Um, be down soon for breakfast, then?”

“Very good, sir.”

Jeeves set out a respectable outfit for the weather and the season before leaving. He considered the ugly hat as he was selecting the proper footwear to go along with the knitted vest. It simply didn’t go, in style or color, with any of the clothing he had packed for the man. It remained in the wardrobe. Still, if Wooster happened upon it, and if he felt it right to wear it for the day, Jeeves would not intervene. He would frown, give the thing a disapproving glance, if only to maintain the fragile battle of wills between them, but he would let it be. He could burn the hat after he learned who was trying to frame his young master for murder.

Chapter Text

By the time Columbo had finished his walk to and from whatever interest had caught his eye downstream, the morning dew had cleared enough for the hill to be safely traversable. The same dryness could not be said for Columbo himself as the lieutenant's pants were soaked up to the knee. His shoes, understandably, were waterlogged as well and made a distinct squick-squick-squick as he ascended the hill and crossed the gravel drive. It was no doubt an annoyance for the man, but his attention was on the thing he held out away from his body. Pinched between thumb and finger was something that resembled a fur rug made from what could have been the king of the badgers based on its size, but had been so thoroughly soaked as to be warped beyond immediate identification. It had stopped dripping, but was clearly still damp. Columbo’s arms were thankfully still dry and for the time being, he intended to keep it that way.

Constable Helms was waiting for him by the side of the manor house, alongside Burton. Both men turned at the approaching wet sound and both men reeled at the sight of the dampened burden. Burton, being a man of propriety and self-control, collected himself. At least in his posture. His uncontrollable eyes remained as wide as saucers.

“Sir, where’d you find that?” Constable Helms asked. He at last caught himself and straightened.

“It’s Mr. Spodes’ evening robe,” Burton said gravely.

Columbo perked up at this. “You’re certain?”

Burton nodded. “I recognize the color. His valet uses the washroom to clean it daily.”

Columbo hummed and gestured down the stream. “I found this on a log down the ways a bit.”

“Must’ve gotten caught when the poor blighter floated past. Shame it didn’t hold,” said Constable Helms.

Columbo hummed again. Not quite an agreement, more just a sound. “Mr. Burton, how many other guests are staying? What I mean is, who all lives here? Aside from the staff.”

The older man ran down the list, beginning with his lordship and ending with Mr. Spode and his valet. “Ah, there is another guest that arrived just yesterday, sir. One Mr. Bertie Wooster, accompanied by his valet.”

“Bertie Wooster, that’s familiar. Is he a friend of the family?”

“Distantly, sir. I believe he is friends with Master Charles’ tutor.”

“Oh, I see.” Columbo frowned at his soaked section. “I uh, I fell in trying to get to the robe, I’m afraid. Do you happen to have a clothes dryer I could borrow?”

Burton looked at the dampened fabric with some level of sartorial scorn and gestured for the lieutenant to follow him into the staff entrance. Before he did so, Columbo passed the ruined robe over to Helms and spoke in a low voice.

“It wasn’t caught on the log. It was draped over it. Hold onto this for now.”

The lieutenant left with Burton by the time Constable Helms had grasped the command and the message buried in it. He looked up to ask a question and thought better of it. The lieutenant was far away now, staring at something at the bottom of the staff entrance with a focus he dare not interrupt.

They did not, understandably, have a spare butler suit lying around for the lieutenant to wear while Burton set another staff member to the task of drying the soaked pants, socks, and shoes. Columbo needed to see about this Spode gentleman. If Burton was correct in telling him that Mr. Spode was the only guest unaccounted for, then his rooms would be the next place to investigate. However, Burton was the head of staff, and he would sooner swill pond water than allow the waterlogged lieutenant one, enter through the main entrance and dampen the fine rug and two, go about squick-squick-squicking and asking questions and bothering the guests without getting his lordship’s permission first. He didn’t say this, of course, but his demeanor and tone certainly implied it.

Mercifully, they lent him a sheet to wrap himself in as he waited in the hallway to the kitchen. The get-up reminded him of a nearly forgotten memory of when he had an unfortunate accident in kindergarten and was sent to see the nurse for a pair of replacement shorts, having to wait in a similar state, and felt a bit bashful. The little maid that shot past him into the kitchen did not help the feeling, giving him several once-overs as she went.

After a moment, the little maid poked her head out again with a quizzical look. Columbo smiled at her and it was only then that it dawned on her that she had been noticed. She blanched and bowed her head, stepping into the hall proper.

“So sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to stare, sir,” she said quickly. “Are you the policeman I heard about, sir?”

Columbo smiled at her, a little surprised at how quickly word had spread. And here he thought the gossip network of aunts and mother-in-laws had no other rival. “I’m with the police, miss. Did you want to talk with me about something?”

Again, she was awash with a look of surprise, as if she was beginning to suspect that the man was a mind-reader and not just someone very used to recognizing that particular look. “Yes, sir! I mean, I think I should say something, sir.”

Columbo waited for her to continue. After a moment, she got close enough to him that only the pair of them could pick up on her whisper. Why she was whispering at all, he didn’t know. They were alone in the hall. Maybe that was just how the staff were expected to act.

“I saw a man last night, sir.”

“Did you now?” Asked Columbo encouragingly.

“Oh, not like that, sir! I have the mania.”

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“The mania, sir. I can’t sleep at night. That’s why I was up late; the Inso Mania.”

Understanding hit him like loose newspaper caught in a gust of wind; lightly and not particularly illuminating, but attention-grabbing all the same. He couldn’t tell if it was her melodic dialect that caused her to say insomnia like it was a branch language of Pig Latin or if she had just learned the word. She certainly didn’t look like it was a problem she’d had for long. He had seen the dark bags under many of his fellow detectives back in L.A., but she was bright eyed and had a clear complexion most Hollywood stars would kill for.

“I didn’t think anything of it at the time, you see, sir.”

“What is your name, miss?” Columbo interjected, hoping to move things in a format less like a garden path.

“Millie. Oh, um. Mildred, sir.”

“Do you prefer Millie?”

“My family calls me such, sir. But Mr. Burton thinks it’s too childish and calls me ‘Mildred’, so the rest of the staff do, too.”

“Alright then, Millie, would you tell me what you saw last night?”

Millie beamed as she spoke. “Last night, around two in the morning, I saw one of the guests running from the garden to the manor. I didn’t get a great look at him, sir, but I know he’s one of the guests.”

“Do you remember which one?”

The smile fell. Millie looked like a child in a school play, lines forgotten under the gymnasium lights. “Um, yes sir, but…”

He took a chance on the expression she held. “Do his friends call him ‘Bertie’?”

This time, her face reddened. “Oh, I’d never be so bold, sir! That is, unless he insisted I do, but I’d never! It isn’t proper.” She likely meant to sound offended, but the look on her face reminded him of his niece after he asked about the nice boy he saw walking home with her one day. It wasn’t much, but it also could mean everything. His cases were funny like that.

“No, no. I didn’t mean to imply,” Columbo apologized. “Um, this Bertie fellow, did he look any sort of way? Were his clothes messy? Did he seem upset?”

“Oh yes, sir. Very much.” Millie said, eyes straight ahead and not much focused on any one thing. “Mr. Bertie looked very distressed. Like the devil was on his heels. It was after two in the morning. I heard the grandfather clock in the hall chime twice.”

Columbo asked her a few more questions until she was called away by a more senior maid. They were of little addition to what he already was starting to understand, but it did help him learn a little more about the little maid. Clearly, there was a crush. How that would play out, he could only speculate.

The same maid returned a little later with his now dry clothes, and, after a moment to correct his state of undress, he was free to move about the manor house with a lower chance of offending unsuspecting persons. The first thing he looked into was the front door. It wasn’t long before Burton was by his side again, peering down at the man on his hands and knees before the entryway rug.

“Are you quite well, sir?” Burton asked.

“Oh, uh, yes,” Columbo said, jumping at the sudden noise and rising to his feet. “Just looking at the mud.”

“Mud, sir? My apologies. It must have slipped my attention. It will be cleaned momentarily.”

“Oh no, I’m not offended by it. Just happened to notice. You see, I saw some mud by the side entrance mat over there, too, only that was dry, it being inside the doorway. This mud here, it’s still a little wet. Isn’t that funny?”

Clearly, Burton found no humor or interest in whatever fascination the lieutenant had. His focus was more on the man’s hand. Rather, what it held.

“I must ask on behalf of his Lordship that you do not smoke within the building.”

Columbo looked down at his cigar. Somehow, one always found its way back to its rightful place whether he did it consciously or not. “Oh, I wasn’t–”

“Lord Cairnwright has accumulated a great deal of priceless works, Lieutenant. It would be a travesty if they were at all damaged by the smoke.”

“I understand, sir.” He checked to make sure it wasn’t lit before pocketing it. If it returned to his hand as soon as Burton was out of sight later, well, he could hardly be blamed for a subconscious thing. "Could you show me to Mr. Spode’s room?”

Roderick Spode’s room was, for all expectations that one could have, despite what little they knew of the man, rather tidy. Granted, that was due in large part to the man’s own valet, who was currently out on some other errand, by the looks of it. Burton stood just inside the doorway as he watched the lieutenant examine this and that, not really finding much of anything that would jump out at the observer as would the proverbial rattlesnake. There were clothes in the drawers, coats in the bureau, personal toiletries in the bathroom, a teddy bear on the bed. This last point he looked at with some interest. The bed was made and the bear posed in the center. Upright, sitting. The fur was worn with use. Someone slept with the comfort creature often.

“Did Mr. Spode come here with any family?” he asked out loud.

“Just himself,” answered a new voice.

Columbo whirled around to see the source. Standing in the doorway was a rather tall man of a pale complexion and dark hair dressed in a light gray tweed suit. Most notable of his features was the thin mustache that curled with his smile as he addressed the waiting butler.

“It’s alright, Burton. I can keep an eye on him from here.”

“As you wish, sir.” And with that, Burton disappeared down the hall.

“You must be the American policeman, then,” the man said, now addressing Columbo.

“Lieutenant, actually. Lt. Columbo of the LAPD.” He offered a hand. The man took it.

“Albert Fetterling. Lord Cairnwright is my father-in-law.”

“Did you know the victim, sir?”

Fetterling waffled a bit. “I suppose. He was a friend of fathers’. I would see him at meals and such. Seemed rather interested in his politics. Sounded like he had a great deal of understanding about the whole thing, at least more than what I normally hear from those political sorts. Leads a group of them I hear. He’s been trying to convince some local boys to join up. Well, he was trying.”

“Oh? I take it you’ve heard about what happened, then?”

Fetterling looked insulted by his tone of surprise. “Well, of course I have. Staff talk after all. You’ve talked to the staff, haven’t you?”

“A few.”

“And? Any luck?”

“Well, I think I have one witness, but…” he trailed off, suddenly interested in a bit of white fabric sticking out from a drawer.

“A witness?” Fetterling asked.

Columbo didn’t respond. Carefully he pulled on the fabric until it was clear that it was a shirt tail and not a handkerchief. The shade was the same as the one stuck in the bush, aside from its recent stains, but up close the material was from different types of textile. Oh well.

“Do you know if Mr. Spode had any enemies?” Columbo asked suddenly.

“Enemies?” came the incredulous answer.

“Or maybe people that just didn’t like him?”

“Any man of his caliber in politics has enemies, lieutenant.” Fetterling chewed the inside of his cheek as he regarded the ceiling for a moment. He looked back at the smaller man with a thoughtful squint. “He didn’t care for another guest staying here. Wooster’s his name. Bit of a scoundrel, I understand.”

“Wooster…” Columbo said slowly. With a name that pops up as often as his did, it was more than enough reason to pay the owner of it a visit. He pointed at the taller man. “Did you ask me something earlier?”

“Yes,” Fetterling said with a tinge of annoyance. “You mentioned a witness among the staff? What did she say?”

“Oh, just that it was dark, couldn’t really see much. Might’ve seen a man running. Not really much to go on. Y’know, it’s kinda funny, the way folks talk over here. Not the sound of it, no. Just the choice of words; it’s very different to what I’m used to, you see. That little maid I was talking to, for example. Every sentence ending in the word ‘sir’. Very professional. Well, except for her testimony. Sounded like my niece reciting lines in a school play.” He paused, smiling at the now frowning man. “Well, I should move on to the next thing on my list.”

Columbo wiggled past Fetterling, who was still standing stunned in the doorway. He had gotten the length of about three taxidermied birds (they were evenly spaced between the wall sconces) before stopping suddenly. He raised a pointed hand, pivoted on his heel, and fixed Fetterling with a curious look.

“How did you know my witness was a gal?”

“Sorry?” Fetterling choked out.

“Earlier, you asked if she said anything. How did you know I talked to a woman?”

“Well, you told me.”

“I did?”

Fetterling smiled in a sort of self-satisfied way. Relieved, almost. “In so many words. You see, tone speaks louder than the words, themselves. The way your voice pitches down or up on certain words can indicate a variety of meanings. For example, when you said ‘witness’, your voice went up slightly in pitch. Before that, when you said ‘victim’, your pitch went down. Now, we both know the victim was a man, so one could deduce that the opposite of that could indicate you were referencing a woman.”

Columbo stared at the man in awe. “Amazing. You could figure all of that out from just my-you said my tone?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“What do you do for a living? Did you say?”

“I’m a Literary Professor. Although I have dabbled in a few theatrical productions during my short tenure. Indication of tone is vital to a successful performance.”

Columbo nodded. He nearly turned away before another thought came to mind. “One more thing, Mr. Fetterling?”

“Yes?”

“Are you an Albert, or do your friends call you ‘Bertie’?”

Any charm Columbo had earned by stroking the man’s ego was immediately extinguished. “Certainly not!”

Columbo escaped before he could further inflict the man with his offending boldness. He ran into Burton along the way, who sent him in the general direction of Mr. Wooster’s room. Either he trusted the American to not make an annoyance of himself, or he had more important tasks to oversee than babysitting the grown man. At any rate, Columbo eventually found the right room. They weren’t numbered, which naturally made sense not to do in one’s own home, but he couldn’t help but admire the resident’s ability to memorize the layout of a home of this size.

The man that answered his persistent knocking was not Mr. Wooster, but was in fact a rather imposing figure in a black suit. The man apologized, introduced himself as Jeeves, Mr. Wooster’s personal valet, and explained that his master had gone down to the dining room for his breakfast. Columbo thanked the man and went down, as well.

When he arrived, breakfast had long since been cleared away. At the table was a familiar man, but not the one he was hoping to find. The man introduced himself as Little and the boy as Charles, the two of them deep in study of the textbook between them (at starkly different depths) and the smaller of the two clutched a cricket bat far too large for his stature in one hand. It reminded him of a Viking lord, but when the lieutenant voiced the joke aloud, the lad seemed utterly lost. Columbo tried another joke, remarking on the apparent battle damage of the cloth covering, and at this the lad became irate. His mother must have damaged it, he insisted, when she took it from him before dinner.

“Does she usually do that?” Lt. Columbo asked politely.

“Yes, but…” Charles peered up at Mr. Little, almost daring his tutor to squeal on him over the coming statement. “Sometimes I sneak out and get it back from her! She must’ve hid it real good this time, because I didn’t find it until morning.”

“‘Really well.’” Mr. Little corrected with a hint of exasperation.

“What?”

“You should say ‘she had hidden it really well’; it’s proper grammar.”

“Say, could either of you tell me where I could find Mr. Wooster?” Columbo cut in.

“Bertie? I’d imagine he went off to find a piano. He’s a real catch with the musical works.”

“Father says he is a cad. Are you here to lock him up?” Charles dodged a swat from his tutor. “I said it with proper grammar!”

Mr. Little insisted Charles focus on his studies, if only to keep him from saying anything else improper in regards to his dear friend. He pointed in the direction of a likely sitting room and bid the American lieutenant goodbye.

So began an unusual pattern of interactions that the hapless Lt. Columbo experienced as he unintentionally worked his way through the Cairnwright family tree. The first sitting room he found did have a piano, and at the controls was indeed a pianist, however she was a young woman with mouse brown hair. Standing beside her, to his surprise, was Jeeves awaiting her nod to turn the pages of her sheet music. Introductions were made and Mrs. Fetterling explained to the lieutenant her opinion of Mr. Bertram Wooster. He watched Jeeves as she spoke, impressed the man could remain so statuesque as his employer was described as a man who had traded sense of mind for volume of voice. She returned to her sheet music, frowning at her lost place, and Jeeves suggested he go see if his employer was in the game room.

He found Lord Cairnwright instead, Burton standing nearby, and lamented his lack of a partner in a game of billiards a la Spode. True to Charles’ word, his Lordship called Bertie a cad when prompted, among other unflattering terms, and suggested the fathead was likely skulking about the kitchen for a snack after avoiding breakfast, as if the bacon was trimmed from oversized plague rats.

In the kitchen, Columbo met with Jeeves again who was busy discussing lunch plans with the cook. Graciously, the valet suggested his employer was enjoying the gardens as there was a brief break in the clouds. Falling into the rhythm of this apparent pattern, Columbo did just that. Again, his search was thwarted. Ms. Theodora was inspecting a cracked statue, her mother as her chaperone. The young miss expressed an artists’ love of the man’s eyes. The Lady expressed a sentiment similar to her husbands, although carefully worded so as to not alert her distracted daughter.

For fear of continuing tomeet relative, Jeeves, relative, Jeeves, and so forth until the horizon swallowed up the sun, Lt. Columbo set out onto the grounds on his own. The general itching he felt earlier had grown into a tickling thought behind one eye–the better one, in fact–and he felt it focus as he approached a garden shed just off towards the southside of the gardens by the manor house. The wooden door opened with a satisfying creak. He stood against it, letting the light of an overcast sky in to make sense of what he should be looking for.

“Might I be of assistance, lieutenant?”

Columbo’s head shot out from the shed. Just outside was Jeeves, impeccable in posture and bearing the faintest smile possible. Odd. Columbo was used to people coming up to him on his blindside, but he normally heard them coming. He pulled the cigar from his mouth, its return to its natural place unnoticed by himself and by others alike, and greeted the valet.

“Maybe you can, Jeeves. Do you know much about cricket?”

Jeeves raised an eyebrow a hair’s width. “Indeed, sir. Is there some particular interest in the sport you would like me to exposit? History, practice, rules, notable figures?”

Columbo gestured into the shed. Inside, near the door, was a suggestion of order in regards to the cricket bats stacked against the wall. Beside this was a large leather bag, likely holding other necessary pieces for a game. “How many bats does the game use?”

At this, Jeeves frowned. “In a manner of speaking, sir, only two. In more casual settings, the gentlemen involved generally own their own bat and will bring it along to a game. In this consideration, there is no real limit to the number of bats. However, it is best that the opposing teams do not share with each other.”

Columbo smiled and looked back at the bat stack. It was not dusty, nor orderly, so one could not say if they had been disturbed recently. He counted six in total. Adding on Charles’ own bat, it seemed like an odd number to keep around for a sport with an even amount of teams. He said as much and Jeeves agreed with an automatic tone.

“It’s funny that I keep running into you, Jeeves,” Columbo said suddenly, as if they had been having this conversation for the past hour. “I’ve been all over the place looking for Mr. Wooster and it seems like you’re always already there waiting for me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to hide him from me.”

The comment was said with a wry smile. It was met with the same–albeit very, very faint.

“Nothing of the sort, sir. Mr. Burton was growing concerned by your continued presence in the house, if you do not mind my being so forward on the matter. He asked me to assist you with your investigation until you were satisfied with your findings.”

“And if Mr. Wooster needs you while I’m still around?” Columbo tested.

“Unlikely, sir. My master is currently resting.” He paused. “Although I may impede your investigation by doing so, if I may be so bold. I must ask that you allow Mr. Wooster his rest.”

“Oh, of course. Is he under the weather?”

“No, sir. Merely in need of some rest.”

“When did he turn in for the night?”

It was an innocuous question, perfectly understandable to ask when discussing a grown adult taking a nap near the middle of the day. Columbo still saw the change of tension in Jeeves’ shoulders. Jeeves glanced towards the sky, consulting his memory. Columbo was once investigating a therapist whose wife had mysteriously died in their condo while he was on vacation in Mexico. Among the many interviews to understand how he had done it, the therapist shared an interesting anecdote about memory. People look up both when recalling a memory and constructing a lie. The difference between these two was the direction you looked. It would have helped him now if only he could remember if looking left meant a lie or a memory.

“Shortly after eleven,” Jeeves answered assuredly. “Mr. Wooster went for a walk in the gardens after supper, after which he retired for the evening.”

Columbo thought for a moment, his forearm itching. “Since Mr. Wooster is asleep, do you mind answering a few questions on his behalf?”

Jeeves nodded with a sort of buried, reserved look on his face that a more self-conscious person could read as I already have been, and will continue to do so, you misguided little Yank.

“Does he have a middle name, your boss?”

If the question surprised him with its left-field approach, Jeeves did an excellent job hiding it. “His middle name, sir?”

“Yes. You see, I have a little conundrum with this case. Well, a few little conundrums, in fact. One in particular is–” He stopped himself, finger crossing his mouth as if to stop the thought escaping. “Oh, uh, maybe I shouldn’t bring this up. It being an active case and all.”

Jeeves’ eyes softened. “You have my confidence, sir. Anything said may stay between us, if you so wish.”

“Well, if you insist. I don’t know if you happened to see the yard this morning, in all the activity, but I know how word gets around. Had a little gal tell me all her thoughts on it and I was barely through the door. Thing is, I’ve talked to all the fancy folks here and all of them are Cairnwrights or Fetterlings, or Littles, or Spodes.” He opened his mouth and froze. “Where was I going with this?”

“Mr. Woosters’ name, sir.” The man was a rock.

“Yes, that’s right. Does he use handkerchiefs?”

“As much as any respectable gentleman should.”

"Embroidered ones?”

The rock facade cracked. “No, sir.”

“Well, that’s the funny thing, Jeeves,” Columbo explained slowly, letting his own facade of a fool slip just a little. “We found a handkerchief on the hill with the initials Bee-Dubbya-Dubbya. No one else has a last name that starts with a W.”

Jeeves glanced towards the hill faintly.

“Is it ‘William’?”

“Wilberforce, sir,” Jeeves answered. “I must make a correction of an earlier comment, sir. Mr. Wooster used to own several dozen such articles, however he had requested I dispose of the offending pieces some time ago.”

“Any reason why?”

“They did not become him.”

Columbo wasn’t entirely sure what that was supposed to mean, but he nodded in understanding, anyway. This was becoming unusual for him. Most cases, or it seemed to him due to its frequency, he knew who the killer was within five minutes of meeting them. It wasn’t profiling or bias or some other third thing a psychologist could base a thesis on. Something in his gut itched in a way that said it’s him! Now find out how. That little voice had been silent all day. The itching continued on without it.

He looked out towards the front of the estate, over where a few bushes obscured what little was left of the crime scene. A brief but strong sprinkle of rain likely disrupted the trails of blood, but if Helms and Thatcher were to be trusted, and he did, then the more mobile bits of evidence were now safely stored in a nice and dry locked room. Not that he was concerned with someone stealing any of it. After all, it was becoming very clear that someone really wanted him to see it.

For a moment, he considered asking Jeeves the same thing he did to Mr. Fetterling regarding Spode and his enemies. Enough of the family already admitted to not liking the man, so asking if he had enemies would be the natural next step. However, the question stayed in his head. His previous case had an Old World English butler as well, his manner of speaking strikingly similar to the man before him. The butler did not live to see justice be served for the death of his master, the real killers using him as a scapegoat. After their confessions, he wondered if his bothering of the butler led him to blackmailing them for secure work. It was an odd motive to follow, to be sure, but it made him hesitate. He needed time to get a read on Jeeves before asking that question, lest he admit his name being on that list.

Columbo made a comment about returning to town for a meal, maybe a gallon of coffee, too. Jeeves offered to walk with him to the front of the manor house. As they went, the silence between them grew. Columbo didn’t expect the statuesque valet to be bothered by their shared quiet. As they rounded the corner of the manor house, a large statue of a horse rearing came into view, and he heard the faintest little cough ever uttered by a living being. For a moment, he thought it came from the statue.

“If I may, sir, inquire about your expression. You seem rather perturbed by something. Perhaps I could assist in alleviating the strain?”

Columbo blinked and stopped when they reached the gravel drive. “That obvious, is it?”

“I do not mean to pry,” Jeeves spoke with a voice laced in humility. “Mr. Wooster, and many of his acquaintances, as well, have requested I assist in solving their occasional annoyances and misunderstandings regarding related parties. That is to say, I may have some experience in whatever troubles you.”

Columbo smiled up at the man. The crack from before had been plastered over. Well, that won’t do. “Well, you see, it has to do with my brother-in-law.” Confusion inched its way across Jeeves’ brow, but it wasn’t a crack. Not yet. “He’s a bit of prankster. My wife and I, a while back, we went on a cruise to Mexico. I ended up having to solve a murder then, too. I guess I should stop taking vacations, huh?”

A twitch of a sympathetic smile. It was something. Columbo chuckled.

“Anyway, we asked him to watch the house for us while we were gone. We came back about a week later and, for some reason, I kept running into the furniture! I’d be walking through the living room, same as I’ve always done, and my foot would catch on the coffee table or I’d pump my hip on the couch. I didn’t understand it. It took me nearly two weeks to figure out why. Do you know what it was?”

Jeeves considered for a moment. “You mentioned you were on a cruise, sir. Perhaps that was related? An imbalance of your equilibrium on the high seas does tend to stay longer with certain victims.”

“I thought the same, Jeeves, I thought the same. Tell you the truth; I don’t think I would have ever figured it out if it wasn’t for my dog. He ran off with the clicker, hid it under the couch and when I went to get it, do you know what I found?”

Jeeves inclined his head. “The clicker, sir?”

“Divots, Jeeves. Divots in the carpet. I started looking around and suddenly I was seeing them everywhere. My brother-in-law is a prankster; I don’t know if I’ve mentioned that yet. While we were gone, he moved every bit of furniture that wasn’t nailed down two inches to the right. Just enough not to notice the change, but enough to throw off everything else.”

“Illuminating, sir.”

“Yes, Jeeves. That’s what bothers me about this case. I just haven’t found the divots in the carpet, yet. You let me know if you see any, yeah?”

Jeeves nodded appropriately before excusing himself. They had reached the destination of their separation and, unless the lieutenant had more rambling to inflict on him, there was no pressing need for their continued acquaintance. Columbo walked back to the village, the incline of the hill making up for the lack of a ride back. His stomach grumbled loudly. There was much to consider and the walk would give him time to put things in order. First and foremost, he needed breakfast.

Chapter Text

“Who was at the door, Jeeves?” Wooster asked after a moment, waiting for whoever it was to be well down the hall before he let his presence be known.

“A Lt. Columbo, sir. I believe you had already made his acquaintance when we arrived in town.”

Wooster screwed up his face, the stress of the morning and the lack of rest of the night taking its toll on his already unremarkable sense of memory. Not to mention the matter of his tea being delayed due to his shaking hands. The pair of things were having a terrible time weaving his tie into a Windsor knot, something Jeeves would do himself, were it not for the sudden knocking at the door. The rest of the outfit had gone smoothly, and the final articles, a knitted vest and coat, waited patiently, draped over Jeeves’ sturdy forearm.

The name certainly rang, but it was less of a bell tone and more of a scullery maid two floors down dropping a cooking pot.

“If you say so, Jeeves. Well, what did the man want?”

“He was enquiring about your current location, sir. I informed him that you had gone down to the dining hall for breakfast.”

“Ah, very good.” The conversation at the door was well within his earshot, but Wooster was not paying much attention to it until he realized Jeeves was no longer at his side. The answer to his question was presented in a familiar tone of certainty, and in the familiar voice of his valet, so it ruminated in his memory for some time before the fallacy of said answer fell out of his ear and landed squarely between his feet. “Wait a mo’. Jeeves, I haven’t gone down for breakfast.”

“Yes, sir. I had taken notice of that.”

“Well then, why did you tell Co–Col–” He struggled to come up with a satisfactory boyish nickname that would stick in his mind more than the man’s actual name. Enough of his wit survived the night for him to attempt the endeavor and decide it wasn’t worth it. “You don’t like this Columbo fellow, Jeeves?”

Jeeves inclined his head to look more pointedly at Woosters’ struggling hands. The muted gold-colored fabric would go beautifully with the knitted vest he had packed, striking yet subtle, but now he began to wonder if there was something suitable for the season that did not include any complicated additions. He offered a hand towards the man, a faint if I may, sir expression ghosting across his features.

Wooster looked at the hand, realized its meaning, and halted his movements. He huffed, rolled his eyes, and gave up the offending article. Having expected Jeeves to replace the piece with some other tie, him being used to the man taking great offense to the varieties he would collect, it came as a surprise when Jeeves did not toss it out the window but gently smoothed the fabric, wrapped it twice around his hand, adjust it in some magical way, and present to him a tied tie. All that was left was the final adjustment, which Wooster gladly did when it was fixed around his collar.

“It has come to my attention, sir,” Jeeves spoke in a lower voice, perhaps due to their proximity, perhaps to counter listening ears,“that the title of lieutenant has less to do with a militaristic past and more to do with present employment in the field of law enforcement.”

“You think, that is to say, you’re saying Old Columbo is one of the bobbies?” Wooster asked, muffled slightly from the knitted vest caught around his head.

“In a manner of speaking, sir, yes. If you recall, you were helping the man reunite with his wife in another town. Considering that he is still in the area, one could suppose that he has been asked to extend his stay in order to assist in the matter regarding–”

“Jeeves! This is awful!” Wooster burst, both in voice and the action as his head at last cleared the collar of his knitted restraint. “Terrible! Why, he’s already here to collect me!”

“Unlikely, sir,” Jeeves smoothed, both in voice and action as well. The knitted vest looked most comfortable once secured by the brown tweed jacket. “The lieutenant merely expressed an interest in speaking with you. It is standard practice to speak with any associates of the deceased during an investigation.”

Wooster perked up. “Ah, yes. So I’ve read. Marvelous how similar real life is to my mystery books, eh, Jeeves? Why, you could almost set your watch to the–to–oh, Jeeves. They always catch the killer at the end of those books,” he simpered.

“It makes for more interesting fiction, I believe, sir. One rarely expects a novel to sell well if the tantalizing mystery therein remains unsolved by the final chapter. In most cases, from what I’ve read in the Post, crimes have a much lower chance of being solved than what your latest novel would imply. Far too few perpetrators of crimes go on to see justice for their actions. For better or worse, sir.”

Jeeves was a marvel. Wooster knew that was the case from the first morning of his employment and knew, in some aspect of his soul, that this truth of the world would remain as such for years to come. How he could present such a travesty of Law and Order and Justice as a positive possibility, and in doing so lift the young masters’ fallen spirit, one could barely comprehend. Wooster did not own a chess board; the game was not his style, nor could hold his interest, but he knew if he were to challenge his valet to a few rounds, he would lose an abbeys’ worth of bishops, a roundtable of knights, and a long lineage of royals before he had ever managed to capture a pawn on his own merit.

At any rate, Wooster was dressed to satisfaction and the matter was, for now, settling. There was a tenuous agreement in place that, in order to avoid another encounter with the American Bobbie of Certain Distinction, Wooster was to remain in his room until said American exited the manor house and was well on his way down the road. Jeeves would endeavor to retrieve a fresh pot of tea, along with some treats of a hopefully savory variety, in the meantime.

Perhaps it was the anxiousness that made him restless, or rather the other way around, or even perhaps his worn nerves had eaten up what little breakfast Jeeves had brought him and the lack of a suitable sip of tea had taken a greater toll than he could ever have expected. After all, Bertram Wooster had lived a privileged life ever since he was a boy. He’d never been denied a cup of tea, rarely delayed one either, so he had not lived a day long enough to know that one could feel the absence of it.

All that said, the man could hardly be blamed for giving in to his baser desire to satisfy the aching withdrawals he was feeling for his country’s most distinguished drink. That is, the more invigorating one. It was far too early in the day for a pint and that was better held in celebration.

Wooster peered out into the hall, his head looking like one of the many mounted displays, if he were to be seen by a witness. Thankfully for him, the hallway was as lifeless as said displays.

Wooster had made note of the nearest sitting room while Lady Cairnwright had been giving her historical tour of the halls. That, and the exit from the hall of horrors, of course. It was mercifully free of any heads, stuffed or living and still attached, and better yet it possessed a piano that looked just cared for enough to likely be in tune. While he knew that he was supposed to be keeping a low profile and well hidden from inquisitive guests, his fingers itched to play and let out some of the tension that the sweet sleep his guilt robbed him of would normally alleviate.

Tea was still on his mind, but with Jeeves on the task, he hardly had to worry. Even if the man didn’t hear him playing, Jeeves would know where he was simply on the merit of being a marvel and always knowing exactly what he needed and when and where.

“But, Jeeves, I hardly know how to play!”

Wooster hardly had time to turn around and see the source of the exclamation before a firm hand found its way to the center of his back and firmly shoved him into the tight space between the oak door and the fine florally papered wall. He tried to wiggle free, but said hand kept itself on said door and kept said Wooster firmly wedged. He opened his mouth to protest, but another voice made him pause.

“You do yourself a disservice, Mrs. Fetterling. You have a hand structure perfect for the talent. I am certain you will fall into the practice quite naturally.”

Jeeves hadn’t worked for Wooster for a terribly long time yet, barely more than a handful of months, but it had proved long enough for him to pick up on the intricacies that is the Jeevesian dialect. For one, Jeeves rarely if ever spoke in a higher register, the example of such a rarity was still ruminating just under his thinkpan (well, less of a pan and more of a small dish. A think-coaster, perhaps) and the recollection of it gave him another reason to pause.

For another, Jeeves tone was usually passive. Indirect. Lilting in a way that encouraged the listener to unconsciously agree that whatever brilliance he had just elucidated was in fact one’s own and Jeeves had simply pulled it to the surface.

Jeeves’ tone was not this way now, but more pointed. It was almost as if he was speaking aloud to warn his young master, who very much was not hiding behind the door, to stay put and not come out into the open. The reason for such a hidden message was not clear until Elizabeth had butchered several measures of what implied itself to be an unpublished work of Mozart and then, mercifully, was interrupted.

“Pardon me, folks. Don’t mean to interrupt. I’m looking for a Mr. Wooster. Have you seen him around?”

Wooster would have froze were he not already a statue. The distinctly American voice was just on the other side of the door. Any breath deeper than a weak draft of a thing would move the door and alert him.

“Mr. Wooster?” Elizabeth said with some surprise. “Not since supper. Is something wrong? Who are you?”

“I’m Lt. Columbo. I’m here on behalf of the police. Um, have you heard that a Mr. Spode has gone missing?”

While he could see none of the other people in the room, his head wedged firmly between wallpaper and wood, Wooster picked up on the sudden change in Elizabeth’s tone.

“Oh, yes! My husband told me just this morning! I–” She paused for a second. “You perhaps think Mr. Wooster had something to do with it?”

“I’m not making any assumptions yet, ma’am. I just want to get a feel for things, you understand. Um, did you know Mr. Spode very well?”

“Not terribly. We only just arrived last week and never saw the man outside of meals and tea. Father doesn’t like talking during meals, you see. I’ve only spoken to him a few times, but all in all he seemed a man educated in politics. I’m afraid I couldn’t follow much, but he spoke very passionately on the matter.”

“I see,” muttered Lt. Columbo, though he didn’t sound like he did. “Would you know if there was anyone who didn’t get along with him? Or, maybe, other way around?”

“You’re, oh what is the saying you Americans thought up…beating the bush?” Elizabeth mused, but the polite cough Jeeves made as a way of gaining attention was overlooked as a bodily function best ignored. “Something of that sort. I’ll have you know, sir, I am not like the wandering mind my sister is.”

“Oh, no, ma’am, I didn’t mean to imply–”

“I understood your question on Mr. Wooster’s location ,” Elizabeth soldiered on. “I’ve only known the man for less than a day. My sister seems to like him well enough, but I do not approve of the match. I can only hope that Theodora will be a little more critical of her options for a mate and favor someone who had not traded his sense of mind for more volume to his voice.”

“Ah, yes, well–” Lt. Columbo stuttered, cowed substantially by a lashing not even meant for him. “Um, do you know if Mr. Spode felt the same way?”

“He mentioned his dislike of the man to my husband after supper last night. He was, well, more colorful in his opinion.”

“I see.” Lt. Columbo said, meaning it this time. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your music. Thank you for your time.”

“A pleasure.”

Elizabeth hummed, unsure. “Jeeves, where was I?”

“You were doing your warm ups, madam.” Then, to the American: “Lieutenant, Mr. Wooster earlier enquired about entertaining himself with a game of billiards or perhaps a round of darts. I informed him of the game room on this floor. If you would follow the hallway to your left and take the first right, it will be at the end of the hall.”

“Just that way? Thank you, Jeeves.”

Wooster listened, frozen still, to the sound of carpeted footfalls disappearing down the hallway. When they were sufficiently quiet to assume the owner far enough away, he slipped out from behind the door. The knob caught on his coat pocket as he shifted. Mercifully, the stitching held strong and did not rip; it would have broken Jeeves’ will to see such a fine article to meet an early end. It did, however, cause him to lose momentum and stumble straight towards the piano, ruining his chance at a silent escape, and to run into the instrument with enough force to knock the flower vase over.

The vase did not break as Jeeves, seeing the stumble coming towards them since its inception, caught it well before it could spill a drop or lose a wilting petal. The force of the stumble did cause the piano to scrape on the wood and for Elizabeth to gasp in shock. She looked up sharply from the sheet music, and Wooster watched as her expression changed from surprise to confusion to understanding to anger, as if it was a slideshow of his impending demise.

Risk of being caught by the coppers or not, this room was no longer a viable hiding place. Wooster shot from the room before Elizabeth could express her displeasure at having someone eavesdrop on her honest opinion of said eavesdropper, doubled back when he realized he was unintentionally tailing the lieutenant, and made for the opposite end of the manor house.

The opposite end, as it turned out, contained the kitchen and store rooms for the manor house. Whether he was guided by his senses or his stomach, one could only speculate. Regardless, it made more sense for him to hide in the kitchen than to risk returning to his room. Columbo would surely assume he was likely to be there at some point, it being his room and all, and with the man wandering the halls speaking to Lord only knows who, Wooster would risk running into him along the way. By contrast, there was very little reason for the lieutenant to interview the cook during a missing persons case. Poisoning, most definitely, but supper was a footnote, not the focus, of Wooster’s sin.

Hunger from his delay of morning sustenance temporarily subdued his warring conscience as he slipped into the kitchen proper. Inside was just the cook, a gruff, stout man who was in the process of plucking a chicken of its Sunday Best. He had very little hair, which was probably best considering his occupation, and even less words to spare. Through an exchange of meandering sentences and single-syllabic grunts, Wooster being responsible for the former and the cook the latter, it was understood that Wooster was welcome to make up for the lost meal in the nearby storeroom so long as he kept away from anything in the works.

Wooster made short work of some toast, assorted fruits, and a tart made for tea, later on, and was just about to inquire with the cook about preparing something in the way of sausage and eggs when Jeeves entered the kitchen.

“Jeeves!” Wooster shouted around a grape. “You’re only getting to the kitchen now? I say, old thing! I know the place is rather like a–oh um, the old whatzit with the bull fellow in it.”

“The Labyrinth, sir?”

“Yes, that! Still, I thought you’d memorize the path from here to there as soon as arriving. Now, I know you said I should stay put and all, but you were taking so bally long, I had to go off and find some bit of nosh. Otherwise you’d return with afternoon tea and find me a pile of bones.” Wooster popped another grape in his mouth, his steadily filling stomach easing his newly created aversion to the mentioning of memento mori jokes.

“I must apologize, sir. I was in the process of procuring your morning meal when my attention was called elsewhere.”

Wooster huffed a bit. “Helping the finer Fetterling with her music lessons, I noticed.” The cook looked up suddenly from his deboning of the chicken, but Wooster ignored the listener for now. “And what was that business with the shoving? I assume that was you.”

Jeeves, who was known by most everyone that ever met him as someone who rarely emoted and was practically a statue in comparison to his large-print book of an employer in terms of expression, twitched his brow before speaking. “If you permit me to explain, sir.”

Bertie gestured with his second slice of toast. “Permit away, Jeeves!” Jeeves took the misworded command in stride.

“I happened to hear that the lieutenant was making an investigation of the manor house. I had returned to inform you of such, but unfortunately you had gone. My rediscovery of your location happened by chance and, noticing the impending arrival of the lieutenant to the sitting room, acted as I had. I must apologize if my actions were executed hastily, sir. I had very little time to construct something more elaborate.”

Wooster gaped like a fish for a few seconds as he processed the confession. Certainly, the shoving had come as a rather unwelcome surprise, but in hindsight it seemed like the best option considering what was at stake. His frustration abated for the moment, he nodded assentingly with pursed lips.

“Well, I suppose a bit of roughness can be overlooked now and again,” popping the whole remaining portion of the toast into his mouth as a way of punctuating his thought.

“I’m pleased you think so, sir.” Jeeves inclined his head faintly, as if taking notice of a mote of dust suddenly floating into enough light to be detected, and firmly gripped Wooster’s shoulder.

Wooster was locked inside the storeroom before he knew what was happening. It was a miracle he did not inhale his half-chewed toast in surprise. It was a large piece, more than what one could talk around and still qualify as polite and proper, and he took a moment to choke down the remainder of his morning meal before expressing his shock. The complaint died before it could pass beyond his teeth, as a familiar voice was once again heard on the other side of the thick oak door.

“Excuse me, sir, have you seen–oh, Mr. Jeeves? I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. You don’t happen to have a twin brother who works here too, do you?”

“Not that I’ve been made aware of, sir,” was Jeeves’ easy reply.

Wooster shrunk back from the door. An investigation meant looking around. Looking around meant opening drawers and doors and who knows what else. Immediately he recalled the premise of a more recent mystery read where the crime was moments away from being declared unsolvable until the detective opened a false drawer and discovered the key to a hidden cabinet that contained—well, the thread of inquiry became a bit lost on him at that point due to the convoluted premise combined with the late hour of his reading it. The point was a single look solved said murder and the same could very well happen should Lt. Columbo do the same with the storeroom door.

Pressed into the corner between hanging sausage links and dried braids of garlic, Wooster could hear nothing but the murmur of conversation. It was significantly shorter than the previous one he had been subjected to, but he dared not test the door until was certain the man had gone.

Relief came after an eternity, the dim light flooding in through the now open doorway comparatively blinding. Jeeves stood silhouetted in the frame, looking for all purposes, as eyes adjusted, as both savior and subduer.

“I must apologize further, sir. The lieutenant was nearly through the door when I noticed him. He has gone now.”

“Jeeves, this really is the bit of it!” Wooster exclaimed as he untangled himself from the sausages. “I simply cannot be tossed about into every nook, cranny, closet and so on for the rest of the day. Snub what Aunt Agatha will think and say and spout: I cannot remain! Surely enough of the Cairnwrights disapprove of me to make our leave by now. How soon can you pack and have us off and down the road?”

At this, Jeeves looked down at the floor briefly and inclined his head. He often did this to deliver unfortunate news, usually as a contradiction to a command. “I regret to inform you, sir, but for the time being, that will not be possible.”

By this time, knowledge of the destroyed bridge had gone from murmur to rumor to general fact of the day and the few folks who had not at least heard mention of this issue were those who hadn’t yet woken up for the day . Wooster, being one of those that in a way qualified as such, listened with impending dread as Jeeves explained this issue to him. His upper lip twitched between a frown, a grimace, a weak smile, and some other fourth thing signifying an emotion more familiar to rabbits than man as he struggled to find the words.

“I struggle to find the words, Jeeves,” Wooster confessed, honestly. “You mean to say, we’re stuck here?”

“In a manner, sir. There are a number of country roads that do lead out of the area, however none lead back the way we arrived. Such a detour would add several hours to our travel time, though that is not the reason I would discourage such an action.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

Jeeves glanced towards the cook, who was far more focused on preparing lunch, and spoke low. “The matter of your involvement with Mr. Spode, sir, has caused some of the family members to form certain opinions of your person. Should your sudden absence be made known, then there may be conclusions drawn in relation to this.”

“You’re saying–” Wooster began, lowering his voice as understanding overtook him. “Oh, Jeeves, oh no. They’ll send a telegram out. Every bobbie in the countryside will be on the look out for me!”

“Precisely, sir.” And if there was a flicker of emotion in Jeeves eyes as he said this, Wooster was far too distracted by his own distraught state to notice it. “If I may make a suggestion, sir. I informed the lieutenant that you would likely be enjoying a stroll in the garden at this time of day. He took my suggestion as fact and left a moment ago. I do believe this will give you ample time to return to your chambers without concern of an ill-timed interlude.”

Wooster nodded faintly. Jeeves, who somehow had been preparing tea during his imprisonment, produced the finished product on a silver tray held in one hand and gestured for his young master to lead the way back with another. The only witnesses to this journey were the taxidermied heads decorating the hallways which, Wooster was starting to think, watched him with more life than what they had prior.

When Jeeves deposited his employer in his room with his tea, there was a sort of tightness to his features. Of course, Wooster was far too engrossed in his own dread of the coming days, his escape delayed by the forces of nature and bad civic management, to take note of it. He simply thanked the valet for the tea and sat drinking a cup, now with slightly steadier hands, while watching the view from his window. Not that there was much to see, but Jeeves left him be, all the same. The stack of mystery novels he’d brought along for quieter moments sat untouched and likely would remain so for the rest of the trip. The excitement found within them had soured and they would no doubt end up left behind for another guest’s entertainment in the future, if they were not already destined for the fireplace.

***

By the time supper came around, Wooster had little choice in leaving the relative seclusion of his room. Jeeves, after returning from some errand or other task, spent most of the afternoon sharing the space. There was very little for him to do, aside from organizing his outfits for later and preparing whatever needed preparing in order to manage Wooster’s day. Still, the familiar company was appreciated and helped keep unpleasant thoughts from wiggling out from the darker parts of his mind.

This time, there was no urging in his gut for Wooster to break the silence around the table. Everyone sat in the same seats as before, sipping wine and delicately eating.

Well, most everyone.

The seat normally occupied by Roderick Spode sat empty, its velvet covered backrest pushed against the table tightly enough to dent the plush fabric. The chair somehow possessed a greater presence than the man missing from it. The air was heavy with it and Wooster could nearly see a form whenever he glanced over at it. Not of a man, no. A man would be a simpler thing to imagine seeing. This was familiar to him in an unexpected way. A pipe organ, the first he had ever really seen as a boy, which stood inert and waiting in a church in the city in a memory of boyhood akin to painting, faded in all parts except the frame. In comparison to his boyish form then, the pipe organ was a giant. Massive, imposing, familiar, and strangely alien all at once. He was curious about it, fear of approaching something off-limit buried under a recent fascination with all things musical. His hand flew to press on the keys faster than any caretaker, nanny, or instinct of self-preservation could interrupt him.

That brief second before the organ roared to life in one, violent, dissonant chord existed there in that dining room. Worse still, this ominous, invisible weight wasn’t the only entity he felt staring at him. He caught glances of everyone (aside from Bingo and the boy, who were both far too engrossed in their meals to read the room), most of whom averted their gaze when he tried to meet them. Elizabeth let her side eye glare linger just long enough for him to understand she was still miffed about the eavesdropping. The only exception was Theodora. She stared just as intently as always. Admiration, interest, disgust; he simply couldn’t get a read on her.

Wooster nibbled at his meal and tried kneading through his gray matter for a plan, so his weekend would end without him either in prison, in matrimony, or in some horrific combination of the two. Jeeves, bless the man for his cunning and his secrecy, seemed not at all eager to get him out of the thick of it any time soon.

No. He winced at the thought and a peppercorn that had bypassed the grinder. There was no getting out of this thick. He had killed a man. His soul was damned for it even if he managed to leave Castleberry Court unscathed. It would come to light; they would have to find Spode eventually. His gray matter kneading would be better spent finding a way for Jeeves to get out of this cleanly. A stellar reference letter wouldn’t be worth beans coming from a master who was on his way to the gallows. If only there was a way to get Jeeves to leave his services willingly before his murderous ways came to light.

He became so engrossed in this planning that he hardly noticed the evening carried on without him. It wasn’t until he felt a weight wrapping around his arm did he come out of ponderings and discover that he was no longer sitting in the dining room. He was now outside, storm clouds of the day long gone and replaced with a faint blanket of stars, their majesty diminished by the garden lights. He looked to his left and nearly jumped out of his suit to escape Theodora and her staring eyes.

“Oh! Eh, hello there,” Wooster chuckled nervously. “What ho, Theodora! Bit chilly tonight, eh?”

“Oh yes, it is.” Theodora said simply. “Lovely time to have a walk in the garden.”

“Ah, is that what we’re doing?” He looked around to better grasp his bearings. They were indeed taking a stroll in the garden, keeping to the gravel walks, mostly. Vaguely he remembered someone asking him something about something, but he hadn’t quite heard what they said and just nodded politely along. It was only now that he realized it may have been Theodora asking him to court her among the evening greenery. Well, not much use trying to get out of it now; one set of vivid eyes on him was preferable to a hall full of glassy ones. He spoke aloud while scanning the horizon from left to right. “Well, always thought it a good idea to do a bit of legging about after a hefty meal. Eh, erm, what are you doing here?”

“Chaperoning, of course,” Albert Fetterling said plainly. He was walking on Wooster’s right, keeping pace with the couple.

“Ah, well, you do know that I can chaperone Ms. Cairnwright just as well. Generally speaking, I mean, evening garden walks are taken in twos.”

“I told him as much,” Theodora whispered conspiratorially. With their close proximity to each other, there was little need for secrecy. Fetterling heard her and his mustache lifted in a smile.

“Generally speaking, yes. Of course, precautions against a mad-man on the loose is not a general thing.”

“A–a mad-man?” Wooster stumbled.

“The police haven’t found anything,” Theodora argued, raising an eyebrow at her brother-in-law. “You can hardly say Mr. Spode fell victim to a mad-man if no one can find him?”

“You didn’t see the lawn this morning.” Fetterling raised an eyebrow back. “It was like the floor of a butcher shop.”

“Oh, dear.” Though she didn’t necessarily sound disturbed by this news.

“That detective fellow, him being here tells me well enough,” Fetterling said.

“Ah, yes, Columbo, was it? What’d you think of the man?”

“He has a glass eye.” Fetterling spoke as if this was enough of something against the man’s character to blot out any other quality.

“I noticed,” Theodora said pleasantly.

“He reminded me of a story one of my students wrote for his final report,” Fetterling said wistfully. “Not the man, but the eye. The subject that quarter was plays, mostly Shakespeare's works. The task was to write an act in his style, incorporate a few themes discussed from the coursework—standard affair. This student, Mr. Wells, I believe, wrote a rather uncanny tale about an old witch with a glass eye that could see ghosts and a young boy who kills her in order to steal the eye from her. Of course, once he did, the witch’s ghost began to haunt him for the crime. Fine work, although I had to give him a low score on account of him not writing it in iambic pentameter, you see.” They had reached the edge of the garden where the gravel walk sharply turned to grass. Rather than continue on to where the garden lights did not reach, Fetterling turned to walk back the same way. The couple unlocked their arms and followed, Theodora and then, a stunned second later, Wooster. “Do you believe in ghosts, Theodora?”

“I’ve never seen one,” she said. “It does seem that there are an awful lot of stories about them.”

“And you, Mr. Wooster?”

“Oh? No, I suppose not. Haven’t seen any myself, either. Though, I don’t suppose they come up and introduce themselves, do they?” Wooster chuckled nervously. Being out in the dark garden, the shadows were playing games with him. “Had a chum from school go about in a bedsheet once, what. Scared a nun half to death. Poor blighter got an earful and more for that.”

“I have,” Fetterling continued, as if Wooster’s little anecdote hadn’t mattered.

“Have what?”

“Seen a ghost.”

Wooster swallowed. It was one thing to make jokes and tall tales around a fire on the matter of spirits and beastly things that skittered around in the night. A roaring campfire almost begged for a story to be told in its presence. It was another thing entirely to admit it as casually as one would to running into a distant relative in the metrop on the way to run an errand. He felt sick at the thought, but either Fetterling didn’t notice his pale expression or simply didn’t care enough to save the story for another day.

“I was a boy at the time. Hard to remember the details. I simply remember visiting a little fishing village with my family. They have funny little traditions, legends and such; those fishing villages. One of them was of a man who supposedly fell off the dock and drowned the month before. My brother and I heard a rumor about being able to see the ghost on his way to haunt his brother-in-law. I didn’t believe it until I saw it late at night along the road.”

“What did he look like?” Theodora asked, curiously, with the same distant interest she had shown everything else.

“He was white. His skin, clothes, even the seaweed that trailed behind him. He didn’t seem to notice us watching. I suppose he was more focused on haunting his relation than two boys spying on him.”

“Why the brother-in-law?” Wooster asked. His voice was tight and wispy.

“I wondered that myself for a while. After our holiday, I heard from my brother that the haunted man turned himself into the police. He had pushed his brother-in-law into the sea.”

They had returned to the manor house entrance, Cairnwright and kin discussing the semantics of the haunting as well as the credibility of the present witness. Wooster wasn’t listening. His attention was more focused on the dark, on the stream hidden within, and whatever vengeful spirits might be lurking within.

Whether Theodora wanted another stroll around the hedges or not, Wooster admitted aloud he would not be the one to walk with her. He bid the pair goodnight, saying the day had tired him terribly, and he tried very hard to sound like that was the case. In truth, the tremor in his voice spoke louder than he himself. Fetterling, ever observant, let a smile curl under his mustache as the pair bid the man goodnight.

Wooster was quick on his way back to his room when his nerve nearly got the better of him. There was a portion of the hallway on the second floor that opened out to look into the front foyer, a dark wooden bannister lining the whole way around and marked in the corners by thick columns from the same source. As he passed by one of these columns, a shimmer caught his attention. He looked across the way, the low light of a hallway retiring for the night offering very little in terms of visibility. Nothing.

“Hello? Someone there?”

Perhaps it was a maid, or a servant in linen. Maybe a curtain shifting in a breeze. Of course. Wooster shook his head, chuckling at himself, for his foolishness, for letting the nonsense story about ghosts and ghoulies get the better of him. He walked on.

Wooster.

He froze, his heart thumping hard enough to ache. It was quiet, far too quiet to hear his name whispered clear as day and pass it off as floorboards creaking. Wide-eyed and begging himself not to, Wooster turned his head to look back into the darkness across the railing.
Spode stared at him. He was pale, white in complexion and dress, and his eyes shined predatorially in the low light.

It was only for a second, a split-second, before the pale vision disappeared back into the darkness. It was all he needed to turn tail and run. How unfortunate it was, being blinded by panic, that he met the end of the hallway sooner than expected.

When Wooster came to, he was already in bed still dressed in his evening wear. Jeeves stood with a tonic he must have prepared while waiting for the young master to regain consciousness.

“Jeeves!” Wooster shot up from the bed. He winced and touched his brow. It felt, well, larger than normal. Part of that was due to the swelling, the rest was from the bandage.

“Good evening, sir. Would you care for your usual drink?”

“I bally well wouldn’t!” Wooster shouted. Then, after another wince, decided better of it. “Well, maybe a small sip.”

Jeeves nodded in acknowledgement as he took the glass. “Might I inquire as to why I found you sprawled across the rug, sir?”

“You found me?”

“Yes, sir. I happened to hear the commotion and went to investigate. I thought it best to attend to you in your own chambers. Do forgive me for your state, sir. I know it is not appropriate to sleep in your evening attire, but I find dressing the young master is a much easier task when both parties are…present, sir.”

“Nevermind that! Spode’s haunting me!” Wooster gestured with the glass, which had been emptied in one go.

Jeeves knitted his eyebrows, by which it means they approached each other a hair’s width. “Mr. Spode, sir?”

“Just now! Did you see him?”

Jeeves looked about the room for something to base this off of. He found nothing and leveled his gaze on his employer. “I saw no one in the hall but yourself, sir. I had assumed your flight from the hall and subsequent encounter with the wall was a result of an ill-timed encounter with one of Ms. Cairnwrights’ works. If you’ll pardon me saying so, sir, but her works do take on a greater effect of lifelike quality as the hour grows late.”

Wooster huffed, grasping for support from his only lifeline. The more he thought, the weaker his argument. It was late and it was dark. The Cairnwrights decorate with paintings of stern-faced relations as well as taxidermied heads of local beasts. Maybe he saw a painting of an uncle just as a cloud was passing by the moon. Recalling it now, he only really saw a pale face and piercing eyes.

“I…no, I’m sure it was him…” Wooster mumbled, though he didn’t sound convinced.

“With your permission, sir, I would investigate the hall and determine what it was you saw on your behalf. If it would settle your nerves, of course.”

“Ah, yes, I suppose–” Jeeves began to move away and Wooster was struck with a sudden panic. Jeeves investigating the hallway meant Jeeves leaving his side. “Wait! Ah, um, sorry old thing. I think it could wait until morning. Clarity in the daylight and all that.”

“As you say, sir. Will that be all, sir?”

“No, it, um–” Wooster glanced at the door. It was locked and made of sturdy wood. Neither of these things ever stopped a ghost before. “If it isn’t too much trouble, that is, if you aren’t terribly tired, would you…would you stay up with me? Just until I fall asleep, you see. I've got a rather nasty bump on the old onion, you know.”

Jeeves’ mouth crinkled slightly, suggesting a smile. “Of course, sir. I have confirmed that it is a mild bump. You have no need to concern yourself with a possible concussion.”

“Ah, well, all the better, then.” Wooster said, smiling.

Wooster undressed from his evening clothes and changed into his heliotrope pyjamas, trading the articles as Jeeves folded and hung the discarded ones. Task done, Wooster returned to the sheets. He instructed Jeeves to take the nearest seat, knowing the man would not do otherwise unless instructed. Even so, he looked somewhat discomforted at violating his code of conduct by sitting in the presence of his employer. It was a unique expression and it amused Wooster enough that he nearly forgot everything that had happened.

“You called me ‘Bertram’,” Wooster said after a moment. Exhaustion was creeping into his voice. “Yesterday, I mean. Nearly forgot that, after everything.”

“I must apologize, sir,” Jeeves said, looking shocked. “It was improper of me to use your given name. I felt at the time it was the best course to regain your attention. I will refrain from doing so in the future if you wish.”

“I don’t mind it terribly,” Wooster mumbled, half-aloud and half into a pillow. “Though, I suppose only beastly aunts call me ‘Bertram’. Rather not lump you in with that lot. Calling me ‘Bertie’ might go against your sartorial senses, too?”

“My professional sense, sir. Sartorial may have more to do with your choice in neckwear.”

Wooster huffed and smiled. “For that, I shall embody the hydrant, Jeeves. For every tie you burn, I shall purchase two more.”

“I believe you mean a Hydra, sir. Hydrants are a more recent invention of mankind.”

“Is that right?” Wooster exhaled sleepily. “Jolly good then.” He was silent long enough that Jeeves thought he had finally drifted off. Just before he expected to hear the telltale snoring, Wooster mumbled against the pillow. “Do you really think I’m not being haunted by Spode, Jeeves?”

“No, sir,” Jeeves spoke firmly. “I do not believe so.”

“Very good.”

Wooster at last fell under the comforting embrace of sleep. Jeeves watched him for a short while, anticipating the possibility of nightmares and any aftermaths he would need to attend to. Turning out the lights and retiring to his chamber, the door open to better hear what he needed to hear, he thought on what he learned that day.

Somewhere in the manor house, he heard the strike for 11 at night. The bell tone was faint and forlorn. Odd, he thought, how he hadn’t noticed it until now.

Chapter Text

When Wooster finally left his chambers in the late morning hours, he did so by inches at a rate that the average glacier would aspire to. For a few tense seconds, the only part of him visible in the sunlight streaming into the hallway was the brim of a straw hat. After another moment of hesitance, he abruptly appeared, his pale blue eyes darting up and down the hallway for any witnesses. There were many, but since none had a pulse, he disregarded the mounted heads. His concern was more towards the various Cairnwrights and Fetterlings, the possible Spode-ghost, (or was it better to call him ghost-Spode? Which one is meant to be the suffix, if one is equal parts ghost and man?), and as of this morning, Jeeves.

He had nothing against the man, no quarrel and certainly no grief or guff. He had served his young master a fine breakfast of tea, toast, soft-boiled eggs, and a healthy serving of kippers. The fog of just rising from rest had obscured both his fitful nightmares, as well as the world at large, and it was only when he nearly finished his tea, did reality claw its way back into his awareness.

There was no escape for Betram Wilberforce Wooster, that much was becoming quite clear. The code of the Woosters was something he touted to kith and kin alike, whenever he felt it right to take the moral high ground and assist a friend in need, usually only to end up in the soup when that same friend did not return his considerate gestures that often became social sacrifice. With his fate just on the horizon, it was harder to maintain a stiff upper lip and accept it.

Still, he needed to avoid Jeeves. The man was protecting him, as was his duty, and the surest measure of protection was for Jeeves to hide him away in nooks and crannies at the mere chance of an investigative soul sneezing in his direction. Protecting Wooster was admirable endeavor;Wooster could not possibly fault the man for it. Even so, he could not stand such treatment for a second day in a row. He needed fresh air, a drive, perhaps, to clear his head, and he wasn’t going to get either in this taxidermied hellhole.

Wooster adjusted his porkpie hat and made for the exit nearest to the garage. He hesitated twice in his charge to freedom. The first was the space on the wall where Wooster was certain he saw Spode’s ghost. There was no painting, no bouquet of pale pink peonies, no taxidermy of any kind. The second happened just as he had made it to the first floor.

“Bertie!”

Wooster squawked and reeled around towards the booming voice. “Oh! Ahem. What ho, Bingo?”

“What ho, yourself! Fine hat you have there. Seems familiar. Worn it before?”

“Hardly,” Wooster chirped. The friendly face was a relief to see. It calmed him enough that he changed his hurried pace to match Bingo’s much more casual stride. “I’ve only worn it once before and that was in the shop before I purchased it.”

“A fine choice. A bit late in the season to wear a straw hat, though, isn’t it?”

Wooster hemmed and worked his way towards a hah, as well. “Well, I couldn’t help myself. I’d just come from the pictures, they were showing an American fellow, I forget his name, and he wore the thing so well. Sturdy, too. Fell down a flight of stairs several times and the hat hardly budged. Saw it in the shop on the way home. Destiny, you could call it.” The hah bullied through and twisted his prideful grin into a curious frown. “Funny, Jeeves thought the same as you. Said it in many more words, though. At any rate, where are you off to? No tutoring today?”

“Never on Sundays, old boy.” Bingo beamed as they stepped out onto the gravel walk. “Even the good Lord rested, and I’m not stuck making all the world’s creatures. I wouldn’t mind trading, mind you.”

Wooster grimaced. “Charles is a challenge, then?”

“Hardly!” Bingo barked. “What he needs is tenure, not a tutor. Half the time, he’s teaching me how to do the worksheets. Awfully snide about it too, the little brat.”

Wooster clapped a hand against his old friend’s back. “Bingo, you’re in luck! I was just about to go for a drive. Come along and take your mind off things.”

Wooster was always an easy going man, as well as a man who was easy to go along with. Of all the Drones, he was one of the most popular amongst them. Whether it was his generous nature, or his status as one of the more generally intelligent on the club roster—which honestly said more about the club than Wooster himself—it was no surprise that Bingo forewent any previous plans left unmentioned and climbed into the passenger seat of Wooster’s motorcar.

They had gotten as far as the village proper, Wooster slowing down to watch for pedestrians of all ages, when Bingo, who had up until that point been as calm as a bullfrog in a bog, cried out as if struck. Whether by God, lightning, or the surprise recollection of a previously forgotten embarrassing memory, his tone did not indicate it. Wooster braced against the sudden appearance of a hand gripping his arm, tight but thankfully not tugging. While there were few villagers out and about at this time of day, Wooster preferred not to swerve suddenly from the dirt drive. He stopped the motorcar. Bingo took his chance and leapt from his seat, his clothes nearly catching on the door as he squeezed through it.

“Bingo, what the devil are you doing?”

Bingo did not hear his friend. He was far too busy falling over himself to greet a pretty blonde lady. Ah, it was his latest infatuation; the barmaid. What did he say her name was? Flora? Amelia? Well, it hardly mattered now. Knowing the man as well has Wooster did, one could hardly expect Bingo to break away from a pretty filly now that he had a chance to speak with one. Never mind being smiled at by said pretty filly. Wooster shook his head at his friend and let off the brakes in his disbelief of the man.

TUNK!

He slammed back on the brakes. Wooster had been watching his friend, not the road ahead, and in doing so, nearly ran over a man in a tan coat. Granted, he was going about a quarter of a kilo’, barely above a stiff breeze pushing an auto in neutral. The man had plenty of time and warning to dodge out of the way if he so wished.

The man lifted his hand from where he had smacked the hood to signal his presence and skirted along the side of the vehicle. It was only then that Wooster recognized the older man, and realized he should have bolted when he had the chance.

“Oh, Mr. Wooster. Good morning! I gotta say, you’re a hard man to get a hold of,” Lt. Columbo said.

“Ah, heh-hem. Hulloah, detective! How-are-uh, um…” Wooster looked at Bingo and then back at Columbo. He did not come up with a full sentence by doing so. “What ho, then?”

Columbo blinked at the man, the colloquialism flying over his head and swinging back around like a boomerang of cross-culture understanding. The metaphorical weapon thankfully neither beaned him in the head nor disrupted the niceties taking place.

“What ho, yourself?” Columbo tried. “Are you heading out of town?”

“No!” Wooster yelped. “Just-just a drive. Bingo and me. Myself! Bingo and I. We were just about to head out.” He turned and shouted out; “Bingo, old boy!”

Bingo, at last taking note of his name, turned and smiled at his friend with a dismissive wave. “Oh, go on, Bertie! Have fun! I’ll see you back at the court, then?”

Wooster frowned and deflated a little in his seat. He chewed at the next sentence, testing the flavor of the words before trying another attempt at speaking with the threat now hanging off the car door.

“I don’t mean to impose, Mr. Wooster,” Columbo began. “If you have places to be, that’s fine. I just was wondering if you wouldn’t mind me tagging along.”

“I do. Or! Um, no. I don’t. Or– beg pardon?”

“Well, you see, I need to follow up on a lead regarding Mr. Spode. Only problem is, the man I need to talk to lives downriver about–” He waved his arm in a sort of axe-throwing motion a few times, as if trying to flag down the thought coming to him. It certainly wasn’t for a taxi. “Well, I don’t know how many miles. You folks don’t seem to use miles, so it doesn’t matter. He’s a lot farther than I can walk in a day. You wouldn’t mind, would’ya?”

Wooster gaped like a fish, for a moment. It took him too long to comprehend, through a mix of parsing Columbo’s word choice and his unique dialect, that the man was asking for a ride. Ah. That simply wouldn’t do. Jeeves warned him to avoid this man, and while at face-value the little American hardly seemed a threat, Jeeves had never steered him wrong.

Well, to be more specific; Jeeves had never steered him wrong in the end. His schemes required a great deal of deceit, balanced carefully on all sides of a conflict, including the very people he was intending to rescue from said conflict. He only needed to explain himself in the end, in the same certain and eloquent manner he always did, and Wooster would forgive him of any abuse he may have suffered to secure his safe return to the Metrop. After all, what was a 20 kilometer bike ride in the rain compared to an engagement to Madeline Bassett?

Wooster told him right out that he would not be giving the man a ride. Well, he certainly opened his mouth with the intent to do so. A rather authoritative answer was waiting right between his tonsils and was just about to let out a tally-ho and charge forth. Another burst from the sidelines broke its stride and Wooster sputtered as it tripped back down his throat.

“Hardly, he would!” Bingo wasn’t looking at them directly. More of a general glance, lest he lose valuable time looking at today’s object of affection. “I’ve heard all of Bertie’s old school days stories. I was in a few, after all! I’m sure he’d love a fresh audience. Go on, Bertie! Tell him the one about the vicar and the blancmange!”

It was useless. Denying the man now would look beyond suspicious. Doing so would guarantee his arrest on the charge of simply being inhospitable. In a short while, Wooster was puttering down the country road, one hand on the wheel and another on his straw hat, with Lt. Columbo one seat over.

“Sure is nice today!” Columbo called over the roar of the engine and wind. “Now that the weather’s cleared up. My wife, she gardens. I don’t, you see. I’m terrible with plants. I managed to kill a silk plant, once. My wife reads up on the books about it, though. She tells me that the world seems brighter after a rainstorm, because the plants brighten up after a good drink. Me? I just think it seems that way because it isn’t so gray!”

Wooster chuckled along with the lieutenant, not quite hearing the whole story with his focus more on the road. Evidence of the few rain bursts from the days before were still scattered about in sections of dirt road with poor drainage. He slowed to a crawl to pass through a particularly large puddle. The muddiness hid its depth; if being trapped in the same vehicle with the lieutenant was dangerous to his freedom, one could only speculate how horrendous being stranded without it would be.

“Do you garden, Mr. Wooster?” Columbo asked, once they’d resumed their speed.

“Garden? No, not a bit. Not much room for that sort in the Metrop, you see. Flower boxes. Some sorts keep flower boxes. Then, of course, there’s flower girls about. I usually pick up a carnation before going about my day. Jeeves keeps the flat well stocked in arrangements. He’s quite efficient at it, so much so that I nearly forgot that flowers wilt if you leave them alone too long.”

“That right?” Columbo chewed at the end of his cigar for a moment, considering something. The relief of silence did not last to the next puddle. “What about sports?”

“Sports? What about them?”

“Do you play any?”

“Oh, um, well, I suppose a few. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just to pass the time. It’s a little while until the turn, I understand. Doesn’t hurt to have a common interest to talk about.”

“I enjoy a bit of golf now and then.” Wooster admitted. “Yourself?”

“Mostly mini-golf. I just don’t have the stamina for the bigger courses.”

Wooster gave him a quizzical look, but Columbo didn’t elaborate. “Are you a rugby man, Mr. Wooster?”

“If I can avoid it.”

“Know your way around a cricket bat?”

“I’m English,” Wooster answered without thinking.

Realization of his mistake nearly sent the motorcar into the ditch. That isn’t to say Wooster cranked the wheel in a fleeting moment of brilliant stupidity to avoid continuing the conversation to a natural conclusion of his confession, rather choosing a concussion over incarceration. It was more that the spirit of self-awareness overcame him so violently that it overcompensated and froze him to the spot. The gentle turn ahead did not so much as guide the motorcar along but rather resisted its trajectory. Had it not been for the thunk of a rather large pebble kicking up against the underside of the motorcar, Wooster would have white-knuckled the wheel until they were well into the nearest wheat field. As it was, Wooster snapped back to the moment and turned just in time to get back on the road, albeit causing the Lieutenant to brace against the momentum.

“Ah, well, I mean to say, I do play from time to time.” Wooster’s laugh was strained as he spoke. “Good exercise. Terrific sport, that. A bit too rainy, as of late, for it, though.”

“Oh. So you don’t have your own bat?”

“No! Ah, well, yes. I didn’t bring it, of course! The weather being what it is and all.”

“I see,” Lt. Columbo said assuredly. “It would be an odd thing to bring, considering your hosts already have so many available in the garden shed.”

“Right,” Wooster said shortly.

Lt. Columbo glanced up ahead at the road, then back at the driver. “You don’t mind talking about this, do you Mr. Wooster? This isn’t bothering you, right?”

“Well, of course not! Why the devil do you think it would?”

“That was our turn back there.” Lt. Columbo said casually with a gesture of his cigar, as if this was as amusing and as mundane as a duck waddling across the park lawn.

Wooster whipped around and, sure enough, just caught sight of an old wooden road sign disappearing out of view behind some brambles. He wilted, though his deflated posture did not last. Lt. Columbo exclaimed and pointed ahead. Wooster faced forward, wide-eyed, and slammed on the brakes before he had time to register the danger. The motorcar skidded to a halt, kicking up loose pebbles the whole way. Ahead of them was an irate man in brown overalls waving frantically. Beyond him was most of a wooden bridge.

Now that the rumbling motorcar was no longer a threat speeding towards an unfortunate dip in the river, the irate man ran up to them. He spoke sharply and coarsely and sounded like he ate a pack of cigarettes a day. He also had an incredibly thick countryside accent, which did the gravel of his voice no favors, and he was a few sentences in before either passenger understood what he was saying was in English. They listened, the lieutenant squinting up at him and Wooster slack-jawed in awe. Eventually, feeling that he had made his point, the man gestured towards the river, gave a final word, and walked back to the bridge with a purposeful gait.

“Did you catch any of that?” Lt. Columbo whispered, his voice now small without competition from the motorcar.

“Not at all,” Wooster confessed. “Do you think he wants us to follow him?”

Lt. Columbo did not think that—judging by the man’s tone, posture, word choice, star sign, gait, and general disposition—but that didn’t stop the curiosity of the driver. Wooster pulled to the side of the road, parked, and followed after the man. If anything, it could turn into something more interesting than whatever the lieutenant was on his way towards and therefore let him go off on his merry way without a companion in tow.

Then again, that would mean abandoning the American in the less populated portions of the countryside. He could confirm with the workmen (now that they had parked and approached, Wooster could see several men hammering away at wood) that they could give the lost American a ride back into town, but the whole idea went against the Code of the Woosters as much as any other offense he could hurdle at the smaller man.

Suddenly aware of the two men following him, the older man let out a long litany of some kind of meaning that was lost on all parties involved. It wasn’t exactly “Gitaway y’idiots!” but the waving hand certainly had an air of scram! to it.

“Oh, hush Da’,” said one of the workmen who paused his hammering. “They don’t understand a lick of what yer sayin’.”

The older man, Da’ as it was, said something to his son.

“Well, if you just remembered where you kept leaving your teeth, they might just!” He turned towards Wooster and Columbo. “Pardon him, sirs. My Da’ don’t want you wandering over the ridge there.”

Sure enough, not a few yards away, the earth dropped down quite suddenly. The wooden bridge helped highlight where exactly the river had cut through the countryside, but foliage had done well to hide exactly where the drop was. Cautiously, Wooster submitted to curiosity and stepped forward until he could see the river.

Part of him expected, after all the rain and storms and general uneasiness around him, to look down and see muddy waters rolling past at frightening speeds, white water rapids with hints of boulders waiting just under the surface, or even a vast canyon cut deep into the bedrock. What he was met with was indeed murky water, certainly nothing he would drink from, but hardly the speed needed to collapse the bridge as it had done.

As he watched, something rose up from the murky waters towards the surface. Not enough to break, nor enough to identify. It was white, round, large, and seemed to move faster than the water. Fearing it to be the as yet undiscovered body of Spode, he stepped back violently, nearly knocking his American companion to the ground.

“Oh, sorry there,” Wooster said hastily.

“S’alright, I was standing too close.” Lt. Columbo looked down to the water to see what he had seen. Wooster winced, unable to do anything, as the lieutenant squinted down at the churning water. “Is…that a chicken?”

Wooster blinked owlishly, then looked back at the water. With fear no longer tinting his vision, he indeed saw a chicken in the river. More specifically, the print of a chicken on the expanse, making it large enough to rival the size of a prized hog.

“A chicken flag?” Wooster wondered.
“Looks more like a bedsheet. Some poor farmer’s wife probably lost her laundry during the storm.” Columbo concluded.

That mild heart attack resolved, the lieutenant turned back at the workman who had spoken to them earlier. “Did you hear what happened to the bridge?”

“Log hit it,” the younger man announced. “River’s faster than it looks. Storm made it worse. Heard the log hit the center post and sent the whole middle into the river. It was an old bridge. Some folks are coming up from Shelton to fix the other end.”

“How long do you expect the bridge to be out?” asked the lieutenant.

“Few days, God willing.” His father muttered something, but the son neither acknowledged nor translated the comment.

Wooster looked on hopelessly across the river. A few days ago, passing over the bridge barely took a handful of seconds to do. It felt like a creek small enough to not have a name. Now, it was a canyon. He’d seen pictures of the Grand Canyon over in the New World, hadn’t been that far in his travels, as of yet, but the other side of the river seemed just as far away as it did in the pictures he had scanned over with nothing more than a mild interest and a faint intent to ask Jeeves later on about how the bally thing got to be such a bright orange color.

The area had already been a bit breezy, but a sudden rush of wind ran up the river and caught the pair by surprise. Wooster’s straw hat was no match for it. He went to save it, but it was well on its way and out of reach down the river. Wooster and Columbo watched as the straw hat somersaulted in the air, down, dip, and down, until it landed in the river and floated away like an autumn leaf.

“That’s a shame,” the lieutenant said, by way of offering condolences.

“Hardly. Jeeves hated the thing. He’ll probably be delighted to learn it’s gone.”

The pair watched the hat until it disappeared downstream behind a bend. It hardly seemed a place to dally, what with the hardworking men about and their foreman possibly cursing them under his breath, so it was decided they head back down the road a bit and take their initially intended turn.

This road followed the creek for a while upstream in a way that wasn’t immediately apparent. While the water itself wasn’t visible from the motorcar, its influence was. Wild grass grew taller and greener at the edge of the cleared road. Oaks grew tall and unmanaged, as if the owner of the land did not care for them with as meticulous an air as the groundskeeper at Castleberry Court would, or, more likely, locals decided this part of the countryside belonged to the creek. Life thrived here.

At no point did Wooster wonder why Lt. Columbo wanted to go visit someone living so far from the village, assuming the man was still looking for witnesses. If he were to, perhaps he’d take it as a good sign of his coming freedom.

Wooster slowed the motorcar. The clearing of the road quickly became less distinct; shade plants, weeds, and grass taking up the space between tire ruts. Going at a normal speed would likely cause the motorcar to jump enough to send one or both of them flying. The timing was perfect as it gave Lt. Columbo ample time to spot the white stone building hidden beyond the foliage.

“There! Could you pull over?”

Wooster did, more curious than concerned as to what could possibly be out here to cause such interest. Lt. Columbo leapt from the passenger side as soon as the motorcar parked. The foliage slowed him enough for Wooster and his longer legs to catch up.

The bushes were thinner than their numerous leaves lead one to believe and Wooster popped through them with more force than necessary. He stumbled a bit, catching himself before falling to the gravel. He looked about and indeed saw it was gravel and not more greenery, which seemed very odd to him, at first. Gradually, familiar features became more visible as his eyes adjusted to the clearing.

The white stone building ahead of them was a mill, waterwheel included, and the gravel space was for the loading and storage of carts during the harvest period. Since the wheat harvest hadn’t occurred yet this year, the area was quite bare, nearly abandoned, in aura, and a few stubborn weeds made their way through the gravel. There was also an opening in the foliage about halfway from where he was to the mill, making him feel rather silly for parking on the road and storming through the hedges like some irate bull. Still, the lieutenant was making a casual charge for some point of interest as Wooster stood there regaining his balance. All things considered, he’d rather be a suspect by the man’s side than be made suspicious by his absence and abandonment.

He soon followed the lieutenant to the edge of the stream. Judging by the gentle flow, this stream looked to be on its way to the river they had seen earlier. Granted, a mill was better suited to a larger river so the water could power the waterwheel with greater force, but judging by the stones clearly seen along the banks, either this stream was a river experiencing a drought, or the proprietor was a very poor planner. The observation exhausted what Wooster knew of watermills and he turned to confer with his American companion. The smaller man was engrossed in poking some netting in the water with a stick.

“What are you jabbing away at?” Wooster asked. He still felt tense around the man, but made an effort to hide it.

Lt. Columbo paused his prodding, dropping the stick in the reeds after a moment. “Not sure at first. I thought it was a fish net caught on something, but it looks like a filter, doesn’t it?”

Wooster looked at the thing in question. Indeed, the channel that led to the waterwheel had some netting tied firmly to a line of wooden poles and set in the low current. Leaves, twigs, and one impressive branch were caught up in the twine. What he at first took for some particularly bright leaf mass was actually a child’s toy that must have floated down the river.

There must be something to it, Wooster thought. He had read his fair share of mystery books, plenty of which had detectives in them, and try as he might, he couldn’t suss out the criminals before the detectives announced them. There were hints, of course, and if he were to describe the story to Jeeves, he would assuredly proclaim his own, often correct, theory on the mystery and how it was pulled off.

Wooster looked up to ask the smaller man why the blasted netting was of such an interest to him, but quickly found he was questioning open air. He looked around sharply, first towards the river, (which was very foolish to assume, but in his defense: Lt. Columbo was capable of an unknowable amount of surprise) and then back towards the mill. Sure enough, with very little greenery to disguise his tan coat, Wooster spotted his companion making a light charge for the front door.

Lt. Columbo was still knocking on the wooden door of the mill by the time Wooster caught up with him. His timing turned out to be perfect as the resident and proprietor of the mill took that very moment to answer. At first he didn’t see anyone when the door opened, the interior much dimmer than the daylight outside. A sniff and a clearing of the throat redirected his attention downward.

The man was remarkably old. He had no hair, age and time taking every follicle from the top of his head and his face, save for the great number protected in his ears. A lifetime of labor had given him a spine resembling a question mark, the spirit of it made clear on his face as he peered up at the two strangers.

“Ah?” asked the old man, showing he had just enough teeth left to enunciate the question, but chose not to.

“Hello sir, my name is–” Lt. Columbo began.

“AH?” The old man asked again, louder.

“My name is Lt. Columbo!” he said, matching volume and slowing his pace. “I’m looking for Mr. Oswald Baker?”

“I’m Baker.”

“Do you mind if–”

Mr. Baker exclaimed again, and the lieutenant corrected his speed. “Do you mind if we come in? I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

Mr. Baker looked at the two men on his front step. Whether he received a great deal of visitors or very nearly none at all, they all, no doubt, were his neighbors and fellow countryfolk. The disheveled American and Metropolitan Fop were, for his sense of peace, a one time occurance. He made a groan, more typical of his age rather than his attitude, and beckoned them inside.

After a moment, Wooster’s eyes adjusted to the dim light of the interior. The thick stone and woodwork had shut out the daylight except for a few selected spaces and, much in the same manner, kept in the noise of the machinery at work. While not cacophonous, the sound of the grinding stone distracted the mind and made casual conversation difficult. Wooster made to remove his hat now that he was indoors, and, when met with air and his own locks, remembered that he had lost it, and wandered about with some level of embarrassment.

Mr. Baker eyed him keenly, but Lt. Columbo commanded his attention with his inquiry.

“Mr. Baker,” Columbo called, over the grinding and the man’s poor hearing. “We’re you home on–um–” he gaped for a moment, then reddened and smiled bashfully. “I’m sorry sir, but I really have to ask: is it always this loud in here?”

“Ah? Oh, the stones?” Mr. Baker spoke jovially, with a thickness of speech one expected to hear of a man having lived nearly a century in the english countryside and with a clarity one didn’t expect from a man having so few teeth. “Aye, usually so. Harvest comin’. Need my girls to be up and ready.”

Columbo looked over at the millstones in question, now also being inspected by a curious Wooster. “So you’re saying you run the mill without anything to, well, mill?”

“Aye, I do. Grandfatha’ did it. Fatha’ did it. I’ll do it, too. Always run it for a week or so afore needin’ to run it for the months a’ harvest. Make sure nothin’ broke ‘n’ all.”

As they spoke, Wooster tried to eavesdrop and not seem like he was. He spotted a stray stalk of grain—he didn’t know enough about agriculture to identify the variety—and carefully fed it to the millstone. Gradually, the stalk was flattened, then stripped, then became powder as the stone crushed it. It was pleasant to watch and he looked about the floor for another.

“And how long have you been running the mill?” Columbo asked. “In preparation, I mean.”

“Oh, four days now?”

“Did you notice anything odd, especially around that big rain storm we had a few nights ago?”

“When was?”

Columbo tried again, louder still. “A few nights–”

“It’s not a toy, lad!” Mr. Baker barked suddenly, his attention on Wooster who was feeding the millstone another stalk. “Y’want a toy, go find one ove’ there!” He gestured sharply to one wall of the workshop. Wooster, admonished, stepped away from the millstone swiftly. Columbo, also interested, followed the direction of the gesture.

Somewhat out of place in the workshop, full of steel tools and grease tins and various other pieces of equipment meant for keeping a cornerstone of modern agriculture worthy of its title, was a single shelf dedicated to little wooden toys. There were ducks and little boats, a ball or two, a soldier who, having been there the longest, had lost most of his original paint, and some other pieces not easily identified by those lacking the possession of childhood imagination. To the right of all of them, acting as a mediator between toy and tool, was a wooden bucket.

“Did you make these?” Columbo asked, impressed.

“Ah?” responded Mr. Baker.

“Did you–”

“Oh, no! Not with these old hands. No, they float down the riva’. I put up a net to catch’em. It works, ‘cept when it doesn’t.” Mr. Baker walked over to the shelf and pulled down the bucket. He presented it by the metal handle which, upon closer inspection, had gotten bent. “Y’were askin’ about the rain. It makes the riva’ rise up and gets over the net. Branches an’ such, they get caught in the spokes a’ the wheel. This bucket got stuck the other morn’, bangin’ around like it was the constable trying t’break down the dowr. Scared me half to death, I tell you.”

Columbo took the presented bucket, turning it over this way and that. He hummed, interested, then turned it over entirely. He hummed again and then passed it along to Wooster to hold. Wooster took it, unsure of what could be so interesting about it, and looked it all over for some clue. To a layman, it was a good bucket. He quickly lost interest in it and held it at his side by the handle.

“Mr. Baker, I think I know this bucket. Know the owner, I mean.”

“Do y'now?”

“Yes, sir. With your permission, I’d like to return the bucket to the butcher in town. It’s his bucket, sir. His name is carved on the bottom and he sounded real upset that it was missing.”

Mr. Baker hummed with a twisted up frown. It was a fine bucket, unfortunate to lose, but surely the owner felt the same way. He let it leave his possession with a nod and a gesture.

“Thank you, Mr. Baker. Oh, one more thing before we go; about what time did the banging wake you up?”

“Early. Sun weren’t up yet, but it was light out.”

“Thank you, Mr. Baker. You have a good day.”

“Cheerio, old fellow.” Wooster said in his usual voice.

“Old fellow? Bah! Still a spring chicken! Stay out of trouble, lad.”

Columbo blinked, then looked from Mr. Baker to Wooster and back again. “You can understand him?”

Mr. Baker looked at him incredulously. “Well of course I can. He’s speakin’ proper English, ‘n’t he?”

At a loss, the American simply shook his head and smiled to himself. Clearly, it wasn’t his volume but his accent that had caused such trouble. He left, his companion in tow, and in a short while, they were back in the motorcar, turned around, and headed back to town on the lieutenant’s request.

“I say,” Wooster said when he deemed it proper to speak up, which was the moment the thought manifested in his thinkpan. “How did you know the bucket belonged to the local butcher, of all people?” He gestured with a nod towards said bucket on Columbo’s lap. “I didn’t see a name anywhere.”

Columbo smiled. “Oh, well, I knew the butcher was missing a bucket, and here was a perfectly good bucket discarded to the river and then left on a shelf. I figured he’d like it.”

Wooster hummed earnestly and smiled. “Hn. How charitable of you.”

Lt. Columbo watched the driver long enough for Wooster to take notice and grow uncomfortable with the scrutiny. At last, Columbo hid a faint smile behind one sausage finger and looked forward at the road.

“Something the matter, old chap?”

Columbo shook his head lightly. “No, nothing the matter. Just…thinking,” he said at last.

An investigative mind working on a thought could be a dangerous thing, Wooster thought, especially for one that was, moments ago, open to sharing, now suddenly quite, oh, what was the word? Cavalier? No, that wouldn’t be it at all. Clammed-up? A bit pedestrian of a term, but it suited the little man’s expression perfectly. A bit of prodding wouldn’t hurt, right?

“Well, I suppose if you need a wall to bounce a thought off, I could do in a pinch.” Wooster offered lightly, with his best smile. “Assuming it doesn’t go sailing over me, instead.”

Columbo smiled at him. “Y’know, your um, valet? Mr. Jeeves. He’s not the first butler I’ve met since coming here. To England, I mean. The first was a real dignified sort. I think his name was Tanner? Mr. Tanner, but I guess folks don’t really call butlers ‘Mr. Such-and-such’. I happened to be in London when his employer was murdered, ‘course, he didn’t know it was murder at the time.”

At this turn of subject, Wooster’s cheerful visage cracked. He returned his full focus to the empty dirt road ahead, though he still listened as the lieutenant rambled.

“Maybe you heard about that, seeing as you live in London and all. Read about it?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, well. Y’see, I didn’t suspect Tanner for a second. He was, what do they call it? A Consummate Professional. Well dressed, timely, answered any of my questions, but…I could tell he was hiding something.”

“Oh,” Wooster said after a respectable pause. “‘The Butler Did It’, then?”

“That’s what most people would assume, sir. Even the newspapers ran with it when Tanner turned up dead. A confession letter on the table explained the whole thing.”

This was an unexpected turn and it took a great effort not to let his shock and surprise cause him to miss the real turn in the road. “Oh? Is that right? Solved itself, then?”

“Oh, no. It turned out to be a forgery. Tanner was blackmailing the real killers, and they decided to, well, go a different route. Y’see, the point I’m trying to make is all I have to compare your valet Jeeves to is this man, Tanner. And let me just say, sir, your man Jeeves is leagues above.”

Wooster smiled with some restraint, not sure how they suddenly had gone onto the subject of Jeeves, or why the lieutenant could have any interest in the man, regarding the day's events.

“I mean, Tanner cared more about blackmailing his boss’s killers than bringing them to justice, so I suppose it isn’t much of a competition. Still, from what I’ve heard and seen–”

What have you seen? What have you heard? The questions competed to be first out of Wooster’s mouth and ended up tying at the finish line, coming out as a sputter and a jumble of words. Lt. Columbo grasped his intention well enough, however.

“Ah, well, I suppose all those interviews I did at the mansion on the hill. He was always right there, ready to give advice and guidance. Helping around the house, practically telling the day what to do. If you don’t mind me saying; he seems to me like the kind of guy who has things under control. There’s nothing the man wouldn’t do for you.”

Wooster stared ahead, though in truth he didn’t quite see the road. He drove on, safely as one could of course, but the motorcar traveled the path and considered his turning of the wheel and the press of the petals as suggestions. It certainly felt that way to Wooster.

“‘Course, can’t say why he reminded me of poor old Tanner. Although…”

Columbo’s voice was so quiet towards the end of his sentence that it was up and devoured by the roar of the engine.

“Although?” Wooster couldn’t help himself.

“Ah, you can drop me off right here. I need to speak with the constable.”

Columbo pointed ahead to where the gaolhouse stood. Wooster slowed, surprised that they had reached the village without his notice. As soon as he stopped, Columbo popped out of the passenger side, retrieved his bucket, gave Wooster a half-wave/half-salute, and headed up the short steps to the front of the gaolhouse.

Wooster watched him go, gaping like a fish. He felt as if he had lost a crucial game of wits, but since the whole of it was played in a dark room with no windows, he could hardly say what sort of game it was. The lieutenant could very well have been playing chess while Wooster was playing Canasta. Was that a game, or was it castanets? He might as well have been playing either, for all the good it did him. Lt. Columbo sounded like he had come to some sort of conclusion. Whether that had something to do with Wooster’s guilt or Jeeve’s professionalism or the finer points of flour production via old world watermills, he couldn’t say.

Perhaps he could ask Jeeves what it all meant. The man was a genius when it came to understanding situations exactly as they are without any of that proverbial wool over eyes and the like. Though it took some interpreting when a Drone or two came calling with their own problems in need of solving, but in the few short months they had known each other, Wooster had become fluent in Jeevesian. This thought lightened him for only a moment before he realized that he had spent the better part of the morning galavanting about with the one man Jeeves explicitly explained Wooster should avoid. Perhaps bringing up the drive wouldn’t be a good idea. A withering look would be a best case scenario.

At a loss of what to do and a little tired, Wooster tucked his tail between his legs and puttered his motorcar up the hill and back into the waiting garage of Castleberry Court.