Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves

says that Stiffy Byng has something she wants me to do for her. Well, you know the sort of thing Stiffy generally wants people to do. You recall the episode of Constable Oates’s helmet?’
    ‘Very vividly, sir.’
    ‘Oates had incurred her displeasure by reporting to her Uncle Watkyn that her dog Bartholomew had spilled him off his bicycle, causing him to fall into a ditch and sustain bruises and contusions, and she persuaded Harold Pinker, a man in holy orders who buttons his collar at the back, to pinch his helmet for her. And that was comparatively mild for Stiffy. There are no limits, literally none, to what she can think of when she gives her mind to it. The imagination boggles at the thought of what she may be cooking up for me.’
    ‘Certainly you may be pardoned for feeling apprehensive, sir.’
    ‘So there you are. I’m on the horns of… what are those things you get on the horns of?’
    ‘Dilemmas, sir.’
    ‘That’s right. I’m on the horns of a dilemma. Shall I, I ask myself, go and see what I can accomplish in the way of running repairs on the lute, or would it be more prudent to stay put and let nature take its course, trusting to Time, the great healer, to do its stuff?’
    ‘If I might make a suggestion, sir?’
    ‘Press on, Jeeves.’
    ‘Would it not be possible for you to go to Totleigh Towers, but to decline to carry out Miss Byng’s wishes?’
    I weighed this. It was, I could see, a thought.
    ‘Issue a nolle prosequi, you mean? Tell her to go and boil her head?’
    ‘Precisely, sir.’
    I eyed him reverently.
    ‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘as always, you have found the way. I’ll wire Miss Bassett asking if I can come, and I’ll wire Aunt Dahlia that I can’t give her lunch, as I’m leaving town. And I’ll tell Stiffy that whatever she has in mind, she gets no service and co-operation from me Yes Jeeves, you’ve hit it. I’ll go to Totleigh, though the flesh creeps at the prospect. Pop Bassett will be there. Spode will be there. Stiffy will be there. The dog Bartholomew will be there. It makes one wonder why so much fuss has been made about those half-a-league half-a-league half-a-league-onward bimbos who rode into the Valley of Death They weren’t going to find Pop Bassett at the other end. Ah well let us hope for the best.”
    ‘The only course to pursue, sir.’
    ‘Stiff upper lip, Jeeves, what?’
    ‘Indubitably, sir. That, if I may say so, is the spirit.’

    5
    As Stinker had predicted, Madeline Bassett placed no obstacle in the way of my visiting Totleigh Towers. In response to my invitation-cadging missive she gave me the green light, and an hour or so after her telegram had arrived Aunt Dahlia rang up from Brinkley, full of eagerness to ascertain what the hell, she having just received my wire saying that owing to absence from the metropolis I would be unable to give her the lunch for which she had been budgeting.
    Her call came as no surprise. I had anticipated that there might be a certain liveliness on the Brinkley front. The old flesh-and-blood is a genial soul who loves her Bertram dearly, but she is a woman of imperious spirit. She dislikes having her wishes thwarted, and her voice came booming at me like a pack of hounds in full cry.
    ‘Bertie, you foul young blot on the landscape!’
    ‘Speaking.’
    ‘I got your telegram.’
    ‘I thought you would. Very efficient, the gramming service.’
    ‘What do you mean, you’re leaving town? You never leave town except to come down here and wallow in Anatole’s cooking.’
    Her allusion was to her peerless French chef, at the mention of whose name the mouth starts watering automatically. God’s gift to the gastric juices I have sometimes called him.
    ‘Where are you going?’
    My mouth having stopped watering, I said I was going to Totleigh Towers, and she uttered an impatient snort.
    ‘There’s something wrong with this blasted wire. It sounded as if you were saying you were going to Totleigh Towers.’
    ‘I am.’
    ‘To Totleigh Towers?
    ‘I leave this afternoon.’
    ‘What in the world made them invite you?’
    ‘They didn’t. I invited myself.’
    ‘You mean you’re deliberately seeking the society of Sir Watkyn Bassett? You must be more of an ass than even I have ever thought you. And I speak as a woman who has just had the old bounder in her hair for more than a week.’
    I saw her point, and hastened to explain.
    ‘I admit Pop Bassett is a bit above the odds,’ I said, ‘and unless one is