Jooster multi-chapter series: The Long Road, Chapter 2

[triedunture]

Title: The Long Road (Chapter 2)
[Previous parts: Chapter One]
Rating: PG13? I feel very silly giving this a rating. Just make up your own minds!
Beta: the ever-so British hwshipper
Length: 3600
Warnings: Angst, violence, general dark themes.
Summary: A very bad thing happens. And then we must go on.

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Bertie barely remembered the journey back to the flat, barging past Jarvis with his precious cargo hanging suspended between two men, and the dangerous climb up the staircase. He had enough forethought to reach into Jeeves' blood-soaked trouser pocket for the house key, and he unlocked the door with one hand when they reached it, his other not leaving its task at Jeeves' injury. Jeeves was borne by their hands into the familiar room and, after a shouted directive from the postman, into the kitchen to be laid out on the flat butcher-block table.

'The doctor'll want to work on him on a steady surface like this,' the postman explained when Bertie blanched at the sight: Jeeves stretched out flat on his back in a parody of the noontime meal. His face was slack and relaxed. If one didn't look below his neck, he seemed perfectly content. But the spattered stains below his still-perfect necktie...

And then the doctor rushed in with his bag and his assistants, led by Jarvis. There was a few policemen in the mix as well, and so much shouting that Bertie wasn't sure what was happening, exactly. His hands were pried away from Jeeves' wound, and he was given a push out of the room so the men could work.

The kitchen door swung shut behind him, and Bertie stood alone in the parlour. He stood there for God knows how long, just staring round the room. It was like a room from another world; only minutes ago he had left this room with Jeeves, the both of them on their feet, chattering about flowers and tailors and nothing of importance.

Bertie lifted a shaking hand, thinking he'd smooth down his hair, but when he caught sight of the tacky blood drying on his palms and under his fingernails, he dropped the hand to his side. His gaze fastened on a strip of fabric laying innocently over the back of the chesterfield: the yellow tie. The clock struck one, the time for Bertie's appointment at the tailor's.

How different things had been just a few minutes ago, Bertie thought. If he hadn't tried to wear the ill-fated yellow tie, if he hadn't fought Jeeves so wilfully on the matter, they would not have been walking by that alley at that one specific moment, and Jeeves would be...

Bertie sat down in an armchair, suddenly afraid his knees were going to give out if he didn't. The clock continued ticking. The hoarse voices of strange men came, muffled, from the kitchen. Bertie regarded his gore-stained hands, hanging uselessly between his thighs, and he wondered idly if he should go wash up. It seemed, though, that he couldn't force himself to stand. He couldn't quite force himself to take a real breath, even.

His chest shuddered with a frightful pain. He felt he was going to be ill.

'Excuse me, Mr Wooster,' a quiet voice said from behind him.

Bertie looked over his shoulder to find one of the men exiting the kitchen.

'My name's Inspector Evans, sir. I'll be needing to ask you some questions about the incident,' he said, standing before Bertie.

'Is he...?' Bertie glanced at the kitchen door.

'Dr Hollis is doing all he can, sir. He's a fine surgeon. Has to get the bullet out first, of course.' The policeman took a small pad of paper from his trench coat's breast pocket and licked the tip of a pencil stub. 'Now your doorman says the victim's name is Jeeves?'

Victim. What a strange thing to call a person. 'Yes.' Bertie rubbed his palms together. Some of the blood flaked off in bits, sprinkling the carpet.

'And his given name?'

'Erm.' Bertie rubbed his temple, heedless now of the blood. 'Good Lord. I've never heard it. I, I don't know.'

Inspector Evans gave a small pause, then scribbled something in his notebook. 'I'll need to get in touch with his next of kin, then. Can you tell me...?'

Bertie held his head in his hands, staring at his scuffed shoes, his dirtied trouser cuffs. 'I don't know. Oh God, I don't know.'

'Does he have family in the city, perhaps?' Evans prompted.

'Yes, yes, I believe so. He has a niece. And a sister, he sometimes mentions having tea with his sister. But I have no idea where—' Bertie broke off with a crack in his voice. 'I don't have a bally clue where they are.'

'Take a deep breath, sir. Try to remember,' the policeman said.

'There's nothing to remember! I've never asked about his family. Oh, dash it,' Bertie moaned into his cupped hands.

'If I may, officer.' Bertie looked up at the sound of the kitchen door swinging open and shut again. Jarvis the doorman stepped into view. 'Mr Jeeves often sends letters to his sister, name of Jacobs. I've posted a few of them as a favour. She resides somewhere in Marylebone, if I remember.' He gave Bertie a discrete glance. 'His given name is Reginald. That's what the return address always says.'

'Thank you, my good man. Extremely helpful.' Evans wrote in his notebook. Jarvis lifted his hat to him, and to Bertie, and then departed with a soft, 'If you need anything, Mr Wooster, I'll be downstairs.'

Bertie stared at the carpet beneath his feet. How many years had Jeeves lived under his roof? And it had never occurred to Bertie that the man even had a first name. The doorman knew more facts about Jeeves than Bertie did.

'Mr Wooster,' Inspector Evans cleared his throat, 'I know you're shaken from your ordeal, but we find that it's best to get details from a witness as soon as possible. Can you describe the gunman?'

Bertie swallowed. 'His coat was a sort of grey colour. Like dirt.'

Evans nodded and marked it down in his little book. 'What else?'

'I don't know,' Bertie said in a strained voice.

'How tall would you say he was?'

'I don't remember. A bit taller than me, I suppose.'

'Was he thin or fat?'

'He wasn't fat. Not too thin either, I don't think.'

'Any scars? A beard? Eyeglasses?'

Bertie shrugged helplessly. 'No. Not that I can recall.'

Evans pressed. 'Do you recall what colour hair he had?'

'Dark?' Bertie bit his lip. 'Brown, maybe black.' He shook his head. 'I'm sorry, it all happened so quickly. I didn't even look at him, really. I was so worried about Jeeves. So shocked that the blighter shot him without saying anything, nothing at all.' Bertie held a hand out, gesturing emphatically to empty air, shaking it at an invisible opponent. 'I would have handed over the entire billfold! He didn't have to...' Bertie trailed off and squeezed his eyes shut briefly.

'Take your time,' Evans said. The room was very quiet again. The sick feeling passed over Bertie once more.

The kitchen door swung open again and the Good Samaritan postman and window-washer came through. Bertie looked up at them giving a start as he remembered he owed these men a great deal, and he'd offered nothing.

'Thank you, the both of you,' he said. 'I don't know what I would have done without your help. I don't have my chequebook on me, it was stolen, but can I get you a brandy or perhaps a scotch?' He gestured to the sidebar. 'I don't think I could stomach one myself.'

The two men politely declined. 'I left a bag of post somewhere on the pavement. I'd best go find it,' the postman said. The window-washer had a similar story about his bucket. The inspector asked them if they'd seen anything, and when it was determined they hadn't, they left the flat. Bertie hadn't gotten their names, he realised as soon as the door shut behind them.

'Let's start at the beginning,' Evans sighed, flipping to a new sheet of paper in his book. 'What happened first?'

Bertie began recounting the entire thing, trying to describe things as helpfully as he could, but finding his memory sorely lacking for the most part. The inspector was fairly interested in Bertie's descriptions of the stolen pocket watches, however.

'You say at least one of them carries an inscription?' he said. 'That might prove useful if the thief sells it. We can track it down in some of the dodgy broker shops, I reckon.'

Bertie nodded faintly, wondering how any of this would help Jeeves.

'There's been a rash of similar thefts in the city lately, you know,' the inspector continued. 'Young gentlemen being robbed at gunpoint, that is. Might be connected, but we'll have to investigate further. As far as I know, none of the other cases involved a shooting.'

'Do you have any idea why?' Bertie asked quietly. 'Why he would shoot Jeeves?'

The inspector rubbed his jaw in thought. 'Could be he felt your valet posed a threat. Quite tall, that one. Or it may have been an attack of nerves. Who can tell what these madmen think?'

'Yes, who can tell?' Bertie murmured to himself.

The kitchen door opened once again, and Bertie momentarily felt he was in one of those strange French comedy plays where doors are always opening and slamming to reveal new characters. A hysterical giggle fought its way out of his lips, and he clasped his hand over his mouth to stop it from being heard. Then he smelled the iron tang of the blood on his palms, and he tore his hand away in disgust.

A young man exited the kitchen, dressed in a red-spattered apron. 'I'm one of Dr Hollis' apprentices, sir,' the boy said. 'The doctor is stitching your man up now; we've removed the bullet and it looks like the bleeding will stop.'

'So Jeeves will be all right?' Bertie cried.

The youngster nodded in a sideways sort of way that means 'maybe'. 'He's lost a lot of blood, Mr Wooster. See, the bullet pierced the stomach and came to a halt at the anterior rib. That's the back of the last one, here.' He pointed to his own torso. 'Gave that rib a clean crack; that should mend on its own; nothing we can do about that. And of course, we had to close up the stomach so's the caustic acid wouldn't spill out into his—'

Bertie blanched and waved a hand in the air. 'Please, I'm sorry. I'm afraid I can't bear to hear any more.' He pressed the slightly less bloodied heel of his palm to his eye. 'It, it sounds so painful.'

The assistant shifted awkwardly on his feet. 'Rather unpleasant sort of injury, sir. But the patient was out cold for the entire ordeal. He won't have felt a thing.'

Bertie looked up. 'And when he awakens? How bad will the pain be?'

The boy shared a glance with the inspector, and Bertie felt a surge of annoyance. It seemed that everyone else in the world understood the extent of these injuries except Bertram Wooster. Bertie couldn't help it; he'd never so much as broken a limb in his life. Sure, he'd endured small scrapes and bruises such as boys usually collect in their boyhood, but he had little understanding of how terrible or lasting something like this gunshot might be.

'He'll be carefully monitored in hospital,' the doctor's apprentice finally said. 'Don't worry.'

'A hospital?' Bertie frowned. 'What hospital? Why must he—'

'He'll be better off in hospital, Mr Wooster,' Inspector Evans broke in. 'Mr Jeeves is in a very fragile state, and his recovery will need to be overseen by the doctors and nurses.'

'Yes, but if he's in such a fragile state, should we really move him? Lug him downstairs again and bung him into a cab?' Bertie asked in a shrill voice. 'Wouldn't he be better off staying here? This is his home!'

Bertie remembered quite clearly the time his rival in love had broken a leg in a car accident, and Bertie had been forced to give him the guest room while he recovered. Surely the same arrangement could be used now?

'Sir, I'm sure your heart is in the right place,' the inspector said gently, 'but you're not qualified to care for an invalid.'

Bertie stopped short then, his mouth hanging open. Invalid? Jeeves? Those two words were so completely divided in the Wooster vocabulary that it took him a moment to find his footing once more, and he resumed his argument. 'If I'm not qualified, I will hire someone who is.' He turned to the apprentice. 'I suppose you have nurses and such that take care of ailing people in their homes, what?'

'Yes, sir. Mrs Fennaweave is the nurse we usually send on such errands.'

'Then she shall come here.' Bertie nodded with a sort of finality. 'And Jeeves will be cared for at home. Would that be acceptable?'

The apprentice grimaced. 'It's not the normal sort of practise. The expense, sir, will be...'

The doctor stepped out of the kitchen then, surrounded by the rest of the uniformed policemen. 'Well, that's that, then. Should be stable enough for the moment,' he said, wiping his hands on a red-stained rag. 'If you'll allow us the use of your phone, Mr Wooster, my apprentice will call a van from the infirmary.'

Upon receiving a glare from Bertie, the apprentice stammered out Bertie's wishes as to Jeeves' care. The doctor balked.

'The man has received substantial internal damage,' he protested. 'The usual servant's accommodations are not suitable for a man in his condition.'

'Well, put him in my room, then.' Bertie rose from his chair, quelling the shake in his knees. 'My bed's the best one in the flat. He can't stay on the kitchen table forever, can he?'

The assorted men assembled in the room didn't answer, but looked round at each other in an uncomfortable manner, like a chorus that doesn't recognise the opening bars of a song. Bertie frowned.

'I will ask one or two of you gentlemen to assist me in carrying him there,' he said slowly. 'He's my valet, and I want him to have every comfort.'

Inspector Evans stepped forward and slid his notebook and pencil back into his breast pocket. 'Of course, Mr Wooster. My men will see to it.' And he gestured to several of the silent officers, and they paraded back into the kitchen. Bertie trailed along behind, feeling quite useless as the strapping young policemen arranged themselves round the recumbent figure in preparation for the move.

Bertie paled at the sight that greeted him in the kitchen: it looked like several of the dish towels had been called into service during the hasty surgery, and they littered the tile floor, soaked in blood. The butcher-block table, too, was rather gory. And the Jeeves that was laid upon it...he didn't at all resemble the Jeeves Bertie knew.

Jeeves was still deep in the grip of unconsciousness, it looked like. His shirt and jacket had been cast aside in a torn heap on the floor; Bertie nudged it with his foot, noting how completely ruined they were. Jeeves' torso was bare, pale in the weak light of the kitchen. The other doctor's apprentice was applying a poultice to Jeeves' wound, about three inches from his trouser waistline on the left side. Bertie caught a brief glimpse at the black stitches, stark against white flesh, before they were covered in clean cotton by the apprentice.

'Good thing you chappies are here,' this new apprentice said quietly. 'I need you to lift him just slightly while I wrap this bandage round him to hold everything in place. Do be careful, please.'

Bertie liked this apprentice more than the other one. The boy's hands appeared to be gentle as he wrapped the strips of cotton, deftly avoiding the injury. When he was done, he nodded to the patient policemen. 'Right. You may take him now.'

With a small amount of shuffling round, the squadron of men managed to manoeuvre Jeeves out of the room. Bertie wrung his hands as he watched them go, calling, 'The first bedroom down the hall, please!'

'I heard you demanding the services of Mrs Fennaweave,' the young apprentice said as he snapped off a pair of rubber gloves. 'I must warn you, sir, she's a most knowledgeable nurse. She's the best at keeping wounds clean and seeing to bandages. But Mrs Fennaweave can be a tad overbearing. Some fellows don't enjoy having a lady like that round the home, if you catch my meaning.'

'If she can tend to Jeeves as he needs to be, that's all I care about,' Bertie found himself saying. It was an odd thing, suddenly clamouring for this aunt-like figure in his life when all this time he'd avoided them at whatever cost. 'I'm sure she will be most satisfactory.'

The younger man regarded Bertie with a serious gaze for a moment. 'I'll clean up in here. You needn't worry about that,' he offered at last.

'Thank you,' Bertie said stiffly. 'Don't bother with the table, though. I'm going to dispose of it.' He eyed the blood-slicked surface.

'A good idea, sir. I'll see that it's removed,' the boy said, and set to work collecting the ruined tatters from the floor. 'Perhaps you'd like to wash up?' He tipped his chin in the direction of the kitchen sink.

Bertie remembered his hands, still sticky with blood. He moved to the basin and twisted the hot water knob, wetting a cake of soap and working it between his fingers and under his nails. The resulting suds turned pink, rinsing away down the drain like candy floss. It was a mesmerising spectacle, one that reminded him of his boyhood days by the seaside. Bertie scrubbed in silence for a moment before giving a violent start. 'Oh! Jeeves will need his pyjamas,' he muttered. 'I'd better...'

Jeeves' quarters were just off the kitchen, and the door was unlocked. Bertie slid into the small, plain room with ease, glancing round with tentative curiosity. He hadn't been in the room since Jeeves had come to work for him. Bertie had always wanted to give his valet all the privacy he could, Jeeves being the sort of cove who plays his cards close to the chest and all. But now, he thought, perhaps he hadn't been nosey enough. After all, he had no idea where the man even kept his sleepwear.

The modest chest of drawers on the right seemed a good place to start. Bertie stood before it, examining the two framed pictures that sat on its gleaming surface. One was a very old photograph, yellowed round the edges with age, showing a married couple: the woman, raven hair pulled into a firm bun, and the man in an immaculately pressed butler uniform. A severe-looking pair, but Bertie reminded himself that the photograph was from that era when nobody smiled at the camera.

The other gilt frame held a picture card from New York. Bertie stared at the picture of the Empire State Building, regal in its nighttime glow, rising like a rocket on the skyline, dwarfing everything around it. Why would Jeeves keep this, Bertie wondered, a penny picture card on par with what must be his parents' portrait?

He shook his head and started opening drawers, averting his eyes at the socks and underpants before finally finding a suit of ivory cotton pyjamas.

The quiet, more likable doctor's apprentice was suddenly at Bertie's side. 'I'll take those for you,' he said, gently grasping the clothes from Bertie's hands. 'Don't worry; I'll get him fixed up.'

'Make sure the lapels are creased properly,' Bertie whispered, clacking his empty fists together. 'If they're ruffled, he's liable to have a heart attack when he wakes.'

'You're a kind man, Mr Wooster, to think of his comfort.' He turned to go, but paused in the doorway. 'It's not your fault, you know.' And then he left.

Bertie stayed in Jeeves' room for a few minutes more. He didn't pry into other drawers or look under the bed; he only wanted to read the spines of the stack of books on Jeeves' nightstand, to inhale the minty smell of brilliantine and the dusky scent of shoe polish. And then he left to finally take stock of Jeeves.

He strode down the hallway, taking deep breaths into his lungs. Jeeves was going to be all right in time. Everything was going to go back to normal soon, and the shaking hands, raspy throat, and jumping nerves of B. Wooster would be a thing of the past. Bertie just had to remember that.

A stream of men passed him in the hall, tipping their police helmets to him. The doctor and his helpers followed. Hollis told Bertie that Jeeves was still asleep, and that Mrs Fennaweave would be sent over to pass the first night with them. Behind him, policemen were carrying away the sullied kitchen table.

'The greatest danger at this point is infection,' the doctor warned. 'Mrs Fennaweave will ensure that your man is taken care of. I'll return in a few days to make sure he's healing normally.'

Bertie thanked him and shook his hand, and in a moment, everyone emptied out of the flat. And Bertie was left very much alone.


Continue to Chapter 3.