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Jeeves And The Rummy Affair At Cruxton
- Thread starter Wragg
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Seems like a fool proof plan from old Wragg...what could possibly go wrong...
So naively confident....this is why you are a slave Blaire....
RacingRodent
Consul
Seems like a fool proof plan from old Wragg...what could possibly go wrong...
So naively confident....this is why you are a slave Blaire....
Either that or she is saying this plan will prove Bertie is a fool
Quiet Paul
Tribune
This is a total digression from the thread, but I hope you will understand, Wragg - it seems to belong here just slightly.
Outside my office window right now, three Spitfire fighters in the skies over the spun coast, looping and arcing gracefully and artfully. A beautiful sight, and oh, the sound of those engines! The perfect end to Friday afternoon.
Digression over
Outside my office window right now, three Spitfire fighters in the skies over the spun coast, looping and arcing gracefully and artfully. A beautiful sight, and oh, the sound of those engines! The perfect end to Friday afternoon.
Digression over
Last edited by a moderator:
Chapter 3
At two in the morning, the plan was going like clockwork. In fact, I’d had a stroke of luck. It had occurred to me that getting six young ladies into a two seater car was going to be cosy, to say the least, so I’d thought I could ferry them to the nearest station and get them on the milk train back to London. But there, stored in the same Summer House that concealed the tunnel exit, were the team’s cyclocross bikes. Having seen the speed that Blaire can achieve on one of these beasties I thought it entirely possible that she and the others would be back in London before I was.
I moved aside the furniture and one bike, and lifted the boards that covered the tunnel. It was a bit cold and damp in there, but I blessed dear old William Wragg who’d built it to last.
Within five minutes I’d got to the other end, pushed open the flagstone that disguised the entrance to the tunnel, and entered the dungeon. It was lit by a single bulb, the light of which revealed six very surprised, but very nude girls.
The Cruxton Abbey Cyclocross team were huddled together in pairs; Blaire and Roxie, Siss and Barb, PK and Yupar. Huddled together for warmth, I decided. Perhaps Siss had a cold crotch, because Barb appeared to be blowing on it. Or something. Dashed if I can say what, exactly.
I was jolly embarrassed, I can tell you. We don’t have nude girls at the Drones, it’s not that kind of a club. So I was a bit hazy about the etiquette.
Barb solved the problem. She took one look at me, and screamed. “NOOOO!!! STOP!!!!! GO AWAY!!!! THRASH ME, CLAMP MY NIPPLES, GIVE ME ELECTRIC SHOCKS, DO WHAT YOU LIKE TO ME, BUT GET THAT JACKET OUT OF MY SIGHT!!! I CAN’T STAND IT!!!!”
Barb had what is known as a carrying voice. I reflected that, should she feel the need to give up cyclocross, she could always find decent employment calling the cattle home across the sands of Dee.
“I say, Barb, shush up a bit, what? I’m here to rescue you! You’ll wake up the whole of Suffolk!”
Barb pulled herself together and her mouth snapped shut. “Oh, sorry,” she said, “I just thought you were another Wragg come to torture me. I could see the likeness to Sir Roderick.”
This wounded me deeply. Being told that one looks like Sir Roderick is a mortal insult, but I let it pass.
Meanwhile, needing no second bidding, PK, Yupar and Roxie had disappeared down the tunnel like rabbits. But as Blaire was beginning her descent, the door flew open and in came two of the biggest men I’d ever seen.
“Wot the ‘ells goin’ on ‘ere? Wot’s all the noise for?” demanded one, whose combat fatigues proclaimed that he rejoiced in the name of ‘Gunner’.
“OI!” yelled the other, a Mr Bull, apparently, as he espied the disappearing Blaire. “Not so fast, young lady!” He showed a surprising turn of speed for a man of his bulk, and he reached down and hauled Blaire back into the dungeon by her hair.
I groaned in despair. Foiled! By my own sports jacket!
At two in the morning, the plan was going like clockwork. In fact, I’d had a stroke of luck. It had occurred to me that getting six young ladies into a two seater car was going to be cosy, to say the least, so I’d thought I could ferry them to the nearest station and get them on the milk train back to London. But there, stored in the same Summer House that concealed the tunnel exit, were the team’s cyclocross bikes. Having seen the speed that Blaire can achieve on one of these beasties I thought it entirely possible that she and the others would be back in London before I was.
I moved aside the furniture and one bike, and lifted the boards that covered the tunnel. It was a bit cold and damp in there, but I blessed dear old William Wragg who’d built it to last.
Within five minutes I’d got to the other end, pushed open the flagstone that disguised the entrance to the tunnel, and entered the dungeon. It was lit by a single bulb, the light of which revealed six very surprised, but very nude girls.
The Cruxton Abbey Cyclocross team were huddled together in pairs; Blaire and Roxie, Siss and Barb, PK and Yupar. Huddled together for warmth, I decided. Perhaps Siss had a cold crotch, because Barb appeared to be blowing on it. Or something. Dashed if I can say what, exactly.
I was jolly embarrassed, I can tell you. We don’t have nude girls at the Drones, it’s not that kind of a club. So I was a bit hazy about the etiquette.
Barb solved the problem. She took one look at me, and screamed. “NOOOO!!! STOP!!!!! GO AWAY!!!! THRASH ME, CLAMP MY NIPPLES, GIVE ME ELECTRIC SHOCKS, DO WHAT YOU LIKE TO ME, BUT GET THAT JACKET OUT OF MY SIGHT!!! I CAN’T STAND IT!!!!”
Barb had what is known as a carrying voice. I reflected that, should she feel the need to give up cyclocross, she could always find decent employment calling the cattle home across the sands of Dee.
“I say, Barb, shush up a bit, what? I’m here to rescue you! You’ll wake up the whole of Suffolk!”
Barb pulled herself together and her mouth snapped shut. “Oh, sorry,” she said, “I just thought you were another Wragg come to torture me. I could see the likeness to Sir Roderick.”
This wounded me deeply. Being told that one looks like Sir Roderick is a mortal insult, but I let it pass.
Meanwhile, needing no second bidding, PK, Yupar and Roxie had disappeared down the tunnel like rabbits. But as Blaire was beginning her descent, the door flew open and in came two of the biggest men I’d ever seen.
“Wot the ‘ells goin’ on ‘ere? Wot’s all the noise for?” demanded one, whose combat fatigues proclaimed that he rejoiced in the name of ‘Gunner’.
“OI!” yelled the other, a Mr Bull, apparently, as he espied the disappearing Blaire. “Not so fast, young lady!” He showed a surprising turn of speed for a man of his bulk, and he reached down and hauled Blaire back into the dungeon by her hair.
I groaned in despair. Foiled! By my own sports jacket!
I wasn’t really so much marched into the presence of my uncle, ‘carried’ was more the mot juste. Bull and Gunner had an arm each and my legs waved uselessly about three inches above the ground.
Sir Roderick Wragg was seated in a large armchair wearing a silk dressing down and an exceedingly angry expression, which did nothing to improve his looks. Still, I decided to attempt to be civil.
“Ah! Uncle! Delightful to see you! It’s been too long, what? How are you? What ho! What ho!”
He glared at me.
“What do you mean, Bertram, by intruding upon my household at this hour of the night?”
“Oh, you know, I was just passing, and I thought to myself, ‘Bertie, old fellow, it’s ages since you’ve seen dear old Uncle Rod, might as well look the old boy up, he’ll be delighted to see you!’ I must say, it’s a lovely evening, Uncle, dear old Cruxton Abbey bathed in the moonlight, owls hooting in the trees. Idyllic. Just the ticket after the old metrop, don’t you know?”
We Wraggs tend to gabble when we are nervous.
He maintained his glare.
“Why, in that case, did you choose to enter the house via a tunnel into the dungeon? I’m sure Parkington would have let you in if you’d rung the front door bell, or even the side door bell.”
Parkington was the butler, an extremely ancient man with long white hair and a hook nose. Some say that he’d died in 1741 but hadn’t let a little thing like death prevent him from going about his butlery duties. Having seen him I could believe it. His sepulchric presence was currently occupying one corner of the room.
“Well, you know how it is, Uncle, it was two a.m., I didn’t want to disturb anyone, I thought I could get a few hours shut eye in the cellar.” I was quite pleased with that one.
“Come along, Bertram, admit it, you were stealing my cyclocross team, weren’t you? Who put you up to it? Out with it, man!”
“Nobody ‘put me up’ to anything, Uncle; I was dashed surprised to emerge into the cellar and find six naked women in there, and they were dashed surprised to see me, too.”
An American voice broke in behind me. “Don’t worry, Rod, we caught the others; they wouldn’t have got far anyway, cycling naked through Suffolk.”
I turned to see Mr Tree, looking no more amused than Sir Roderick at being disturbed from his beauty sleep.
Tree regarded me with suspicion. “I guess you’re working for that Australian guy, Phlebas! He’s always hankering after a cyclocross team! Or Shevak! He’s had designs on Barbara and Siss for ages! Sure!” He prodded me in the ribs. “You’re working for Shevak!”
I looked at him blankly.
“No! I’ve got it!” Tree fairly exploded as he reached another conclusion. “Old Blue Nose!! He’s trading slaves from the Netherlands! He’d really be in the money with a fit bunch of girls like that!”
All this talk of people I’d never heard of was giving me a headache. “I’m very sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, but I don’t know anyone with a blue nose, nor anyone called ‘Shevak’, and the only Australians I know of were last seen heading dejectedly towards the pavilion at Lords. I have not got the foggiest idea what you are on about.”
I went on to the attack. “I find myself in Suffolk at dead of night with nowhere to stay, and if I can’t kip down in the Wragg family home without getting interrogated by the CIA then it’s a jolly poor show!”
Sir Roderick stared down his misshapen nose at me. “Mr Tree does not work for the CIA!”
“Well, he asks lots of questions and talks in riddles, so you’ll understand my mistake.” I played my trump card. “Anyway, do you honestly think I would wear this jacket if I was skulking around committing nefarious deeds?”
To be honest, I’d simply not worried about what I was wearing, but my blasted jacket had got me into trouble, I might as well now see if it would get me out of it again.
Sir Roderick eyed me narrowly. “I have to admit that I share my sister Eulalia’s view of your intelligence, Bertram. It wouldn’t surprise me if you turned up dressed as a clown.” He peered at my jacket. “In fact, now that you mention it, it would seem that you have.”
“Anyway,” he continued, “It is very late. Let us see if we can get some sleep, now. Tomorrow, we’ll have some amusement. What do you think, Tree? Five laps of the cyclocross track versus Blaire and the girls?”
“Ha!” said Tree. “And if he wins, we’ll let him go, but if he comes last, we’ll let him try another kind of cross!”
With that, Bull and Gunner scooped me out of their presence, and locked me in a windowless room. One without an escape tunnel. They left me there to contemplate the events of tomorrow.
Sir Roderick Wragg was seated in a large armchair wearing a silk dressing down and an exceedingly angry expression, which did nothing to improve his looks. Still, I decided to attempt to be civil.
“Ah! Uncle! Delightful to see you! It’s been too long, what? How are you? What ho! What ho!”
He glared at me.
“What do you mean, Bertram, by intruding upon my household at this hour of the night?”
“Oh, you know, I was just passing, and I thought to myself, ‘Bertie, old fellow, it’s ages since you’ve seen dear old Uncle Rod, might as well look the old boy up, he’ll be delighted to see you!’ I must say, it’s a lovely evening, Uncle, dear old Cruxton Abbey bathed in the moonlight, owls hooting in the trees. Idyllic. Just the ticket after the old metrop, don’t you know?”
We Wraggs tend to gabble when we are nervous.
He maintained his glare.
“Why, in that case, did you choose to enter the house via a tunnel into the dungeon? I’m sure Parkington would have let you in if you’d rung the front door bell, or even the side door bell.”
Parkington was the butler, an extremely ancient man with long white hair and a hook nose. Some say that he’d died in 1741 but hadn’t let a little thing like death prevent him from going about his butlery duties. Having seen him I could believe it. His sepulchric presence was currently occupying one corner of the room.
“Well, you know how it is, Uncle, it was two a.m., I didn’t want to disturb anyone, I thought I could get a few hours shut eye in the cellar.” I was quite pleased with that one.
“Come along, Bertram, admit it, you were stealing my cyclocross team, weren’t you? Who put you up to it? Out with it, man!”
“Nobody ‘put me up’ to anything, Uncle; I was dashed surprised to emerge into the cellar and find six naked women in there, and they were dashed surprised to see me, too.”
An American voice broke in behind me. “Don’t worry, Rod, we caught the others; they wouldn’t have got far anyway, cycling naked through Suffolk.”
I turned to see Mr Tree, looking no more amused than Sir Roderick at being disturbed from his beauty sleep.
Tree regarded me with suspicion. “I guess you’re working for that Australian guy, Phlebas! He’s always hankering after a cyclocross team! Or Shevak! He’s had designs on Barbara and Siss for ages! Sure!” He prodded me in the ribs. “You’re working for Shevak!”
I looked at him blankly.
“No! I’ve got it!” Tree fairly exploded as he reached another conclusion. “Old Blue Nose!! He’s trading slaves from the Netherlands! He’d really be in the money with a fit bunch of girls like that!”
All this talk of people I’d never heard of was giving me a headache. “I’m very sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, but I don’t know anyone with a blue nose, nor anyone called ‘Shevak’, and the only Australians I know of were last seen heading dejectedly towards the pavilion at Lords. I have not got the foggiest idea what you are on about.”
I went on to the attack. “I find myself in Suffolk at dead of night with nowhere to stay, and if I can’t kip down in the Wragg family home without getting interrogated by the CIA then it’s a jolly poor show!”
Sir Roderick stared down his misshapen nose at me. “Mr Tree does not work for the CIA!”
“Well, he asks lots of questions and talks in riddles, so you’ll understand my mistake.” I played my trump card. “Anyway, do you honestly think I would wear this jacket if I was skulking around committing nefarious deeds?”
To be honest, I’d simply not worried about what I was wearing, but my blasted jacket had got me into trouble, I might as well now see if it would get me out of it again.
Sir Roderick eyed me narrowly. “I have to admit that I share my sister Eulalia’s view of your intelligence, Bertram. It wouldn’t surprise me if you turned up dressed as a clown.” He peered at my jacket. “In fact, now that you mention it, it would seem that you have.”
“Anyway,” he continued, “It is very late. Let us see if we can get some sleep, now. Tomorrow, we’ll have some amusement. What do you think, Tree? Five laps of the cyclocross track versus Blaire and the girls?”
“Ha!” said Tree. “And if he wins, we’ll let him go, but if he comes last, we’ll let him try another kind of cross!”
With that, Bull and Gunner scooped me out of their presence, and locked me in a windowless room. One without an escape tunnel. They left me there to contemplate the events of tomorrow.
RacingRodent
Consul
Well done Wragg, nicely plotted so far
Don't worry Admi the Dutch have heritage Spitfires too
Don't worry Admi the Dutch have heritage Spitfires too
Quiet Paul
Tribune
Exactly that sight! O how glorious!
Barb solved the problem. She took one look at me, and screamed. “NOOOO!!! STOP!!!!! GO AWAY!!!! THRASH ME, CLAMP MY NIPPLES, GIVE ME ELECTRIC SHOCKS, DO WHAT YOU LIKE TO ME, BUT GET THAT JACKET OUT OF MY SIGHT!!! I CAN’T STAND IT!!!!”
Barb had what is known as a carrying voice.
Making me out to be nothing but a loudmouth...geeeze....
Barb had what is known as a carrying voice.
Making me out to be nothing but a loudmouth...geeeze....
Barb solved the problem. She took one look at me, and screamed. “NOOOO!!! STOP!!!!! GO AWAY!!!! THRASH ME, CLAMP MY NIPPLES, GIVE ME ELECTRIC SHOCKS, DO WHAT YOU LIKE TO ME, BUT GET THAT JACKET OUT OF MY SIGHT!!! I CAN’T STAND IT!!!!”
Barb had what is known as a carrying voice.
Making me out to be nothing but a loudmouth...geeeze....
I'm hearing you loud and clear from England!
Quiet Paul
Tribune
Oh do stop complaining Barb. After all the screaming you've done from your various crosses over the years, your vocal range must have increased quite substantially with time .Barb solved the problem. She took one look at me, and screamed. “NOOOO!!! STOP!!!!! GO AWAY!!!! THRASH ME, CLAMP MY NIPPLES, GIVE ME ELECTRIC SHOCKS, DO WHAT YOU LIKE TO ME, BUT GET THAT JACKET OUT OF MY SIGHT!!! I CAN’T STAND IT!!!!”
Barb had what is known as a carrying voice.
Making me out to be nothing but a loudmouth...geeeze....
I'm hearing you loud and clear from England!
Not the notes of sympathy and understanding I was hoping for .... what's a girl gotta do to get some R-E-S-P-E-C-T around this place?
RacingRodent
Consul
Not the notes of sympathy and understanding I was hoping for .... what's a girl gotta do to get some R-E-S-P-E-C-T around this place?
Surely you have already done the Rodent Essential Slave Procurement and Elite Courtesan Training program?
We can always do seconds though
our spitfires are changed for some F16'sWell done Wragg, nicely plotted so far
Don't worry Admi the Dutch have heritage Spitfires too
View attachment 150152
Not the notes of sympathy and understanding I was hoping for .... what's a girl gotta do to get some R-E-S-P-E-C-T around this place?
Quiet Paul
Tribune
Sympathy round here? Surely you can't be that naive after all this time. And please don't shout. I fear for my light bulbs over hereNot the notes of sympathy and understanding I was hoping for .... what's a girl gotta do to get some R-E-S-P-E-C-T around this place?
That’s a genuine P G Wodehouse quote, about one Aunt Dahlia.Barb had what is known as a carrying voice. I reflected that, should she feel the need to give up cyclocross, she could always find decent employment calling the cattle home across the sands of Dee.
Making me out to be nothing but a loudmouth...geeeze....
The allusion is to Charles Kingsley's ballad:
O Mary, call the cattle home
And call the cattle home
And call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee
The western winds were wild with foam
And all alone went she.
Which is about the Dee that flows through Chester
(where Kingsley had a job in the Abbey – Chester, not Cruxton)
But where's this 'Spun Coast' QP?
Quiet Paul
Tribune
South coast, Eul. Nothing 'spun' about it I assure you. Just hasty typing as I escaped from the office. Will try and do better on the proof reading!That’s a genuine P G Wodehouse quote, about one Aunt Dahlia.
The allusion is to Charles Kingsley's ballad:
O Mary, call the cattle home
And call the cattle home
And call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee
The western winds were wild with foam
And all alone went she.
Which is about the Dee that flows through Chester
(where Kingsley had a job in the Abbey – Chester, not Cruxton)
But where's this 'Spun Coast' QP?