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Nightingale proved to be one canny bloke. HIs advice to “Get a house somewhere, fill it full of Lucian and jazz and whatever else takes your fancy.” proved an absolutely spiffing idea. After looking at several properties, Lucy and I had found a nice little townhouse north of 110th on Edgecombe that even met with Beauregard’s approval. Which was damned hard to come by, let me tell you. Never knew there were so many fiddly bits that could make plumbing or a kitchen non-starters.

But now we were moved in, unpacked and fully staffed. Still needed to furnish some of the rooms but we were taking that slow. Lucy was reluctant to drop too much of the ready at one time, despite my assuring him that even after purchasing the house, I was more than plump in the pocket.

But Lucy was worried we were spending too much, so I was humoring him and we were decorating slowly.

Tonight we had opted for a quiet evening in. Lucy wanted to hear a special wireless broadcast which featured some folks from the Metropolitan Opera and I had acquiesced in no little part because snow was coming down as though we were in the bally arctic.

While I’m not the opera aficionado that Lucy is, the evening was proving surprisingly pleasant. I was lying with my head in Lucy’s lap, watching him enjoy the singing. Sipping at a mediocre beverage that claimed to be cognac, but clearly came out of a bathtub somewhere.

I had no idea what the baritone was currently going on about. Some blokes having a big meal before heading off for a fight it sounded like. The tune was spritely at least. Mostly I was watching Lucy against the background of snow falling on the other side of the bay window, and considering how we should decorate this room. The radio got the best reception here and stacks of Lucy’s books seemed to have migrated in, so it seemed by way of turning into a library/music room.

The baritone finally finished and some fellow came on to extoll the wonders of flats in Queens.

“We should get a piano.” I suggested.

Lucy blinked, and came out of the daze that he slides into listening to good music. “What? Gussie, neither of us play the piano.”

“No, but we, especially you, know a great many fellows who do.” The more I thought about it the better I liked the idea. “There’s plenty of room for a small one in here. We could have little soirees and invite people over to jam when they finish their sets for the night. If we have Cook set out a cold supper and we serve the drinks ourselves the staff wouldn’t even need to stay up.”

“If we’re having a jam session over their heads they’ll be up.” Lucy said dryly. He was still getting used to the idea of live-in staff.

“Do you think the musicians would come?” I asked. “Don’t want to insult them by asking them to sing for their supper after all.”

“Offer them dinner and booze and they’ll come.” Lucy snorted. “Never known a musician, particularly a jazz musician, to turn down free food.”

Shortly after the program started up again, this time with the soprano singing about love being a bird, the doorbell rang. “We expecting someone?” I asked.

“I’m not the one whose Hoodoo friends drop in unannounced.”

I felt this unfair. I’d only had one wizard drop in unannounced and The Nightingale was a law unto himself. Not to mention Lucy’s cousin, Amelia, or sometimes Cocoa depending on her mood, palled around with some rather suspect fae and knew her way around a Wizard’s staff.

Before I could voice my objections, however, Beauregard came gliding in with a salver. “A telegram for you, sir. A transatlantic one.”

Lucy got up and turned off the radio as I opened the telegram. “Bad news?”

“Well it’s not good.” I reread the offending paper in the hope my original understanding was wrong.

“Family emergency?” Lucy inquired gently.

“Worse.”

The telegram read

Lord Peter Wimsey arriving New York aboard Orbita stop Please render all possible assistance stop Folly ally stop Thomas Nightingale

“What do you bet the ‘please’ was tacked on only after he realized he hadn’t used all twenty words allowed under the base rate.” Lucy commented after I showed it to him. “And who is this Lord Wimsey guy?”

“Haven’t the faintest. I shrugged. “He’s apparently in the know about magic and the Folly. And he’s Lord Peter not Lord Wimsey. Nightingale’s not going to get that sort of thing wrong.”

“What’s the difference?”

This left me rather at a loss. “Don’t know. But a couple of fellows in my college at Oxford were very concerned that everyone got it right.”

Beauregard, who appeared to be waiting to see if there would be instructions forthcoming, cleared his throat. “I believe, sirs, that the children of peers, particularly younger sons, are given the courtesy of that title prefacing their given names, though they are not themselves members of the peerage.”

Both Lucy and I stared at Beauregard. “Why on earth would you know that?” Lucy asked.

“A knowledge of social precedence can be critical to the performance of one's duties as a valet or butler, sir.” When Lucy first moved in he had suggested that Beauregard should call him by his given name. This had been met by a very frosty ‘I think not, Mr. Gibbs.’ and I had to spend a couple of days smoothing things over with Beauregard.

Beauregard continued. “I believe there is a copy of Who’s Who among Mr. Gibbs’s books. Shall I fetch it for you?”

“Thanks, but I can find it.” Lucy muttered and started digging through one of the stacks under the bay window.

Nodding, Beauregard inquired of me, “Will you be wanting the guest room readied for his Lordship, sir?”

I sighed. “Best be prepared. Nightingale wants me to ‘assist’ the blighter and second sons are notoriously skint.”

“Very good, sir. More cognac?”

Fortified with more cognac, I was able to face the idea of ‘assisting’ this chap with a little more equanimity. With any luck he’d only be here for a short visit and just needed a few introductions.

“Found him!.” Lucy declared, returning with the book so that we could both read,

Wimsey, Peter Death Bredon (Lord), D.S.O., born 1890; second s. of Mortimer Gerald Bredon Wimsey, 15th Duke of Denver, and Honoria Lucasta, d. of Francis Delagardie of Bellingham Manor, Bucks. Educ. Eton College and Balliol.

“Seems like he’s a soldier.” Lucy commented.

“Everybody that age was a soldier during the war.” I told him. “Why do you have a copy of Who’s Who?”

Lucy looked embarrassed. “The office doesn’t have a copy of the British edition so I got it not long after we met.”

“You looked me up?” He looked me up! I had not been sure at the time that I”d made much of an impression. My heart swelled. “Am I even in it?”

“No, but a couple of your relatives are.” Lucy relaxed seeing as I didn’t mind. “At least I assume they’re relatives. How many Berrycloth-Youngs can there be?”

“A bally great lot if you count all my cousins when my Great Aunt Tryphena insists we all turn up for one of her Sunday dinners.” I shook my head. “Not having to pay my quarterly respects to the family matriarch is one of the advantages of living in New York.”

“And the other advantages?” Lucy asked archly.

I slipped an arm around him. “Let’s turn in and I’ll show you.”

As it turned out Lord Peter had booked a suite at the Gramercy Park Hotel and did not need my introduction to the social scene. Putting the bloke up would have been preferable. The chap proved to be some sort of amateur private investigator, who normally I’d have been thrilled to meet, but seems that detecting is not nearly as interesting as it’s made out to be in the novels. He dragged me all over the city searching a bunch of dusty records to find a clue to the whereabouts of some distant cousin of this bloke who was trying to establish he was the heir to an estate in Yorkshire. Although frankly I can’t imagine why anyone would want to end up with an estate with the dismal name of Blackstone in the wilds of Yorkshire.

The cousin, a young woman my Great Aunt Tryphena would call an Adventuress, had wisely taken flight from Yorkshire, but had made off with all of the family documents that were needed to sort out who was going to inherit Blackstone.

All this combing through very dusty giant ledgers was bad enough, but in the process Wimsey managed to put the backs up of some local gangsters and we had to run for our lives. I managed to block their pursuit with an Impello, but in the process I brought down an entire mountain worth of snow from the awnings above us onto both their and our heads.

And twisted my ankle to the point I couldn’t put any weight on it.

Lord Peter proved to be a man of action. Slinging my arm over his shoulder, we managed what amounted to a three legged dash that would have won first place at any village fest ever held, down an alley, around three corners and up several blocks until we were certain any pursuit had been left in the dust.

“Have you seen a cab?” Wimsey asked slightly breathless.

“No.” And I had been trying to spot one since the first turn. “And this isn’t the best neighborhood to find one.”

“Between the weather and hour I doubt there are many available, even if we were in a better neighborhood.” Wimsey said. “If we can find a public telephone I could call the hotel and Bunter, my valet, could come pick us up.

“Although we need a place we can wait for him inside if we don’t want to freeze in the process.” Wimsey pulled us under an overhang to reduce the amount of snow that was blowing down our necks.

“Or,” I suggested, “We are less than a mile from my house. We could just head for it. And keep an eye out for a phone on the way.”

“‘’Cause me to know the way wherein I should walk;’,” Wimsey waved with his free hand. Which was a damned strange way to ask for directions, but I was too cold to wonder about it.

The storm picked up as we walked. By the time we made it to the townhouse the snow was coming down sideways. At least my ankle was now so numb from the cold I couldn’t feel it any longer. Wimsey, clearly worn out from dragging both of us through the storm, did not even try to help me up the stairs to the door. Leaving me leaning on the baluster while he went up to ring the bell.

“What ho, Beauregard.” I called as my faithful man opened the door. “Need a bit of a hand here to get in, if you would?”

Lucy pushed past Beauregard, before our butler made it to the second step. “What the hell happened to you! You’re freezing! And what’s wrong with your leg?”

The story of our evening was told in bits and pieces as Lucy helped me to our bathroom. Beauregard showed Whimsey first the telephone so he could call his man to bring him dry clothes and then the second bath so he could warm up in the meantime.

Cook was sent down the block to bring back the doctor who lived several doors down. He pronounced my ankle sprained, wrapped it, and told me to keep off of it for at least a week. By the time all this was accomplished the snow had gotten bad enough that the poor bloke had to fight his way back to his home.

Lucy gave me a severe scolding. Which, as he has an annoying habit of being right whenever he does it, I did not particularly enjoy. He also helped me bathe and dress which was jolly fun and made up for the scolding.

Wrapped in my warm dressing gown and feeling much more the thing, I descended, with the help of my cane and Lucy’s arm, to the music room/library where we found Beauregard serving tea to a dry and fully clothed Lord Peter.

Beauregard’s one failing is his complete inability to make a proper cup of tea. I hastily suggested, “Perhaps his Lordship would prefer a drink?”

“No, this is fine. Very warming.” Wimsey said. Helping himself to a piece of shortbread from a plate on the tea tray. “Excellent biscuits as well.”

“I will let Cook know you liked them, My Lord.” Beauregard seemed pleased.

I took a hesitant sip of the tea he handed me. “By Jove, this is wonderful. Has Cook been holding out on us, Beauregard?” There had been no sign up till now that her tea was any better than Beauregard’s.

“Mr. Bunter offered to lend a hand with the refreshments, since I sent the day time staff home when it became clear the weather was turning and now we are short handed.” Beauregard informed me. “Cook is observing his technique.”

“Well that’s good.” I still was not holding out much hope for getting a proper cuppa that I didn't make myself. Cook is under the strange impression that tea should be served cold and sweetened near to death. “How did Mr. Bunter get here? I didn’t hear the bell.”

“Mr. Bunter very properly came to the downstairs door.” Beauregard stated.

“And Bunter apparently took the underground to the nearest stop and slogged the rest of the way on foot.” Wimsey said. “I hope you don’t mind us intruding on your hospitality until we’re both warm and dry enough to brave the elements again?”

“I think you both better stay until this storm ends.” Lucy put in. “Or at least until morning when they plow out the streets.”

So, we ended up putting up Lord Peter after all.

As I sipped my tea I finally noticed, “Oh, they finally delivered the piano!”

“Yeah,” Lucy still sounded unenthusiastic, “And since they did it in the middle of this blizzard I tipped them double.”

“Lovely instrument.” Wimsey commented. “A petite grand Steinway is it not? How is the tone?”

“No idea.” Lucy told him. “The piano tuner couldn’t make it here in this weather and neither Gussie nor I play.”

Wimsey blinked. Figuring the man was too polite to ask, I explained. “Lucy does reviews of the music scene. So we know a lot of musicians. I thought it would be nice to have an instrument for their use when we have them over.”

Wimsey grinned. “Well in that case, may I repay your generous offer of shelter by trying it out for you?”

He treated us to a rather good rendition of Chopin's Nocturne (Opus #3 according to Lucy who can pull that sort of thing right out of the old noggin’, very clever chap my Lucy).

“Lovely bright sound,” Wimsey declared at the end of his piece. “But I’d get that piano tuner in soon, if I were you. Being out in the cold didn't do the bottom range any favors.”

Lucy agreed and they fell into a debate as to whether Chopin or Liszt was the better composer. “Although for my money neither holds a candle to Bach.” Wimsey declared.

Which caused Lucy to laugh. “There’s a stride player you should take in while you’re in New York then. He syncopates Bach. I won’t say it’s great jazz, but it’s interesting, and if you like Bach you’ll enjoy it.”

All in all Wimsey proved an easy houseguest and the evening proved far more pleasant than the earlier part of the day.

I was more than a little concerned about how Beauregard would feel about having another valet intrude on his territory. Servants can be as touchy as cats about that sort of thing. But when I broached it with him later, he told me. “Mr. Bunter understands what is expected when visiting another household, sir. In fact Mr. Bunter is a most superior valet. It has been a pleasure to have him. And not just because he has been most complimentary about the household. We have made plans to meet up and have me show him some of the city on my next afternoon off.”

Not only had his man charmed Beauregard, but Wimsey had hit it off with Lucy. They spent the rest of the evening and the following morning while we waited to be dug out; talking books and music, most of which I barely followed.

Which proved to be a blessing. For me at least. “There is no way you are leaving this house in this weather with that ankle.” Lucy declared the next morning.

“A Berrycloth-Young does not shirk his duty.” I declared. “Besides, if it gets back to the old sticks at the Folly that I failed to ‘assist’ a member of the aristocracy, questions will be asked and we need to keep some things sub rosa so to speak.”

Lucy reluctantly agreed that too much attention from the powers that be would not be a good thing. “Look, most of what you’ve been doing up to now is showing him around and helping him read through records, right? I can do that. Probably better than you can. I’ll take him around town while you rest your ankle like the doc said.”

Which meant I missed out on paging through mountains of records at various city agencies and a newspaper morgue where Lucy had an in to try and locate this woman Wimsey was searching for, and then trudging through the city to investigate what they found. Such a disappointment. I tried not to feel too smug lying around at home drinking hot beverages while Lucy braved cold, dusty basements full of ledgers.

The trail had gone cold by the following night, so I encouraged Lucy to have some fun. He objected, not wanting to leave me on my own while I was invalided, but I stood firm and sent him off to show Wimsey the syncopated Bach player as well as some of the better musical entertainment that could be had in the city.

Beauregard ended up deserting me as well. “If it is acceptable to you, sir, I have arranged with Cook to look after you this evening so that I may take my regular night off.”

“Of course, Beauregard.” I assured him. “Another exciting night of Bridge with your Aunt?”

“Actually, Mr. Bunter is meeting a fellow valet with whom he served in the War to dine and perhaps engage in a game of cards at their club. He has kindly invited me to accompany him.”

“Bunter is a member of a club here in New York?”

“The Junior Ganymede, sir. Mr. Bunter is a member of the parent club in London, but it has a branch here, as well as Sydney, Bombay and Johannesburg.” Beauregard explained.

“Well that’s dashed convenient.” My own club in London barely had an affiliate in Edinburgh. “You can travel around the world and still have a place to hang your hat, so to speak.”

“A valet never knows where his employer will decide to relocate.”

It was very late, or actually very early, when Lucy made it home and tottering into our room, face planted on the bed.

“Fun night?” I asked.

He groaned. “Not really. The act after the stride pianist had barely started, when Bunter and Beauregard showed up. It seems that while they were having drinks at Bunter’s club... Did you know valets have clubs?”.

“The Junior Ganymede in London is pretty much exclusively for butlers and valets. Apparently it has branches across the globe.”

“Anyway, they met up with a friend of Bunter’s there.” Lucy rolled over and started pulling off his shoes. “Who over drinks was bemoaning that his boss had taken up with some gold digger. My summary, not Beauregard’s by the way. He and Bunter were much more circumspect. I got the impression that this Jeeves guy intended to break up the affair by fair means or foul.”

“Bertie Wooster has gotten himself in the clutches of yet another grasping female?” I chuckled. “Poor old Bertie.”

“More like poor old Lucien.” Lucy’s pants and shirt hit the floor next. “Anyway long and short, gold digger is the woman Wimsey was trying to find. We ran her to earth with this Wooster guy and spent the next eight hours with this skirt, who I swear babbled the entire time; first negotiating a deal with her to get the papers Wimsey needed. Then we dragged some banker away from his poker game with the mayor to get the cash to pay her. At which point we had to drive her out to some mansion in Salem Center, which had some of the weirdest people I’ve ever seen, where she had stashed all of the papers she made off with. But now Wimsey has taken charge of them and it looks like they will prove his client’s claim.”

“Good oh! So we’re done with Wimsey? I mean he’s a nice enough chap, but far too energetic for my tastes.”

“He wants to take us to lunch before he sails, but yes. Things are wrapped up from our end.” Lucy pulled the blankets over his head and mumbled. “Don’t wake me before noon.”

With Wimsey and his man safely on a ship bound back to old Blighty, Lucy and I finally had a night to ourselves. I’d suggested we take in some music. “You got pulled away from the club by that whole Blackstone business before that new combo everyone is talking about played and I know you want to hear them.”

“They’ll still be playing this weekend.” Lucy told me. “Tonight I just want a quiet night at home. Besides, your ankle still needs to rest and I know you won’t be able to resist dancing if we go out.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “You deserve a treat after playing nursery maid to Wimsey most of the week, while he stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong and the one time you did get out you barely made it through the first set. Don’t you have a review due?”

“I’m sure.” Lucy grinned. “As for my reviews, I’ve sold my editor on the idea of doing some reviews of wireless programs. So, I can keep my column going from the comfort of our own couch.”

It was pleasant to relax at home after the hectic week we had. Not to mention it had started snowing again. “Is this bally blizzard ever going to let up?”

“It’s December, Gussie. And an inch or so of snow hardly counts as a blizzard. Now quiet, the show I want to review is up next.”

The group that Lucy was interested in was clearly toning down their act for the sake of the uninitiated, but they were passable even so.

Beauregard appeared at the interval with steaming cups of Hot Buttered Rum.

Which surprisingly tasted of actual rum. “I say, Beauregard, where did you manage to find decent liquor?”

“One of the members of the Junior Ganymede Club is employed by an importer of spirits from Canada, sir. He was good enough to put me in touch with one of his employer’s distributors.” Beauregard replied. “I was also able to obtain several bottles of rather passable brandy.”

“Bootleggers have valets?” Lucy asked, surprised.

“From what this member says his employer maintains a rather large household staff. Necessitated by the family including several children and a wife with social ambitions.”

“Well I don’t give a fig about this chappy’s boss's social pretensions.” I declared. “If he can put us on to booze that doesn’t come out of a bathtub he is an acquaintance to be cultivated.

“If you don’t mind of course, Beauregard.” I added quickly.

Given a choice between a Beauregard happy in my employ and staying on, and better booze I could easily live with the bathtub variety.

Fortunately Beauregard proved like minded. “I completely agree, sir. Fortunately Mr. Bunter has been kind enough to put my name in for membership at the club and his friend, Mr. Jeeves, has seconded. I suspect membership will prove a useful source of information as well as entertainment.”

“Jolly good, Beauregard. If there’s an initiation fee let me know and I’ll pony it up.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Lucy was shaking his head with a fond expression after Beauregard headed off to attend to whatever he gets up to of an evening.

“What?” I asked.

HIs arm went around my shoulders. “You are too good for words, you know that.”

Snuggling into his embrace I said. “Glad you think so, but I’m not sure why.”

“You’re paying Beauregard a very generous salary, made sure his quarters here were as comfortable as ours and now you’re paying for his entertainment as well.”

“Pure self interest, Lucy.” I told him. “The old mater’s guiding principle in running a household was to find an honest and efficient housekeeper and turn the reins over to her. To make sure no one poached these jewels, she sweetened their lot as much as necessary to keep them from wandering.”

“Calling him ‘efficient' is seriously under-estimating Beauregard.” Lucy remarked. “I’m pretty sure he could give Henry Ford or JP Morgan competition as a manager.”

“All the more reason to not to give him cause to look elsewhere for employment.” I settled in next to Lucy to enjoy the music.

Alas when the show was over Lucy had bad news for me. “You had a letter from London by the way. You stay here, I'll get it for you.”

To my horror the return address was the Folly. Nightingale had apparently sent it at the same time as his telegram. In it he reiterated that I was to assist Wimsey as ‘... the grounds of the Blackstone estate contain some standing stones with substantial magical properties. it would be most unfortunate if the property were to pass into the hands of less dutiful caretakers than the current family.’

“Well that explains why your magic society was interested.” Lucy, who was reading over my shoulder, commented.

The really awful part came at the end. ‘A full report of your activities regarding this matter will be expected for the Mundane Library. While you should, naturally, disclose any pertinent information as to magical occurrences or the Demi-monde, I would recommend you summarize the events for that report and leave the operational details, and any personal matters, for your Incident Book. Your Report will be shown to the President and the Governing Board and there is no reason the Board need be ensnared in minutiae.’

“You’re supposed to be keeping a journal?” Lucy asked.

“I imagine he only expects me to record magical occurrences or at most happenings that could have been magical but weren’t.” I explained. “That’s what County Practitioners, chaps who get stuck out in the provinces to keep an eye out for dodgy behavior, do. Can’t imagine a worse existence, but some of them claim to like it.”

“Well reading between the lines, he seems to be telling you that if you want to keep up the excuse he gave this ‘Governing Board’ as to why you’re staying here in New York, you’re going to need to send them regular reports.” Lucy shook his head. “I’ll get your lap desk and you can make a start. Like you said, the last thing we want is for one of these old fuddy-duddies to show up and start asking questions.”

I groaned, but accepted the traveling writing desk Lucy handed me. Between being seconded to amateur sleuths as their assistants and now being required to file reports that ‘occasional letter’ that Nightingale had requested of me for his running interference on my behalf with the old sticks at the Folly was turning out to be more than a little taxing. Still if it meant I got to stay in New York and keep Lucy, I would make Herculean efforts. So, metaphorically girding the old loins, I opened my lap desk and prepared to lie like a trooper.`

Fortunately Lucy’s advertising background proved most helpful in this regard.. “Jesus, Gussie, you don’t want to say you ran away because they were shooting at you! Say instead that they refused to speak with Wimsey, and be sure to use his title as much as possible – this Board of yours sound like the kind of guys who are going to be impressed by that – and you withdrew from the premises to regroup.”

I had barely reached the second day of the investigation when the doorbell rang insistently. Though how someone can get an electric bell to generate insistence is beyond me. But insist it did. Followed by even more insistent pounding on our door.

“They in?” A familiar voice whose owner was clearly already climbing the stairs was heard. “Great. Oh, don’t bother yourself, Beu, I know where they’ll be.”

Within moments Cocoa barged in, trailed by a very ragtag, lanky, olive skinned lad, clearly Italian or possibly Greek, carrying a much younger girl, likely his sister judging by the identical classic noses. Beauregard, looking disapproving but resigned, brought up the rear. A trifle belatedly he announced, “Miss Ameila, sirs, and… companions.”

Cocoa draped herself over the armchair we had added to the room’s furnishings while entertaining our recent guest. “The Queen of Joy needs a favor and since you owe her one for the help she provided The Nightingale and Maurellle, she thought of you.”

I didn’t quite see how we were the ones owing the favor for help to Nightingale and Maurelle, but Lucy looked resigned and asked, “What sort of favor?”

“Marco and little Maria here,” She waved toward the children, “... need a place to stay for a bit. Their Pa has gotten on the wrong side of some folks he shouldn’t otta gotten involved with in the first place and it’s gonna take A'Lelia a few days to straighten things out. And since the two of you have this nice big new house and Gussie has ways of taking care of trouble, she and I thought of you.”

“A few days?” Lucy looked skeptical. “And what about the rest of the family?”

“Ma’s in the Hospital.” The way she said it warned not to ask further.

Lucy turned to me. I could tell even before he said anything that he had been won over by the urchins. “It’s only a few days.” He ventured.

Sighing, I did what any man would do under these circumstances. “Beauregard, can you… arrange something?”

“Of course, sir.” Beauregard ushered the children out of the room. From the landing I could hear, “You all hungry? I think there’s some chicken and rice leftover from supper and Cook has some fine cake just out of the oven.”

Cocoa grinned. “Well that’s settled. I’m heading out for some fun. You wanna come?”

We declined. “Although I doubt our quiet evening at home is going to be all that quiet with our new guests.” I told Lucy.

“I’m sure they’ll be asleep as soon as they’ve had something to eat.” He replied, I thought over optimistically. “And it’s not like you’re in any shape to be chasing after them anyway. In fact I’ll bet we can just leave them to Beauregard and Cook for now and turn in early ourselves.”

“Now that sounds like a jolly good way to spend a quiet evening at home!” I declared.