The body of Mr Wooster was found by a passer-by late in August, when the heat had reached such an intensity that even I found myself wishing to be rid of my duties and sit with a glass of something cool and a book.

Mr Wooster is a man of extraordinarily good heart. He had instructed me quite firmly that all jobs could wait until the weather had passed, and I had little more to do than make drinks and light meals. In less extreme circumstances I might have ignored his instructions, but with the mercury in the thermometer edging to dangerous heights, I accepted, and began a large backlog of reading.

The works of Spinoza kept me diverted for several hours after Mr Wooster had announced that he was going to the Drones to 'melt over the bar' with Mr Glossop. Preoccupied with my books, it wasn't until it began to grow dark that I felt the first stirrings of unease. It was not unusual for Mr Wooster to keep late hours, but he had set off a little before lunch time, and was not in the habit of staying out without returning to change his clothes before dinner.

I did not allow the worry to settle. Circumstances of a strange had a tendency to pursue Mr Wooster like bloodhounds, and I presumed that one such had arisen. Mr Wooster would be back in good time, no doubt with an amusing anecdote, or a puzzle for me to put my mind to. I would be all too happy to listen; the flat seemed quiet when he was absent.

My book, which had been extremely engaging before I noticed the time, now failed to keep my eyes on the page for more than thirty seconds at a time; I was constantly looking to the doorway in the hope Mr Wooster would spring through it. When the clock hands reached midnight I telephoned the Drones with the intention of enquiring whether he would be back this evening, but was informed by the pleasant man at the end of the line that Mr Wooster had not been seen that day, and would I like to leave a message?

I requested to be informed should Mr Wooster make an appearance, and replaced the receiver with a heavy heart. None of his friends, when I telephoned them, had seen him, not even Mr Glossop, who told me, rather sharply, that he had waited for Mr Wooster for most of the afternoon. Eventually, the clamouring of my nerves became almost unbearable, and I took to the streets with a sigh and the conclusion that if I ended up looking foolish, Mr Wooster would do no more than tease me. I would rather endure such teasing than know I had been not been there if he needed me.

I visited all his usual haunts, but could find no trace. No-one had heard from him, although the young girl who sold flowers on the corner said she had seen him heading in the direction of the Drones just before midday. I returned to the empty flat, unsurprised to find it so, although I had been indulging in the irrational hope of Mr Wooster returning during my absence.

He did not come home that night, nor the next morning.

By ten the next day I had telephoned his friends and relatives a second time. By noon I had informed the police of my concerns, but it was already too late; a body matching the size and shape of Mr Wooster was discovered the next day, face down in the river Thames. The violence inflicted on the body made it practically unrecognisable, but the ruined pocket book and waterlogged watch inside the grey jacket that was missing from Mr Wooster's wardrobe were unmistakably his.

The police suspected a mugging had escalated to murder; there had been several instances of robbery around the Drones club in the months leading up to August, although never a death. The thought of how things might have been different if I had not been so distracted by my reading, if I had kept Mr Wooster behind a few moments on some trivial issue, came to me regularly over the next days. The guilt, although irrational – I could have had no foresight of the tragedy – was crushing.

The flat was unendurable. Mr Wooster had taken long leaves of absence in the past, but always under the assurance he would return. The thought that he was not was too much. Within a week, I took a hotel room not far from Berkeley Mansions.

At the time I was too steeped in grief that surrounded me like an impenetrable shell to realise how strange it was for a valet to be called to the reading of a gentleman's will, even if the gentleman was his own, and he missed him so terribly sleep was impossible and the world seemed numbed and grey.

I was unsurprised to see both Mrs Travers and Mrs Gregson at the lawyer's office, but the addition of Miss Glossop, Mr Pinker, Miss Basset and Mr Fink-Nottle caused me almost to raise an eyebrow. No doubt Mr Wooster had left them some small token or items borrowed and not yet returned, and I could not stop myself wondering what my own would be. An alpine hat, perhaps; a last, sentimental joke. I fought hard to compose my features – I was in danger of shedding tears, which is certainly not what a gentleman's personal gentleman is trained to do, even when the gentlemen in question has been murdered.

Mr Speight was a well-meaning if slightly harassed young solicitor, one I had approved of when Mr Wooster had chosen him, despite his habit of chewing his fingernails when under strain.

"Everyone here?" Mr Speight looked around the room. "With your permission, I would like to read Mr Wooster's will aloud. It will save a considerable amount of time."

The room was stifling. Mrs Travers and Mrs Gregson nodded assent. Mr Speight brought out the piece of paper covered in Mr Wooster's handwriting, and held it close to his face and began to read.

"I suppose this is it then, what? I don't suppose this is how one writes ones will, but I never was the brightest man in the room, and I did so want to write it myself. Humour me for being a sap; it was always a fault even you, Jeeves, couldn't train out of me."

My face reddened as eyes flicked in my direction. For all Mr Wooster's small faults, I had never considered sentiment one of them.

"First, Aunt Dahlia, aunt of my bosom. I thought I'd better thank you officially for jerking that rubber comforter out of the young Wooster maw. Very decent of you."

Mrs Travers brought her handkerchief up to her eyes and blinked furiously. "Oh Bertie, you ass," she murmured.

Mr Speight pushed on relentlessly. "I've got a couple of silver what-nots – the cufflinks with the chipped corners and my watch – that I'd like Uncle Tom to have. I don't suppose they're the kind of thing he usually drools over, but a little something's better than nothing. Jeeves will show you where I keep everything."

I gave Mr Speight and Mrs Travers a small nod. Although the watch had been too long submerged in river water to be salvaged, it was still a fine silver article, and I was sure Mr Travers would be pleased by it.

"As for you, Aunt D., I've set aside some money that should help keep Milady's Boudoir from sinking into the depths. I have a request, too – I should like it if you could get Anatole to cook up something special and invite whoever you think will enjoy it over to Totleigh. And no gloomy or income tax related discussion; everyone is to have a dashed good time."

Mrs Travers was decidedly wet-eyed, Miss Basset already in floods, and even Mr Pinker seemed pink-faced and watery. Only Mrs Gregson remained entirely composed.

"Honoria, I know you go in for that tennis guff, and I've got a couple of rackets. They're not ladies' sizes, but you're as strong as old Wooster here, and I think you can make good use of them. And Madeline, my mother's flower press at the back of the wardrobe; you like that sort of thing, so you might as well take it."

Miss Basset let out a cry that could have been compared to that of a small whale, and threw her arms around Mr Fink-Nottle's neck. He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.

"There, there, it's not that bad is it? You love flowers…"

"I know," she gurgled. "I j-just didn't know he cared!"

Mr Speight wiped his glasses, which were steaming in the heat. My legs, sore from standing at the back of the room for so long – there had been no chairs available when I arrived – were beginning to ache with fresh vigour, and my nose and eyes stinging uncontrollably. I was thankful that, situated behind the rest of the party, no-one could see the emotion leaking unintentionally onto my features.

"To Gussie and Stinker, I've left money for each of you with Mr Speight; I thought it might go some way to the marriage licences and suits or whatever rot you need – newts or rugger shoes, no doubt.

"That brings me to Aunt Agatha. Assuming you haven't managed to marry me off to some bally female, you can have back the engagement ring you gave me five years ago in the hope I would throw it at the first beazle that crossed my path."

Mrs Gregson's features twisted into something decidedly sour-looking. "Is that it?" she said sharply, cutting across Mr Speight with a bark like a foghorn and leaving the poor man with his mouth half open. The room went quiet.

"Mr Wooster has only one more benefactor…"

"Hush Agatha," Mrs Travers murmured, although her lowered tone was quite useless; the silence meant a pin drop could have been heard.

"But as the eldest surviving relative, it only makes sense that I should-"

"Yes, well Bertie never was one for sense, was he?" I had the distinct impression that, had they been alone, Mrs Travers would have administered a swift kick to the ankle of her sister. "As the both of us were so often telling him."

Mr Speight cleared his throat. "Well. Like I said, almost over with now. The final benefactor is Mr Jeeves. He is to have everything."

Mrs Gregson made a noise like a vacuum cleaner which everyone, even Mr Speight, managed to ignore.

"That includes the flat and all its contents, his clothes, the car and…" There was an ominous pause. If looks could have fatal effect, Mrs Gregson's would have reduced me to a pile of ash. "And all that is left of Mr Wooster's funds."

There are very few instances in my life I have been genuinely baffled. When Mr Speight made his announcement, I would not be exaggerating if I said it was the first time I had felt so confused in a decade.

"I am sorry, Sir," I said. "But there must be some mistake." It was too much. The piano, even the car, I might have been able to accept – Mr Wooster had always been extraordinarily generous – but the total of the flat and its contents would in themselves have been a ridiculous sum.

"Yes," Mrs Gregson chipped in. "There must be a mistake."

Mr Speight didn't look away from the papers. "No mistake. I have it all here: Finally, the car, the London flat and the money are to go you, Jeeves. I can't think of anyone more deserving. Please believe me when I say that it is nothing when I think of many times you've lowered the helping h. and dragged the young master clear of disaster. Consider it one last thank you."

The paper rustled as Mr Speight extended his arm and offered it to Mrs Gregson. "You can read it yourself."

Mrs Gregson snatched the will and pulled it close to her face, examining the writing minutely as the eyes of every person in the room darted back and forth between the two of us. It was exceedingly uncomfortable. I would have given everything I had just received in order to leave the room and tend to the numb shell that was rapidly cracking under such intense scrutiny. I would have given it four or five times over to have Mr Wooster materialise, alive and well, amongst us.

"This is madness." Mrs Gregson threw the will back onto the desk. Her eyes were glinting in a way that usually had me readying myself to deal with whatever horrendous circumstances she had planned for my unfortunate employer. "Absolute and blatant madness."

"Agatha…"

"Do shut up, Dahlia." Mrs Gregson rose to her feet. "I intend to contest the will, on the grounds of unstable mind."

Miss Basset gave a small squeak of dismay, and the others exclamations of disapproval, but it was Mrs Travers who stood, and, getting nose to nose with Mrs Gregson, began to shout.

"You will do no such thing!"

"Why not? Everyone thought the boy was potty! Sir Roderick would back me up in a heartbeat."

At this the young Miss Glossop also rose from her chair, knocking it sharply into Mr Fink-Nottle's legs. "Daddy will not! I absolutely refuse to let it happen!"

Within seconds the room had dissolved into a scene reminiscent of a knight's melee. I have a strong dislike of conflict, and was uncomfortably aware that, whatever Mr Wooster had envisaged when he had written his will, it was certainly not this.

I gave a small cough and, when this failed to produce the desired silence, brought myself to speak. "Excuse me."

The noise faded. I resisted the urge to swipe a hand across my eyes, taking refuge in propriety and hoping that it would be enough to hold the pieces of my resolve together.

"I am perfectly willing to bequeath my inheritance to Mr Wooster's family if that is what they deem fit." My lip twitched. "I would not wish Mr Wooster to be declared a lunatic."

"Don't be an ass, Jeeves," Mrs Travers replied sharply. "He left it for you, and with you it will stay. God knows you did more for the young blister than any of us ever did."

I would have produced some protest, but got no opportunity, as Miss Glossop had already added her rather substantial voice to the debate.

"Bertie wasn't mad! A bit…eccentric, perhaps, but he was a lamb, really."

"And you helped us out of enough scrapes." Mr Fink-Nottle's voice was rather dwarfed in comparison to Miss Glossop's, but discernible all the same. "Bertie would have known you'd be able to do something with his money."

Mrs Gregson viewed Mr Speight, Mrs Travers, and finally myself with thinly veiled contempt.

"You won't help me contest the will?"

Mrs Travers folded her arms. "I'll fight you every blasted step of the way!"

The silence stretched until the atmosphere was suffocating. Mrs Gregson, after a few seconds of careful consideration, seemed to come to the conclusion that not one of the party assembled was going to back down, and swept from the room with an incoherent stream of muttering.

Miss Glossop blew out a breath, nostrils flaring. "That's her sorted. Congratulations, Jeeves."

Congratulations were not what I felt was in order – condolences, although they would do nothing to bring back Mr Wooster, would have been more appropriate – but I knew she meant well, and tipped my head accordingly.

"I've got to be off. I'll drop round some time for the rackets."

She was swiftly followed by Miss Basset, Mr Fink-Nottle and Mr Pinker, all of whom made stumbling excuses and left as quickly as possible, though I took some comfort in the fact they had defended Mr Wooster so stoutly. I had never had true cause to doubt their loyalty, but they had sometimes had used Mr Wooster's good heart in ways I disapproved of.

Soon, only Mrs. Travers remained in the room, and I was beginning to wonder whether or not I should take my leave before her, when she addressed me directly.

"You will come to the dinner?"

Although touched she had thought of me, I shook my head. "Thank you, Madam, but it would not be proper."

"Hang 'proper'! Hang it and jump on it, Jeeves! Nothing about this is proper." Mrs Travers clenched her fists tightly, and took a deep breath. When she next spoke her voice was more controlled, but unnaturally strained. "First my poor sister, and now her sweet boy, and my other sister acting like a…a…"

I did not supply one of the many words she could have chosen, although a part of me dearly desired to.

"If you believe Mr Wooster would have wished it-"

"He would."

"Then I shall come."

Mr Speight's papers rustled loudly, as if he were trying to drown out our conversation, and Mrs Travers heaved a sigh. "Good. I shall send a telegram to the flat giving you the date and time."

She started to the door and, more out of habit than with conscious decision, I stepped towards it and held it open for her. "I am sorry for your loss," I murmured as she passed through the frame.

When she turned in the corridor to face me, her face seemed shadowed. "Don't be sorry for me, Jeeves. You'll miss him most of all, and don't try and convince me otherwise."

Of all those present at the reading, I realised Mrs Travers was the only one who understood that I was now not only a rich man, but an extremely unhappy one.

Thanks for reading! This is my first attempt at Jeeves characters, so feedback is very welcome!

To be continued.