Disclaimer: I hope that you already know that I am not the master craftsman Mister Wodehouse. If I were, I would likely have been so mobbed that I would be dead again before I could publish anything more.

Part Deux! Very short. Doctor Carlyle's take on all of this mental illness stuff. No real warnings to give for this bit.


My greatest failure, - although my most fascinating case, - was that of a fellow Englishman, surprising as that is to me, a Mister Reginald Jeeves. One-hundred and ninety-five point six centimeters tall, thirty-two years of age, with black hair and blue eyes, of middle-class Hebrew and English descent; raised as a Protestant Christian in Norfolk. He sounds one of the most normal Englishman one can imagine, when one comes to describing him like this, but, then, as I've maintained, almost all cases start out in this way, when you begin to talk about the patient's physical characteristics, their schooling, and their family. It is what happened when you were with them that is important, that makes each case stand out in his own right- it would not have mattered if the fellow were the most strange-looking Englishman on the face of the earth, so long as it did not alter the psychology that made him into the case that I know. After all, when Treves' Elephant Man was found to be as genial and possessive of intelligence as the surgeon said, no-one was about to doubt his psychological condition due to his grotesque deformities.

I was incited when I first was called by a frantic young man to come to an apartment building, as he worried that his friend had been poisoned. It took actually coming to speak to young Mister Little to find out that the poisoning was most certainly confirmed, and the friend dead. He told me that, immediately after this Wooster fellow was found dead, something changed in the gentleman's valet. That he suddenly ushered Mister Little away and wouldn't let him back inside. The boy told me that he thought the man just wanted to call the morgue himself, to have some sort of control over the lamentable situation, but, when he heard nothing in the paper, he began to worry. Indeed, on an attempt to visit, he even caught sight of the body, dressed in new clothes, sitting on the sofa in the flat's sitting room.

As one can expect, after being told such a chilling thing as that, I was shaking when I approached the door to the specified apartment, and had a nearly frighteningly tall (in the present situation, anyway), youngish gentleman greeting me in the doorway. Surely his ability to sense my worry about him quickly allowed the man to "take the upper hand", as it were, as I was soon overcome by my errant inability to produce a string of assuring words that would convince him of my utmost sincerity and care for the man in question. So, I allowed his tall, broad presence and weirdly frigid gaze have its monstrous way with me, and, before I could have said that I was entirely "recovered" from my experience of this ponderous fellow, I found the door closed with a "snap" and the click of a lock near to my face. Much as in any situation of great disapprobation, coming as the stimulus that had me so worried was removed, I very suddenly found myself imbued with a strong, angry passion, yelling at the door to the man, telling him over many times that the young one inside was in need of help.

This, as you've surely gleaned already, was of no help to my cause. I was met with nothing but the gentle rumbling of a resonant, professional voice speaking behind the door about the day, as if to its owner. On finding Mister Little once more, we were both in agreement that further action needed to be carried out. Our decision seemed to be upsetting to the young man- I realized why this was later, when I was required to evaluate Mister Little psychologically, and I was made aware of the bafflingly convoluted marital exploits of Mister Jeeves, himself, and the empty body then cooling in the morgue some rooms away.

So, we found the nearest policeman in the street, an older gentleman of slightly below-average height and definitely above-average corpulence. His exterior betrayed nothing of his confidence and bravery, I was glad to note as Mister Little and I brought him up to the flat, after having hastily spilled out the story all the way up the stairs to the third floor of the Berkley Mansions building. We were inside with the much calmer approach that the officer took, - he being more physically able to cope, if he needed to, behind his loaded weapon.

I could see from the start that this Mister Jeeves was in a state of ardent denial of experience, to be expected from a traumatic encounter, particularly with a person one is close to- and one can hardly imagine anyone physically closer than a valet to his master, though, Mister Jeeves' manner seemed to me to imply far beyond the stony assurances and declines that one generally only hears from the mouths of one's traditional butler or gentleman's valet. But, then, this may simply be my idea come up recently, since I have seen his behavior with the substitute for real company we gave to him.

After some explanation that brought us no ground in the way of convincing him, we were able to sedate Mister Jeeves and bring him to the psychiatric ward in the London Hospital- as the Isolation Ward was unavailable for the moment, he had to be placed onto a lightweight cot, restrained, and taken into my office for our last effort- this, as I expected, gave nothing, and we followed through with the plan that I suggested.

This involved an easy scheme that I was quite assured would work, as the man had already fixated with apparent ease onto a visibly decaying corpse. The plan was to dress a life-sized dummy in a suit and to hastily sew a blonde wig into its head. Speaking behind the thing worked like a charm- he was as fooled, as I expected.

You might think this sounds a psychological success to me, owing to the fact that a reasonable solution to keep the man alive and away from society was found, but, as I've stated at the beginning of this address, it is definitely the opposite. You see, Mister Jeeves is still confined in the mental hospital with that dummy that he brings everywhere when he is allowed out of his room, treating it with all the care that he must have his old master, dressing it and speaking to it with all the jocundity of familiar friends, when there is someone there to provide the voice. It is terribly unfortunate to me that he will never realize what happened, - and can never continue a normal life. It is this that makes it the only case that has made me truly emotional. I and the rest of the staff have since found him to be remarkably intelligent, able to quote any named poet with the first syllable of a name, any philosopher with a theory posed; any scientific exploit with a remark on the interest in how something occurs. How someone such as himself could fall into such a state for the sake of his three-year employer, I shall never know.

Perhaps it shall be known in the future of medicine. But, for now… it is my personal mystery and tragedy.


A/N: I'm bad at endings, as you see. XP

PLEASE R&R! That's really the most I can say, at this point...