Fic: Something of Vengeance 15/16 AND 16/16 (NC-17)

*collapses in a heap*

Title: Something of Vengeance (15/16) and (16/16)
Author: blackletter
Fandoms: “Sherlock Holmes” and “Jeeves and Wooster” Crossover
First Chapter

previous chapter

From the pen of Bertram W. Wooster: In which loose threads are tied and a misunderstanding is cleared up.



Holmes and Watson remained guests of mine for another week, lingering in the metrop both to recover from their ordeal and to clear up a few details for the police re Roberson’s actions and the adventure in the warehouse. With Roberson dead and gone, it was a simple matter for Holmes to find the stolen papers that had first brought him to London. He contacted Ettie and she led him right to them, where they were tucked away in a safe in one of Roberson’s hideaways. That night, Holmes burnt them in our fireplace, watching their immolation with satisfaction. Watson, however, was clearly pained at the destruction of his writings, no matter how necessary it was. One writer to another, I sympathized. I never did get my own manuscript back. My novel, Jolly Well Done, Jeeves was gone for good and I didn’t have the heart to rewrite the whole thing from scratch. It was back to shorter works for this Wooster.

I didn’t bother trying to tell my publisher the truth of what happened to the promised manuscript, certain that he wouldn’t believe me. Instead, I said that a few of my friends thought that it would be a corking joke to hide the thing outside my flat, only the bin in which they chose to hide it was a trash receptacle, which was emptied shortly after they placed it there. My publisher, knowing all about the sense of humour of my fellow Drones from my earlier stories, accepted this explanation at face value.

The wretched Jewels of Tarpeia were likewise never seen again. This did not trouble Mr. Holmes, however, so I, too, put it from my mind. As far as I was concerned, they could bally well sink to the bottom of the ocean after all the mess they caused.

By the end of that week, my arm was healing up nicely, and Holmes was back to his usual dynamic and mercurial self. So it was that on a beautiful, sunny morning, Jeeves and I escorted Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson to Victoria station.

“You know,” said I, as we waited on the platform for the train to arrive, “if you ever find yourself in London again and need a place to stay, my guestroom is always open to you. Except when someone else is already in it. That would be a trifle awkward.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Watson said as he shook my hand. “And thank you, Jeeves, for your all your help.”

As Jeeves tipped his hat in polite acknowledgment, Watson nudged Holmes, who added, “Yes, thank you both. Your assistance proved to be invaluable.”

“Well,” I stammered, touched beyond measure by the praise of two men who had been the heroes of my childhood. “A Wooster will never abandon a friend in need, what?”

In the distance, a whistle blew. The train was coming into the station and it was our cue to go. As I turned to leave, however, a man dragging an overburdened trolley shoved me from behind. I flailed my arms and reached out for the first thing I could find to keep me from falling nose first into the pavement. My hands alit on something soft that simply dropped with me as I tumbled to the ground. Immediately a woman started screaming.

I looked at my hands to see what it was I had grabbed, and to my surprise saw there a woman’s purse, the strap dangling like a tail. “My purse!” the woman shouted. “He stole my purse!” A policeman’s whistle screeched and panic set into my heart. I knew from previous experience that in situations like these, no one bothers to wait to let you explain that it was all a silly misunderstanding, being instead all too ready to assume the worst. There was only one thing to do. I scrambled to my feet and ran.

Unfortunately, a train platform is not a good place to engage in running, as it is too crowded by half and there’s no room to get up to any sort of respectable speed without knocking into someone, which is exactly what I did. To my greater misfortune, the man I ran full tilt into was none other than Sir Watkyn Bassett, retired justice of the peace. My disorientation left me so discombobulated that the policeman caught up to me and clapped his beefy hand on my arm before I could sort out which way was up and what direction to run.

“Gotcha! No purse snatcher’s going to get away on my watch!”

“Mr. Wooster!” Sir Watkyn exclaimed. He glanced down at my hands, which, to my shock and dismay, were still clutching the lady’s white purse. “Back to your old tricks, I see. Rarely have I seen such an incorrigible case of criminality. You’ll steal anything that’s not nailed down—umbrellas, policemen’s helmets, silver cow-creamers, and now a poor young lady’s purse. I never thought that even you could sink so low.”

“What? No, I—”

“I shall personally see to it that you get the stiffest penalty the law will allow. Perhaps a year or two in gaol will make you rethink your depraved ways. Constable, take him away.”

By this time, my companions had caught up with me and were watching the scene unfold with a mixture of bewilderment and concern. I cast Jeeves a pleading look. Jeeves looked at Watson and Watson looked at Holmes. Holmes, for his part, looked to the heavens and offered them an aggrieved sigh. He stepped forward before the bobby could haul me off.

“Pardon me, sir,” Holmes said, “but I witnessed the entire chain of events, and I can vouch for this man. He is no purse snatcher.”

“And who the devil are you?” Sir Watkyn asked.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, at your service.”

Sir Watkyn’s mouth gaped, leaving him with the sort of dazed look a confused trout who’d been slapped across the face with a wet halibut might have. The bobby who’d been holding me loosened his grip until I could have shaken him off with a good sneeze. “Cor, blimey!” the constable swore. “Sherlock Holmes? Really?”

“Quite,” Holmes replied flatly. He turned to Sir Watkyn and paused, flicking his gaze across the Bassett form. “You were the prosecutor for the Jackson case, weren’t you, in...what year was it, Watson?”

“Nineteen oh one.”

“Ah yes, nineteen oh one. Jackson got the rope, as I recall.”

Sir Watkyn was still staring, finding the seconds with which to recover from the surprise. At last he said, “Yes, the Jackson the defenestrator. It was a clear-cut case. The evidence you gave us was overwhelming.”

“Still, your presentation was masterful. Quite a tidy job.”

I could almost swear that Sir Watkyn was blushing, as much as a cold-blooded, walking corpse could blush, that is. He said, “Well, one does one’s best to uphold justice.”

“I thoroughly agree. And speaking of justice,” Homes began, “this young gentleman is innocent. As I said, I witnessed the whole thing; it was a mere misunderstanding.” He took the purse from my hands and passed it to the wide-eyed owner who was standing nearby, patting her hair into place.

Sir Watkyn glanced back and forth between Holmes and me, clearly torn. It went against his nature to let anyone off, no matter what the circumstances, and for some years now he’d wanted to see me in particular stand in the dock. Fortunately for me, his trust in the famous Sherlock Holmes outweighed his dislike of Bertram Wooster. “Let him go, Constable.”

I shook the bobby’s hands from my arms. “I demand a full apology.” I waved an admonishing finger in the constable’s face.

“I’m sorry, guv.”

“And?” I prodded.

“And...?”

“And you won’t do it again.”

“An’ I won’t do it again.”

I nodded in satisfaction. Holmes thanked Sir Watkyn for his uncharacteristic reasonableness, although not in those words, of course. He checked his watch, and apparently what he saw was to his liking, for he smiled and said to Sir Watkyn, “Before we go our separate ways, I have a bit of tip to pass on. If you want to carry out justice, and earn a deserved reputation for refusing to tolerate crime of any sort, you may find it worth your while to arrange to have Police Superintendent Adams investigated. Furthermore, an inspector named James Cinwell, who is currently recovering in hospital under police custody, was recently arrested on corruption charges. He is one of the many policemen Adams has bribed and coerced. I’m sure that if you offer leniency, he’ll be happy to testify again Adams.”

“Superintendent Adams? You’re sure?”

“Unequivocally.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” Sir Watkyn shook Holmes’s hand and bid farewell.

The constable lingered a few moments more. He shuffled his feet and finally blurted out, “Can I have your autograph?”

Watson, handing Holmes his pen and notebook, chuckled at Holmes’s black expression. Holmes grudgingly tore out a page, scratched a signature on it, and thrust it at the star-struck policeman. “If that is all, my companion and I have a train to board.”

The policeman gave a nervous, bobbing bow and left. That final threat to my freedom gone, I said in a heartfelt manner, “Ta for that. I thought for sure I was going to be dragged off to the clinker that time.”

“That was good of you, Holmes,” Watson added.

“Goodness has nothing to do with it,” Holmes denied. “Facts are facts. Mr. Wooster was innocent of the crime of which he was being accused.”

I said, “I’m grateful, nevertheless. If you ever pass this way again, look us up, old chaps.”

“Indeed, we shall,” Watson replied. And away they went. Jeeves and I watched until the train pulled out from the station and then made our way home.

Ensconced back in my flat, reclining on the chesterfield with a whisky and s in one hand and a ciggie in the other, I enjoyed the return to my old routine, even as I felt inexplicably sad to see the excitement end. You’re probably scratching your head now, thinking, “What? Sad? How could you be sad to find danger is no longer hanging over you every second like that Greek Sword of D—something? How could you not whole-heartedly rejoice at your life once more resuming its usual calm and carefree state?”

Well, I’ve been thinking that, too, and what I’ve realized is that even though I don’t consider being held at gunpoint, or knocked silly, or threatened, or stabbed, my idea of a jolly good time, and I certainly wouldn’t rush experience those things again, at the same time, once it was over and I could look back on all I’d done, I’d never before felt such pride and achievement for making it through to the end—not even after passing my school exams. It saddened me to think that I may never feel such a sense of accomplishment again. Furthermore, there was a special sort of fellowship that developed in response to the dire circs, sometimes tense, but always there, a certainty that we were all in it together and would watch each others’ backs. Last, but certainly not least, I feared that the wonderful thing that Jeeves and I had created during such extraordinary events would pale once life returned to the daily grind.

I was in this pensive mood, thinking back on all that had changed in the last two weeks, when I said to Jeeves, who was flitting about the flat with a feather duster, “Jeeves, come sit with me.” I sat up and patted the cushion encouragingly.

“Sir, I thank you for the offer, but recent events have caused me to fall shamefully behind on the cleaning. The mantelpiece in particular is in a deplorable state.”

“Oh, hang the mantelpiece. I don’t give a damn about the mantelpiece. Is the dust going anywhere?”

“Only if I am permitted to dust, sir.”

“Well there it is. If you don’t dust today, the dust will still be there tomorrow.”

“Exactly, sir.” He turned back to the fireplace.

“No, what I mean is that you can do the dusting tomorrow. It’s not urgent, what?”

He did not answer, but he set down his duster and sat next to me on the sofa, straight and upright as a statue. It made me more self-conscious of my slouch in comparison. I drew up my spine and knocked back the last of my drink. When Jeeves took the glass to place it on the coffee table, our fingers brushed in a most pleasing manner. Inspired by this, I scooted closer, until our knees brushed. Sitting so close, when I faced him my eyes were but inches from his.

“Jolly good adventure that was, wouldn’t you say, Jeeves?”

“If you say so, sir,” he said in that tone with the certain whatits when he disagrees but doesn’t want to say so. Undoubtedly, he was still upset about the fate of my best jacket. Even if the blood stains could have been removed, the sleeve was beyond repair.

“It would make a corker of a story.”

“I hardly think that’s wise given the times and the legal situation, sir, especially considering that the entire disturbance began over a series of writings.

“Ah, yes. I suppose you’re right. Maybe someday, though, what?”

Jeeves’s lips twitched in a smile. “Yes, sir, maybe someday.”

A thought struck me. “Jeeves, do you find it strange that I call you ‘Jeeves’ and you call me ‘sir?’ Now that things are rather more intimate between us, that is.”

“The habits of many years are difficult to break. I do not believe that the addresses we give each other are a negative reflection on our relationship, if that is what you are asking.”

“It’s just that I don’t know many couples who are on a last name basis. Except, I suppose, Holmes and Watson, but then they’re from an old-fashioned generation which frequently seems to forget that Christian names exist.”

“Does it trouble you, sir?”

I considered the question. “I think it does. You say it makes no difference, but you calling me ‘sir’ all the time establishes a distance that I don’t like. You call every gentleman ‘sir.’ I’d like some verbal sign that my place vis a vis you is not one that could be exchanged with any other gentleman. Me calling you ‘Jeeves’ is at least particular to you.” I thought again of our recent guests’ manner of address. “My dear Jeeves.”

A quirk of the left eyebrow, which may have indicated anything from surprise to amusement, did its quirky thing. “Are you suggesting that I call you ‘Wooster’ when we are alone?”

“You could, I suppose, although usually the only people who call me ‘Wooster’ are those who can’t stand the sight of me and accompany it with a snarl or a sneer. I imagine you could make something better of it, however. ‘Bertram’ or ‘Bertie’ would also serve the purpose just as well, or, if you think those are too chummy, you could always eschew the proper nouns entirely and go for some sort of non nomen endearment, like ‘love,’ ‘sweet,’ ‘darling,’ or the like. Whatever you fancy, I suppose.”

His right eyebrow quirked up to join the left. “As you wish, my dear...Bertram.”

There was some oscular action then, the details of which I shan’t go into. Nor am I going to tell you about how, minutes later, we moved our conversation to the master bedroom, and I’m certainly not going to reveal what happened there. Sorry to disappoint, but some things are simply meant to remain private.

On the other hand, I suppose it might be difficult for anyone to believe that such a reserved and proper chap as Jeeves could ever be en the deshabille, especially if one has never seen this occurrence, which, I trust, you have not. Therefore, in order for you to truly understand the magnet...management...magnitude!..that’s the word...to understand the magnitude of the thing, it must be explained to you. Fortunately, thanks to Lord Arran and that Welsh chap, Leo Abse, we don’t have to worry anymore about being bunged into chokey for revealing too much. Still, those of a prudish nature may want to avert their eyes. Now that you have been duly warned, if you read on and are shocked or offended, you’ve no one to blame but yourself.

Now where was I? Ah yes, I was on the sofa with Jeeves, about to fall into a passionate embrace.

I leaned towards him, and he echoed the movement. Our touch was at first no more than a gentle brush, not quite a kiss, just one set of lips drifting over the other. This approach didn’t last long, however. I tilted my head and opened my mouth and invited Jeeves inside, like a good host. Our tongues shook hands, so to speak, and quickly settled down to get to know each other intimately. Jeeves’s advantage in height meant that I had to lean back and up to get the right angle, and before long, I was lying on the sofa, pinned to the cushions by Jeeves’s weight over me, one leg trapped between his thighs. My free leg, however, wrapped around and slid against his in a most insistent manner.

I felt a stirring and swelling below the waistband and though that, if Jeeves were amenable to the suggestion, we might move things to the bedroom. Running my hand up and down his broad chest, I broke the kiss and swallowed thickly. “I know it’s a bit early in the day and all, but, well, since we’ve already decided that the dust will wait until tomorrow, I was thinking a retreat to the bedroom might be in order, what?”

Jeeves said nothing, but he rose from the sofa and dragged me up with him, pulling me by the shoulder into a renewed lip lock with one hand while his other settled around the small of my back and pushed my hips against his. I gasped in Jeeves’s mouth as the stiffness in his trousers pressed against my own. I interpreted these actions of his as an answer of “Yes, my dear Wooster, that would be most enjoyable.”

Getting there, however, took more time and ingenuity than I expected, all because neither Jeeves nor I were keen to let go of the other, so, attached to each other as we were, the whole process turned into a bit of a three-legged race. Jeeves would take a step back, and I, my support suddenly taken from me, would stumble ahead wobbly as a drunk sailor on stilts back into the security of his arms. In this way, we finally made it to my bed.

Clothes were a challenge of their own. Jeeves slipped out of his jacket and waistcoat easily enough, but while he was busy with that, I became hopelessly entangled in my own jacket, my urgency to be free from the cloth causing me to pull and yank in a way which ultimately only made the situation worse. Jeeves, who, as a valet had much practice helping the young master undress, put his skills to good use and had me free in a trice. His warm hands sliding down my arms, however, distracted me from my goal, and we spent the next five minutes ignoring clothes altogether and focusing on improving our kissing technique.

I thought that we were becoming quite adept—masters in the field, I’m sure—when Jeeves resumed our original plan by yanking my shirt from my trousers and running his hands up the bare skin of my chest. This was, I felt, the most bally brilliant idea he’d had all day, and considering the fact that, knowing Jeeves, he had probably solved no less than three cosmic quandaries before breakfast, all in the privacy of his own mind, this really said something about the state of the Wooster. I moaned and let him undress me without interruption. Jeeves, dextrous man that he is, accomplished this speedily despite my anticipatory fidgeting and trembling.

I did not have the patience to allow Jeeves to undress himself—for that activity would take his hands away from me and such a thing I simply could not allow. Nor did I have the nimbleness of finger to deal with his buttons on my own. Falling backwards onto my bed, I pulled Jeeves on top of me, squirming at the soft wool of his clothes scratching against my bare skin. Jeeves did not object to this peremptory action of mine. Rather he took it, as he took all my whims, in good stride, turning it to his own advantage. While I was reduced to clawing at the fabric of his shirt, Jeeves reached one hand down to stroke me. I bucked and gasped under his touch and yearned more than anything to increase this sensation of skin on skin, to feel it over every inch.

By the time it occurred to me that I might have been a bit hasty in not permitting Jeeves to remove his clothes, it was too late to do anything about it. Jeeves was already sliding down my body, out of my grasp, to kneel between my legs. Raising my head, I looked down at him and swore I would faint, so light-headed did I become at the sight of his wicked smirk. My head dropped back down with a pthop (that’s the sound something dropping on a feather pillow makes, don’t you know), and my mouth, now lacking any useful occupation seeing as Jeeves was too far away to engage it, rambled off on its own accord.

“I say, Jeeves, I say...”

Now, one might think that given the number of fillies who flung themselves in my direction, that I’d be a pat hand at this love making business—a bit of a Don Juan. Nothing, however, could be further from the truth. This is not to say that I was a total innocent. I had gone to Eton and Oxford and knew what sorts of things lads get up to. It was just that my personal experience was a trifle lacking. I’d kissed plenty of beazels, but never got much excitement out of it. At Eton it was not uncommon for the boys to...give each other a hand, if you know what I mean. And once, while I was at Oxford, a young, blond History lecturer dragged me behind the rugby shed for a bit of rubbing. That, however, was about the extent of my carnal life before Jeeves.

I tell you this so that you’ll understand that I was still easily overwhelmed and not entirely in my right senses, they being all muddled up by the magnificence of it all. So when Jeeves licked my cockstand from bottom to top I whined like a beagle puppy that had a bone dangled in front of his snout just out of reach.

“Oh, Jeeves, that’s...” I ran my hands compulsively through his dark hair as he swallowed me down. I gasped, “That’s...that’s...oh, what’s the French phrase when you don’t know what something is? It’s...”

Jeeves removed himself from my personage with a slurp. “Je ne sais quoi,” he said brusquely and returned to his activity.

“Yes, that’s the fellow. It’s...” I inhaled sharply as Jeeves’s warm, wet tongue painted my hard flesh. My legs tensed, contracting and spreading without my telling them to do so, and Jeeves was obliged to hold my hips down with his right forearm. His left hand, meanwhile, was stroking the soft and vulnerable skin in that inner hollow where the leg branches off from the body.

“Oh, do that...that thinggummy again...that you did last time...with your whatsits...” I ordered. Jeeves knew exactly what I meant and obeyed unhesitatingly. He pressed his thumb down just behind my plums and with even pressure drew it down until it just dipped into the lower entrance. My gasping squeaks became shorter and more insistent and my hips jerked wholly outside my control as I came to completion.

I panted like a man who’d run a marathon and felt nearly as wiped out, too. Jeeves was still between my legs, licking my inner thighs. It occurred to me that it tickled a bit, but I was too limp with bliss to care.

“I think we will have to do this more often,” I declared. “Once a day, at least.”

“I think I could arrange it into my schedule,” he replied, shucking his shirt with remarkable haste. He then slipped his braces off his shoulders and slithered out of his trousers as far as he was able with his shoes still on. Giving my sensitive leg portions one last lick, he draped himself over me, lined up chest to chest, lips to lips. The heat of his cockstand was warm against my hip.

“I knew I’d forgotten something!” I exclaimed. “What can I do for you, Jeeves? Ask and ye shall receive.”

After a quick kiss, Jeeves murmured in my ear. “If you will press your legs together...” He held my amorous bits up and out of the way so I could do as he asked without complications. This done, he positioned his hardness in the spit-slicked space between my thighs and thrust with a sigh.

I ran lazy fingers down his spine as he rocked against me, dropping little kisses down my throat. He was silent but for the sound of his heavy, shuddering breath.

“Jeeves, you don’t say much. Why don’t you say much?”

He muttered against my collarbone, so quietly I could barely hear, “I am trying to concentrate on the giving and receiving of joy. Conversation would be a distraction.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry, old chap. Carry on.”

He resumed his activities with vim and vigour. The warmth of his mouth wandering across my chest was delightful, as was the friction lower down. I mused that next time perhaps Jeeves should do this before I spent myself so that I could better appreciate it.

“You know, this works out rather well, but next time we should try this first, I think. It’s dashed pleasant, but I think it would be better if I wmmphh.” That last word didn’t make it out in any sort of fit state because Jeeves’s hand had rather suddenly come down and curtailed its exit. His palm was smooth against my lips, and almost as soon as I’d registered that his hand was covering my mouth, he raised it, and softened it to a caress, wetting his fingers in my half-open mouth. Inspired by who-knows-what I licked and sucked upon his fingers like he had done to my more intimate parts.

As I favoured his forefinger with a particularly fierce pursing of the lips, Jeeves jerked wildly between my legs and let out a deep groan, like a satisfied lion after a successful hunt. A splash of fluid dripped down my inner thighs and Jeeves’s weight sagged on top of me.

“Jeeves,” I said, pressing a peck of the lips on the tip of his nose. “Was I passable? Say something, Jeeves.”

He snuffled out a laugh that stirred the hairs behind my ear. “Woe is me, for I am undone.”

“Is that good?”

In response he raised himself up on his elbows to look into my eyes with powerful intensity. When I thought my heart would stop, overcome by the lines and textures in his wise, deep blues, he dipped his head and kissed me, slowly and resolutely. I realized that my heart, although pounding forcefully, was safe.

Later, as I lay curled in bed with one arm thrown around Jeeves’s waist and my other hand brushing his black hair off his brow, I said with the authority of an Old Testament prophet. “Life is spiffing, my dear Jeeves.”





From the pen of Dr. John H. Watson: In which all things end except the monuments to memory.



Epilogue

Holmes and I returned to our little secluded cottage on the Sussex Downs and all the familiar things that make it home: the violin and the Persian slipper, the pipe rack and the chemical apparatus, the many souvenirs of cases past, the rows of reference books on the shelves, and outside and around it all the drowsy hum of bees. We resumed our old, comfortable patterns and never spoke of Roberson.

As for the other persons with whom we shared this adventure, we never saw Mr. Wooster and his man Jeeves again, although Mr. Wooster sent a letter every year around Christmastime and I read about his many engagements and subsequent breaking of engagements in the society papers. A few years later I bought a book of Mr. Wooster’s short stories and wrote him a kind letter of review. After that he sent me copies of each book as they were published. Holmes, in his typical fashion, rolled his eyes at them and called them “nonsense” and avowed that they had “as much artistic depth as a puddle” but I found them lively and charming—much like the author.

Inspector Cinwell was in hospital for two months, recovering first from the bullet wound and the collapsed lung, then a bout of pneumonia brought on by the buildup of fluid. Once he was discharged, he testified not just against Superintendent Adams, but against the whole system of corruption, as many people as he could name, stretching from the lowliest constable to the Assistant Commissioner. He received a lenient prison sentence for his compliance, but made many enemies both in the force and among the powerful criminal gangs. After his release, he set himself up as a private detective, but was murdered in his rooms not two months later. The murderer was never brought to trial. Holmes made a few deductions based on what we read in the papers and passed on the information to Lestrade, but the identity of the killer remained a mere hypothesis and no arrest was ever made.

I received only one notice of Mrs. Fordyce—Ettie—whose actions in betraying Roberson’s location to us saved Holmes’s life. She married a widower named Pritchard, who may or may not have been a criminal, but certainly had acquired a sizeable fortune through his agenda of purchasing what seemed to be every gambling establishment south of the Thames.

One might marvel that after my indiscreet writings caused so much trouble that I would again set down on paper such compromising details of our relationship, but many years have passed since the events related herein, and Holmes is no longer in any danger. He need “fear no more the frown of the great” as the Bard wrote. There is no risk to anyone but me.

This is more important than my reputation or safety, and in truth, I believe I have little to fear on that account. I am an old man now; what few enemies I may have had are dead and I do not doubt that I will soon follow. There is a compulsion to write my story down, a compulsion that dear Sherlock never understood. I feel as though if I do not inscribe it, if all knowledge of who we were, Holmes and I, what we were to each other passes out of memory and into oblivion, it will be as if none of it existed at all. I cannot bear that thought.

It may be that no one will ever read this, that, jumbled up with all my other notes and papers it will gather dust in the vaults of Cox and Co. and never see light. And yet so long as the words are there, the memory remains, even after I am gone. The lines of the poet Horace are my guide:

I have fashioned a monument more lasting than bronze
and loftier than the regal structure of the pyramids,
a monument which neither devouring rain, nor fierce wind
could destroy, nor the countless
succession of years, or the flight of time.
I shall not die entirely; the greater part of me
will evade Death.



Fine.