A Study in Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 4) (14 page)

“Tee, hee! A wee, fresh little loaf of bread for our funny little master! Tee, hee!”

~cough,cough,cough~“
Dang, I wasn’t expecting to be engulfed in a huge plume of black smoke!
~cough,cough~
I think this bread might be burnt!”

“Tis but a meager, little lump that remains; not enough to warrant consumption, even by a hungry Ichabod Temperance standard.”

~sigh.~
“No Ma’am, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am. I’m thinkin’ we done seen the entire household come through this room at one time or ‘nother during dinner, Miss Plumtartt. They ain’t done much, but all nine of the upstairs, downstairs, and milk maids have been milling around. Mrs. SaurSkowlle has been following them, and Mr. Manlington has been prancing in and out. Everybody has been here but four. From what I understand, Morag the smelter stays up on the roof. He has not been down in weeks. Meals are delivered by pulley. It seems he does not trust anyone with his pots of molten lead. The cook’s been in the kitchen. I wonder what Spike and Mr. RooksPawn are up to? Hey Horbaz, have you seen Mr. RooksPawn?”

“Fae the Loove o’ Loch Lomond, no I have not, little Icky. He’s left all these silly serving dooties up to me an’ Jabez, dat lazy git. ‘e’s probably off nappin’ again, tee, hee!”

“Yoo, hoo, oh, Manlington? Would you be so kind as to  page our page, Mr. Spike McGilligin, please, eh hem?”

“Oh, of course, Madame, I should be delighted:

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOh,

S
P
II
II
IIII
-
EEEEE
-YIIIIKE!”

“Uh, hunh?” questions a handy Spike as he steps out from his place of concealment behind a large potted plant. “Wot ya want?”

“Where is our Mr. RooksPawn, please, Mr. McGilligin?”

“Oi don’t know, mum. ‘ow could I? I been hiding back ‘ere all through dinner, roight? Oi’m wore out from the silly followin’ of dat wat catcher fellow.”

“Please run along and find Mr. RooksPawn for us if you please, young man.”

“Yeah, Mums.”

The disinterested page casually meanders from the room only to return almost immediately. Bishop RooksPawn is directly behind.

“Why look here, Miss Plumtartt, Spike found Mr. RooksPawn in a hurry.”

“Yeah, I figgered ‘e’d be ‘round back, about the stables, so’s Oi thought I’d take the long way around boiy goin’s out the fwunt so as to work in a wittle break for meself. Much to my chagrin, there ‘e was, fiddlin wiff ‘is wittle wantuhn.”

Bishop RooksPawn sidles into the room in a manner suggesting that he conceals something behind his back.

“We have missed you through dinner, sir. Do you have an explanation? And just what is it that you are attempting to keep hidden from us?”

The normally pleasant features of the cabman are twisted into an expression of fear, loathing and guilt.

“Ah, I didn’t think me presence was needed, Mum. I was trying out me new lantern, but I had a bit o trouble getting ‘er lit.”

“Dang, Mr. RooksPawn! Looks like you burned your thumb sometin’ awful. It sure mustuh been important for you to light that funny little lantern.”

The desperate man looks back and forth at Mr. Temperance and me, the very picture of a caged and trapped animal. Finally, in a fitful loss of control, he leaps forward to plunge his thumb into the butter bowl. He follows this with a deep sigh of relief.

“That will be all for now, Mr. RooksPawn. Please feel free to take the butter with you.”

“I tell you what, a burnt thumb ain’t no fun, Ma’am. Say, there’s a desert I’ve been wanting to try, Miss Plumtartt. It’s made with raisins. It’s called ‘Spotted
Di
...”

“Yes,
Mr. Temperance, I think our cook may be familiar with this dish, though if you don’t mind, I would prefer to denote it as ‘Speckled Band’.”

“Oh, Manlington?”

“Yes, Madam?”

“I think that I should like to speak with our cook.”

“Yes, Madame.” Manlington beckons to one of the milk-maidens. “Maleficence GoodeWoodey, go to the kitchen and ask our Miss Wallaby to join us if you please. Inform her that she may bring and serve the entrée herself.”

“Roight you are, Manlington!”

Miss GoodeWoodey has a sensual method of working her shoulders into her movements that is both captivating and distracting.

“I’ll find if our Millicent is decent to present.”

With the back of her hand to her cheek, the girl presents us with a deep curtsy in a manner that allows her to look about and see whom is scoping the goods. The cheerful girl then hurries off to the kitchens to locate our undercooked cook.

Miss Millicent Wallaby soon follows. She is armed with an enormous tray with domed cover. Lifting the lid to allow our inspection of the main course, she releases two pheasants. They fly about the room in joyous freedom, proclaiming their happiness in raucous sqawks.

“Like the fish, these, too, appear to be underdone, Miss Wallaby. Can you offer a theory as to why?”

The freckled cook beams happily. “Oh yes, Mum! It was account of dems being so pretty, right? Just looks at ‘em, ain’t dey glorious?”

“They are a sight to enjoy, Miss Wallaby, to be sure, however, we were hoping to enjoy their company in a different way. As it is, it looks as if they are determined to poop on Spike.”

“Might I suggest an after dinner wine?” Manlington offers.

“Oh, you might as well.”

“Millicent, run down to the cellar and fetch us up a bottle of ‘Eppington ‘48.’”

“Yes, Mr. Manlington,” says the strawberry blond girl, bobbing a quick curtsy along with her acceptance of the order.

Miss Millicent Wallaby soon reappears, empty handed and appearing distraught.

“The door is locked, Mr. Manlington. It’s never been locked before.”

“Nonsense, Miss Wallaby. Oh, I shall just come and do it myself, then,” answers the towering butler.

Manlington soon returns.

“This is actually a little embarrassing. Miss Wallaby was correct. The wine cellar is indeed, locked. I do not understand it.”

“There are many mysterious happenings around this house. Come along, Mr. Temperance, let us see if we can assist in solving this dilemma.”

We follow Manlington and Miss Wallaby through the door towards the back of the house.

The entire household has apparently decided to follow us in this exercise for more and more of the staff join us in our conga line procession.

“Golly, Miss Plumtartt, I think this part of the manor was made for the servants’ use only. The hallways are much thinner and these steps leading down to the basement have a rough-hewn appearance.”

“Indeed, Mr. Temperance. Descent below ground level brings with it a dank and pressing odour.”

“Yes, Ma’am. I think everyone is piled up down the hallway behind us in this subterranean trail.”

“This narrow stone passage, brings us to a short corridor ending in a low, but stout, door. This is the Manor’s wine cellar. I would direct Madam’s attention to the large, olde fashioned lockset in the dungeon-like, studded barrier. A few experimental tugs verify that it is indeed locked. The key is normally here, in the door. Pardon me, please, as I squat and bend in order to get a look into the keyhole. Difficult to say, but it appears that the key is in the lock, on the other side.”

“Ah, heck. If the key’s in the door then I reckon that means somebody is in there. I’ll give it a good knock.”

~rat-a-tat-tat!~

“Eh, hem. Please try again, Mr. Temperance, with emphasis, sir.”

“Yes, Ma’am, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am.”

~knock, knock, knock!~

“There ain’t nary a peep from the other side, Ma’am.”

“Indulge me, Mr. Temperance, and have a go at it with the butt of your pistol.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

~BAP! BAP! BAP!~

“Oh my Goodness, Miss Plumtartt, whoever’s in there ain’t responding to our calls! I’m thinkin’ they must be hurt! We gotta figure a way to gets in there!”

“Suggestions, Mr. Temperance?”

“This is a strong door in a tight spot. There is not much room to operate a battering ram. Heavy tools would take a little while. I suggest that the quickest route through that door is to open her up with dynamite.”

“I say, I think I would rather keep damage to the estate at a minimum if possible, eh hem? Actually, I may have an alternative solution. If someone could fetch me a newspaper, please?”

“I got one right here, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am. It’s that one we got in London with that photographer’s murder article in it.”

“Jolly good, Mr. Temperance. I shall open and coax the paper flat. Laying it upon the threshold and sliding it beneath the door thusly, I use a hair pin to push the key from its place.
~ka-tink.~
I just heard the key land on the other side upon the floor. With luck, the key should now be on the paper. Careful retrieval of the newspaper presents us our reward.
Voilà,
I present you, gentlemen, the key.”

“Bravo, Madam, well done! I shall now grant us access to the vintaging vino.”

~click.~

~creak.~

Darkness inhales the illumination from our meager candlelight. A more oppressive blackness I have never known. This is the stillness of the tomb.

“Please follow me, Madame. This room has, alas, escaped the gentle brushing of a broom’s combing touch. Note the titanic casks spreading down the walls to either side of our entrance. The great casks, each of a size that could house a family of four, rest in heavy shelves. Before us lie streets and avenues of floor-to-ceiling racks for an ocean of bottled wine.”

“I say, these candles do not spread their light but a few feet in the dust, and cobwebs. It is impossible to see out into this forest of pillared timber; however, we know someone is in here, for we know that they locked themselves in this room. Let us find them.”

“Yes, Ma’am. I reckon we all should just look around a little bit. Howdy, in here! Anybody home?”

“Howdy, he says! Tee, hee!”

“Shush, Mr. WilloughSickle!”

“Tee, hee!”

“Eeeek!”

“Hey, that was Mr. Manlington!”

“‘ey! ‘ere ‘e is. Our prissy butler is in a oigh state of anxoiety, alternating his weight from one tippy toe to the othuh.”

“Oh, oui-oui, look at how he points with the horror to something on the floor.”

“Mein candle shows to me two male hands, curled upon the blocks of stone. Beyond these is the black haired head of a man lying very still.”

“Aye, Oi knows a stiffie when Oi sees one. This bloke has expired and suffers from being very dead.”

“Eh hem, yes, thank you, Miss GoodeWoodey. I say, Mr. Temperance? Would you be so good as to make a closer examination, eh hem?”

“Yes, Ma’am, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am. Hey! I think it’s Mr. Cruikshank! Hey, Malachi, are you okay?”
~shake,shake~ “
My goodness, Miss Plumtartt, I think he’s dead!”

“Please excuse me, I need to verify this with my own eyes. Eh hem, yes, I see. I am in agreement, Mr. Cruikshank does appear to be life-force challenged.”

“Should I roll him over?”

“Yes, please. No, wait! Look there, Mr. Temperance, at his lower back. Is that a dark stain of blood I see?”

“OO
O
O
O
OO
O
Oh!”

“Catch him, y’all! Mr. Manlington is falling!”

“Oh!”

“I got him!”

“Bloimey!”

“I say, I do believe our butler has fainted at the sight of blood. Please, everyone, there is not enough room here for all to participate. There is no need for everyone to crowd in on the scene. Can everyone please step back?”

“Is he alroight?”

“Oi wanna see!”

“Oui!”

“Eh
hem!
I say, see here! This man has apparently been murdered. The locked door indicates that the culprit who committed this crime is still in the room!”

“Oh!”

“Eep!”

“Murder!”

“Zoinks!”

“I say, we must spread out and find the villain!”

My words have the opposite effect of what I had intended upon my audience. Rather than spread out in a fervent mob of retribution, the realization that a murderer lurks in the inky gloom encourages the great mobbe to cling together all the more closely.

“Oooooo.”

“Looks like Mr. Manlington is coming back around, Miss Plumtartt.”

“Are you well, now, Manlington?”

“Yes, Madam. I beg your pardon for this lapse in self-control.”

“Think nothing of it, dear fellow.”

“Malachi has been stabbed in the back, eh? And in a locked room, no less.”

“Yes, Manlington, I fear, though, our household, as a whole, is not eager to search out the fiend in this gloomy confine.”