A Study in Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 4) (24 page)

True to form, Elyodnanocruhtraris raises his arms straight out before him as he makes a direct march across the Annex floor.

“I’ll get ‘im, Miss Plumtartt,” I say, pushing my sleeves up my arms in preparation for some heavy duty brawling.

“Never mind, sir, I think I should prefer to deal with this fellow, personally. Ohm... Ohm... I say,
‘
at
you’!
”

A scarlet impression of light bounces up and down through Miss Plumtartt’s frame several times before finally allowing itself to be released into her hands. From holding her hands high above her head, she brings her arms down and before her until the heels of her wrists come together. The open fingers and palms form an imaginary ball. A red sphere forms in the hollow place her hands have outlined. Her right elbow is withdrawn until the two wrists now meet in a ninety degree angle at her hip. Maintaining the  proximity between the two hands, she forcefully thrusts her palms towards her enemy while congruently issuing her admittedly less than absolute fear-inspiring battle cry. The crimson light expands and collapses several times before speeding away to unerringly strike and envelop her attacker. The huge mummy is rocked backwards and his torso absorbs the energy orb of light. There is a sense that time has been held in suspension for a moment, and then the gruesome ghoul explodes in a chamber filling cloud of ancient death.

H
U
H
-
F
A
H
-
P
U
H-W
H
O
O
O
M
P!
-puh.

“What have you done?” screams Snikle Liag from the doorway. “You shall die for this transgression!”

A hand grabs the shoulder of Snikle Liag and spins her around.

“Huh! Huh! Huh! Ee-yew whawnged me mae-yan. Huh! Huh! Huh! Ee-yew duhdy tuhd! Huh! Huh! Huh!”

~Pow!~

Snikle Liag is clocked by a roundhouse punch flung with all the velocity an angry, long-li
mbed girl of a wronged man can generate. Trembling with righteous rage, Condolescence Purvey stands over the unconscious body of Snikle Liag, a terrible visage of retribution superimposed atop her blotted, tear-soaked features.

“AH-WHOUOO!”

“TREMBLE”

“AT MY MIGHT”

“PUNY HUMANS!”

“I HAVE COME”

“FOR YOU”

“MY QUEEN”

“NEFERTATAS!”

The Jackal headed Egyptian God now tears his way into the chamber with fearful fury. The molten lead has disappeared from Annuubnuub’s face and the wounds inflicted are healing before our eyes.

“Ohm... Ohm! . Ohm!!!
At you!”

A series of scarlet orbs fly from Miss Plumtartt’s outstretched hands to all blow up with great intensity about the caninish snout.

F
a
a
a
hhh
h
hh
h
h
h
hh
h
hhh
hh
hu
h
WHOOSH!

BOOM!BOOM!BOOM!

BOOMITY!

BOOM!BOOM!BOOM!

BOOMITY!

FAH-WAH-BUH-BOOMITY

BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!

The red-hued explosions are staggering, but not to Annuubnuub. Miss Plumtartt is completely done in by the expenditure and collapses in a cute little heap.

“I SHALL”

“HAVE MY”

“QUEEN!”

“Where are my manners? The Manor has a guest crossing, if crawling, the threshold. Announcing, the Lord of the UnderWorld and Egyptian pseudo-deity, Annuubnuub!”

“That’s a true butler there, Obstinance.”

“Aye, Spikey.”

“Temperance! Take up a pole-arm!”

“Yessir!”

“Charge!”

“Unh, unh!” “Wah-yah, wah-yah!”

“Our efforts are negligible. We imperil ourselves needlessly. Fall back, Temperance!”

“I SHALL”

“DEVOUR YOU ALL!”

“ALL BUT NEFERTATAS”

“YOU SHALL ASCEND”

“TO BE MY QUEEN!”

“This is the bad spot to be in we are thinking for sure, oui? All twenty-three members of our group are pushed up against the back wall in an effort to evade the huge terrible hands that try to grab and drag us to the massive, snapping jaws of slavering death, too!”

“Ja, His gigantic eyes shine darkly with hunger, hate and anticipation. Annuubnuub’s breath is as cold as a Siberian winter and smells like a mercury-flavoured carbonic ore-shake.”

“Mr. Temperance! What can we do?”

“I don’t know, Miss Plumtartt!”

“Sing.”

“Hey! Who said that, henh? I don’t-ah thinks it was ah-one of us.”

“Bup, bup, bup. I-i-i-i-t’s dat barmy wench in the fetching Egyptian get-up. Bup, bup, bup.”

“Colonel WinterCleese, or whatever your name is, is correct, my darling Signora Francesca Angelina Marianna Sforza. Look there, my dove, it’s that dratted Snikle Liag woman. She is suspended in the air without visible sign of support. Much like we witnessed with the Temperance chap earlier, she is experiencing the same sort of traumatics as did the Colonial lad. White orbs gone green, arms and legs outstretched and unusual vertical wheel maneuvering, that sort of thing, don’t you know.”

“I say, is that you, Rhutatootootunkamen?”

“Yes.”

“Sing out the words of power!”

The hovering, cart-wheeling, enticingly attired cutie-pie cultist in the clutches of the ancient Egyptian ghost of the High Priest Rhutatootootunkamen intones the dreadful words of abominable power. Annuubnuub reacts badly to the refrain.

“NO!”

“YOU MUST NOT SPEAK”

“THE WORDS!”

Too late for you, Annuubnuub! The sounds turn out to be pleasing, even catchy and lyrical to our ears. The gynormous Egyptian deity’s giant, obelisk-like ears oscillate to and fro in a frantic search for relief. He holds his human hands to his tall, pointy, furry, ears that protrude from his impressive head dress in a vain attempt to hold the painful tones from his extreme sensitivities. Tilting his head straight back
as far as he can possibly take it, he howls his unendurable frustration and disapproval.

“AH-WAH-WAH.”

“WAH-OOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

With Annuubnuub’s vocalizations still ringing at us from its echo off of the ceiling, we sing out the powerful and magical words.

“Ffaeirre theighhe wWhellhe”

.      .

“Ffaeirre theighhe wWhellhe”

.      .

“Ffaeirre theighhe wWhellhe dhiaugghe” “ffeiasedde Dhieghietiey”

.      .

“Aeyiem aeatteinne augh bahnneahnnah”

“Ouwnne augh bhjoatte ffriomme” “Llouwiseiahnnah”

“Ssieengjgeingh”

“Ppaughley Whaughley Dhjouoghddle aulle” “theighhe Djhgeighje!”

The giant jackal is in pure agony and total distress. He begs for mercy.

“YOU KNOW”

“NOT WHAT YOU DO!”

“THAT AWFUL MELODY!”

“IT WILL BE TRAPPED”

“IN MY HEAD!”

“FOR ETERNITY!”

“We ain’t singing loud nor strong enough folks! We gotta give it to him like we mean it! Don’t hold back! Give it it all you got from way down deep!”

With just a couple of exceptions, most of this group is pretty shy when it comes to belting out a song at the top of their lungs.

“Don’t be shy, Spike, Mrs. SaurSkowlle, and Beulah. Come on y’all; let ‘er rip, fish n’ chip!”

Glances are swapped in a quick concurrence of my assessment. All considerations of dignity are put aside as the entire group rises to the occasion of song. Our voices rise up to form a mighty chorus! Beulah and Thurston Purrington, Eric and Blythe Cleese, Signora Francesca Angelina Marianna Sforza and Snic, Snic Sforza, Delilah, Delilou, and Deliriah KruncheGrippe, Maleficence, Nonsense, and Obstinance GoodeWoodey, Whimsy, Modesty and Gaiety BummeTwidell, Spike McGilligin, Jebediah BarbarraHaughnne, Condolescence Purvey, Mrs. SaurSkowlle, Manlington, my London friend, and of course, Miss Persephone Plumtartt and I, join in with all our lungs, hearts and diaphragms.

The words are truly affecting the Beast most strongly. We must keep up the melody.

“That’s it folks, now let’s just sing it in a comfortable phonetiscized version.”

“Fare thee well.”

.    .

“Fare thee well.”

.    .

“Fare thee well dog faced Deity.”

.    .

“I’m eatin’ a banana,”

“On a boat from Louisiana,”

“singing”

“Polly Wolly Doodle all the day!”

.    .

Now we are able to maintain our punishing chant. We drive the Beast from our world with our mighty words of terrible power, singing the phrase over and over until it must fill the monster’s head.

“THE TUNE”

“IS IN MY HEAD!”

“I SHALL NEVER”

“BE FREE OF IT!”

“
NO
OO
OO
OOOO
O
OO
O
O
O
O
o
o
o
o
oooo
”

Annuubnuub turns to a transparent mist and is whisked out of the hall. We suspend our aural assault and listen to his mournful howl all the way across the moors. The lightning ceases its constant barrage and the thunder disappears in a slow rumble as it rolls away into the distance. The Great Sucking Death Mire stops its tortured upheaval and in seconds, it’s as if nothing had ever happened.

The soulful cry of the Stradivarius floats its impassioned moans upon exquisite bouquets of aural entrancement. An array of emotions flow as water in the river Cam, filling the air with music that reflects warm affection and compassion. These thoughtful reveries are countered by abrasive staccatos of stimulating and provocative tempests. Raw empathy is wrought within the horse hairs’ production of the sweeping melodies. Riding on the delicate yet astounding and diverse range of tone, I am swept along with the current born on the masterful craftsmanship of this little wooden wonder. Box, hair, neck and bridge combine to musically convey me into another realm of existence. I grant my audience one more epic crescendo to bring my violin solo to a climactic and heart wrenching conclusion.

I look up from my little impromptu concerto, to a wide array of stunned faces. They look about at one another in uncertainty and finally relent with somewhat desultory, though politely intended, applause.

Perhaps I shall maintain the indulgence of my violin playing as a solitary vice.

“Please keep the instrument as a memento of your time in our company, sir,” Miss Plumtartt smiles.

“My gratitude is eternally yours, Madame.” I reply.

After the storms that washed across Plumtartt Manor in the evening hours, it is particularly clear and bright here upon the lawn before the Mansion. Everyone who took part of the adventures of last night is still here and enjoying our marvelous English sunshine. That, and the fact that we are still alive and in our own plane of existence.

ah
-
ooo
-
gah

The signal horn of the Sforza steamer has been sounded.

“Hey, y’all. Look who I got!”

Temperance
insisted on getting the vehicle operational the moment our battle ended. Hurrying to Elderberry Pond to free the RooksPawn chap, they now return amongst a chorus of cheers.

Condolescence Purvey almost knocks RooksPawn to the ground as he alights from the horseless carriage, her welcoming embrace is so enthusiastic. The loving embrace is very nearly matched by that of Temperance and the Plumtartt woman. She is exceptionally free in her passionate display. This may be a bit of American pollution tainting our British manners. I pray that the Empire survives.

I am approached by the Lady of the House. Madame Plumtartt asks of me: “Pray tell sir, can you clear up a few points of interest in this curious case?”

“I shall do my best, Madame.”

The question was heard by most, if not all, present and the attentiveness of the group is now solely focused upon me.

“In the final analysis, it was a rather humdrum affair, but I do confess, there were one or two points that made its pursuit worthwhile. We were very lucky to have been provided with a veritable treasure trove of ‘clewes’, if you will, at the East End of London plasterer’s works. The envelope with the pictures of Nefertatas and Miss Plumtartt showed a connection that positively smacked of a cult. The gang must have hired Lenny Wreefenstahl, or Parker Peters if you prefer, to capture an image of Miss Plumtartt to verify her connection by sight. The resemblance was indeed, uncanny. This information cost the photographer his life as the ruthless gang covered their tracks to protect themselves.”

“I read the clewe of the smashed bathing equipment and the broken chemical bottles to indicate that someone had employed a recipe involving hydro-quinone, citric acids and hydrogen peroxide for the purpose of bleaching the colour from their skin. An olive complexion had been radically changed. The stems we found had me stymied...”

What’s this? Temperance’s eyes have grown enormous and he is vigorously, though surreptitiously, shaking his head back and forth attempting to convey a message of negativity. I look to Miss Plumtartt and see a darker scowl than I could ever imagine within her possession being directed at me. I am glad that looks do not slay, for I might have narrowly escaped a swift and sudden departure from this world. The intention of the silent communique is understood.

I do not like the idea of accepting credit when undeserved, but under the circumstances, I choose to relent the point.

“Oh, er, eh, hem. Yes! Of course! I have a long and extensive history of studying rare plants. Uh, yes, I immediately identified, all by myself mind you, the remains of the ‘henna’ plant that the gang used to change their appearance by dying their hair to a Scottish descendant’s reddish hue.”

“That was really a fine thing running around London the way we done when we tracked those villains from the subway excavation,” drawls the Temperance, chap. “When we got to the corner of Broad Street and La Strade, I smelled bread too, Plenty Bun Bee Baking Street. Greg and Huds, son works at a Plummer’s there along with Jean the wilder fella, Martin ManFeld, Cookie Peters and Dudded Moores.

“Can you explain my single riding boot that was stolen from the hotel? Is that a part of this mystery?” The Plumtartt woman’s azure eyes sparkle in their curiosity.

“Yes, Madame. My conjecture is that they wanted verification from the ancient ghoul in their possession that they had indeed, targeted the correct girl. Nothing is a stronger stimulant for the stirring of old memories than scent. Presumably, the ancient priest made a positive confirmation.”

Pride makes me loath to make this admission, but perhaps one of these people can help.

“That brings me to one point of our little mystery for which I have no explanation. The single shoe that was stolen here at the Manor. It was a new shoe, and had no scent. The gang was already in possession of a scent filled ‘favourite’ boot. I cannot for the life of me figure why they would steal another, less functional item.”

“Yoo, hoo, I can answer that one,” Manlington sheepishly smiles. “I do so enjoy such pretties. Somehow, I could not contain the impulse and kept one for myself. I really am sorry, Madame. Would you like it back?”

“Of course not, Manlington. I shall happily donate its accompanying mate.”

“OO
O
OOOOO
O
h, thank you, Madame!”

“Excuse me, sir, but how did you know who it was that was bleached and dyed?”

“Do you remember the apple seller woman at Elderberry Pond Station? That was me in disguise. My primary goal was to escort you safely from the train to the coach. I thought I would go ahead and make an examination of what household members that I could. By grasping the hand of the coachman and his footmen to carefully place the apple into each of their hands, I was able to give a close examination of their skin. I knew straight away that the coachman, Bishop RooksPawn was not in the gang, but I was greatly surprised at finding two of my culprits at that first encounter. They had made a good job of the dyeing, but a telltale scent was there to linger still. I was also alerted to be especially wary of Jabez WilloughSickle, as his thumb and forefinger bore the unmistakable callouses of the trained swordsman and the footwear on his feet bespoke many hours of diligent training in a variety of fighting styles.”

“What was up wiff the signaling that went on at noights?” asks the disreputable page boy in the shiny buckled shoes.

“I was not able to conduct a survey of the house until I was able to gain employment here. First, I entered in the disguise of a rat-catcher. As such, I was free to inspect quite a bit of the Manor. One thing I discovered, was a small amount of dirt, just outside the door of Millicent Wallaby. It was residue from a knee print as had been placed there by someone working at picking that lock. This telling clewe corresponded with the knee prints in the gardens where our ingratiating gardener tragically mistook a spray of yearling Hellebore seedlings for weeds and plucked out hundreds of the difficult to progenate plants. His thoughtless treading of a bed of Hostas had already put me on the thoughtless fellow’s track. I hypothesize that this now revealed to be agent was sent to track foreign operatives. I believe that CruikShank was on the track of Miss Wallaby and kneeled at her door to pick the lock for an unauthorized inspection. Perhaps it was here or elsewhere, but he must have given himself away somehow and gained the attention of this dangerous cult.”

“One curious thing I noted was that both the murder victim and the murder suspect had small pocket lanterns. I felt sure that these were being used as signaling devices. CruikShank’s was a very nice model, expensive and finely crafted. RooksPawn’s small lantern was of a cheaper variety. As they were both in the house together, this would not be necessary for communication between each other. The partner in these signaling excursions must be someone outside the house in the local environs. I decided that the two men were acting independently and that they were in contact with two different houses in the vicinity. This led me to believe that more than one set of plans were at work. I noted a familial resemblance between Beulah Purrington and RooksPawn. This bore out to be a brother and sister relationship, which explained the signals being exchanged between that house and this.”

“Oh, it’s true, sir, he’s my little brother. Bishop has always had a run of bad luck. I wanted to help get him a job and to keep him close by and out of trouble. I encouraged him to apply for the coachman position, seeing as he is so good with the horses, though, the truth of his references was not wholly complete. We worked out a lantern signal code to stay in touch with one another, though we never really got the hang of it.”

“The hedges and the poor gardening skills of the CruikShank chap led me to make a connection on that front. I grew suspicious that there might be more to the fetching triplets of attractive trios. The upstairs and downstairs maids’ complete lack of domestic skills told me they were a plant of some kind. However, the red-headed milk-maidens did seem to be most skilled at their craft.”

“Some skills are transferable, sir,” says Obstinance GoodeWoodey with a playful smile and knowing wink.

“Hah! No wonder my signals with the undercover female brigade were getting crossed,” Sforza laughs. “I tried to communicate through the old “Hedgelocypher” but that randy CruikShank boy was apparently not very skilled at the deuced thing, rotten luck. And I must admit a few things myself. I was assigned by our government the responsibility of keeping an eye on the most notorious jewel thief on the continent when she decided to visit our country. I had no idea that I would fall madly in love with the enchanting and incomparable Signora Francesca Angelina Marianna Sforza. Our marriage made keeping an eye on the woman quite a bit easier, I say, what? Quite the pleasing assignment, I must say. When it became known that agents were moving towards a major caper from notorious channels, more field agents were thrown in. The three sets of beautiful undercover super spies were known to me and I requested their assignment to the case. None of us knew the CruikShank agent and I expressly forbade the gels from making contact. A small world too, for the gentleman that gave me my assignment, bears the same last name as our Great Detective. Is there a relation there?”

“Indeed, Mr. Sforza, I suspect that the gentleman of whom you speak is in truth my brutally intelligent, older brother. As to your agent, CruikShank, the lantern business cost him in the end in so much as I think the WilloughSickle brothers or Millicent Wallaby caught him in his signaling efforts. With this ruthless gang of ‘Nile-ists’, his fate was sealed. RooksPawn was set up to take the blame for the Cruikshank murder. There was one curious thing of note. I had already searched RooksPawn’s quarters, early in the morning after the murder. The icepick was not there at that time. When it later showed up, I knew the gang had fingered an innocent man. Though I have a plethora of circumstantial evidence, for the ease of telling the story we shall go by the damning testimony of the séance. Cruikshank identified his murderer as a female and the murder weapon as a knitting needle. Millicent Wallaby, also known as Snikle Liag, seeing the agent’s use of the lantern in his signaling, moved to stop he whom she assumed had been sent to thwart her plans. She took advantage of Cruikshank’s lecherous nature and during the confusion of the dinner, enticed the hound to the cellar. It was here she used one of her knitting needles as the method of murder. A plan to instill bewilderment in the case was quickly hatched. Miss Wallaby went straight to Jabez WilloughSickle with whom she shared a close relationship. She had him lock himself into the cellar and then hide among the gigantic casks that rest in great large racks. He merely hid beneath or behind the ample hiding places until enough people had entered the room that he could blend in and join the search party for the murderer. It was a happy surprise when suspicion immediately fell to RooksPawn. The fiends intended to deflect interest from themselves and seal the fate of the coachman, RooksPawn, by placing the icepick under his mattress. This craven cult and murderous gang were ruthless killers with no hesitation to kill anyone that stood in their way: the London photographer, Lenny Wreefenstahl, also known as ‘Parker Peters’; Malachi CruikShank, and the BarbarraHaughnne brothers, Yabadabadubadiah and Skoobidubidubadiah. The ‘Gang of Ones’ wanted a nearby base of operations from which to stage a kidnapping. The ‘Nile-ists’ also wished to have a nearby encampment from which they could perform their horrid rites. The brothers’ hut upon the mire was ideal to suit their purposes and the murderers did not waste a tear over their method of attaining this property.”

I hesitate to ask this, but I do so hate waste.

“The CruikShank fellow is no longer in need of his lantern. Are there any objections to my maintaining possession of it?”