A Study in Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 4) (8 page)

“This information is not to leave this chamber, gentlemen, upon your sworn word.”

“Yes, Ma’am, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am.”

“I concede to your terms, Madam, but I must insist that you relent the name of the plant if you please.”

~huh-sigh.~
“The scientific name is
Lawsonia Inermis
. The more common name is Egyptian Privet, or Mignonette Tree.”

I see the detective running the names through his mental catalog of information.

“Oh yes. I know that plant. The Arabs refer to it as ‘hjiean-nau’.

I see Mr. Temperance’s relays make the final connections.

“Oh, do you mean henna? That’s what they use for dying leather and cloth. Sometimes in some of the more exotic parts of the world, wild and worldly women use it, to, ...”

His eyes grow large as they come to the wrong conclusion.

“No, no, no, Mr. Temperance, that’s not it at all!”

“Well, if it ain’t any of them then lemme see. I think it is also used in the dying of women’s, … hair...”

… … ...

After a pregnant pause that would encompass the gestation period of a Bull Rhino, I decide to get things moving again.

“Just for a few little highlights, to complement the natural tone, my dear. Let us now return to our mission.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“The room is a shambles of smashed glass and porcelain. Ah, investigation reveals the porcelain to be from a large wash basin. Hmm, no, a comparison with other fragments reveals a discrepancy in grade. These porcelain shards are from a larger wash tub.”

“Our detective consultant sure can pick out itty-bitty little details, can’t he, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am?”

“Indeed, the man is a cunning criminologist, without a doubt, Mr. Temperance.”

“I flew from my laboratory completely unprepared; no magnification lens do I have in my possession to bring that which cannot be seen by the naked eye to visibility. Let’s see, what do I have? Here we are, a six foot tape measure. Excellent! Temperance, take this notebook and pencil.”

“Yessir!”

“Take down these figures.”

“Yessir!”

The lean and hungry investigator lies flat upon the floor to get a closer look at the evidence there. He is apparently able to differentiate amongst the footprints in the room. More than that, by identifying peculiar characteristics for each print he is able to describe the varied suspects in great detail. Height and weight are extrapolated by measuring the length of stride and crushed tread of glass. Mr. Temperance quizzes the detective on his wild conclusions, but each time the Great Detector is able to explain his postulations with simple reasoning. Mr. Temperance is wildly absorbed in the process. He sends me many exclamations of wonder and delight via some very active eyebrow waggling. Ichabod is thrilled at the opportunity to study such remarkable technique at the elbow of a master. It is my conjecture that this detective may not always be the most outgoing or friendliest of fellows. Some people are just more introverted than others. I think this is an introvert who secretly wishes for exhibitionism. At this time he relishes the chance to have a partner whom to instruct in his craft and a friend to share in his adventures.

I enjoy a charming third person vantage point of a wonderful camaraderie being born. Mr. Temperance has hero-worship in his beaming face. We are well into the morning of a new day, but the two new friends feed upon the energy of the other. Neither man suffers from lack of sleep or nutrition. They are as a dynamic twosome. This electrifying case spins their generators with fresh energy at every new clewe discovered and fact borne out.

After a few more footprint measurements the model detective shares his extrapolations.

“Five of our group are large and hearty men. They travel in a peculiar and rough manner. Each member of the gang is over six feet in height and in excess of fifteen stone. One of their number is well over the eighteen stone mark. He is slothful but able to exert great strength and discipline upon his underlings when necessary. Many if not all the members drink heavily and often, preferring whiskey to rum. Each has a close association with an unusual steam-powered device. There are also the tracks of the other three. Two are of men, and one is a woman. These three entered wearing sandals, and exited wearing standard bootwear, but I have been unable to get a better estimate of their appearance.”

“There are several shattered chemical bottles in one corner. I believe that the bottles are smashed into small shards in an attempt to hide the former occupying material, but as I work closely with these sorts of bottles everyday, I am very familiar with their contents and odours. Some contained hydrogen peroxide, some citric acids, and some others contained hydroquinone solution.”

“Query, sir. I see how the brutes came to enter this room, but how did they leave and where have they gone?”

“Through the back window, Madame. The tracks of the Metropolitan railroad pass extremely close to the back of this building. If the train were stopped, it would be simple enough for the sufficiently desperate criminal to make his escape by simply making a short jump atop the train’s roof. It is my conjecture that a train had stopped whilst our foes were here. This cumbersome stone block they stole from the museum was slid across on planks. The train resumed its journey before the miscreants could complete the destruction of their incriminating remains, otherwise we would not have the great store of evidence that this lady and these gentlemen so thoughtfully left for our perusal. As to their current whereabouts, they could by now be miles outside of the city. A pursuit of the train itself would prove fruitless as they could easily switch from one to another, or abandon the railed transport altogether.”

We move back through the plaster works to the front of the building from which we entered. Along the way my gentlemen friends return their borrowed, improvised, weapons to the relatively obliging terra cottists.

Stepping out into the morning sun, I know that plans are forming in each of our minds as how best to proceed.

An excited newsboy can be heard to be hawking a sensational headline.

“Temperance, run and fetch that paper.”

“Yessir!”

Mr. Temperance soon returns, but he is obviously struck by the story told therein.

GRISLY MURDER IN
WHITECHAPEL

Chief Inspector Benny Slumberpootch, along with detective Freebie Martini, vow to discover the dastardly villain that up and shivved sleazy Whitechapel skeazo photographer ‘shutterbug’ Lenny Wreefenstahl in the reprobate’s darkroom.

“Do you all reckon that might be the same fella that took the picture of Miss Plumtartt for these gangsters? You don’t think these folks killed that boy just to protect themselves, do you?”

“Indeed, Mr. Temperance, I think that is a very safe assumption to make. The plot thickens, as they say, and our mystery takes a deadly turn. I say, we are scheduled to travel to my family home in the countryside. We do so appear to be in need of your inestimable talents my serendipitous sleuth. Could we prevail upon you to travel with us? The estate is just North of Elderberry Pond of the district, Crimpenmestylenshire.”

“Elderberry Pond has the ring of the quintessential English village.” The detective smiles as he conjures a pleasing image of the hamlet in his head. “Can you describe the picturesque environs?”

“Oh, yes. Plumtartt Manor enjoys a southern exposure across what was once Elderberry Pond. Cromwell drained it during the Interregnum, and now that acreage is more often referred to as ‘the Forsaken Barrows.’ To the East is an uncontrollable sprawl of thorn trees that stubbornly cling to the bare stone in their starkly beautiful four inch thorn sort of way. They enjoy the charmingly rustic moniker of ‘the Iron-Maiden’s Briar’. To the North is a lovely expanse of classic marsh-like moor country known as the ‘Great Sucking Death Mire’. To the West lies Daisy Meadow. This was the site of the infamous bloody battle that came to be known as the ‘Three Way Dance of Daisy Meadow’. During this country’s tragic ‘War of the Pretty but Thorny Flowers’, the Torries were ripped asunder, as the Whiggleys held firm against the inflamed Boyalists. I learned at an early age to avoid the melancholy and haunted fields by that evil name.”

“Gee whiz, this is awful, us having a gang of ruthless killers set on kidnapping Miss Plumtartt, but I feel lots better about going out to the country estate knowing we have such an indomitable ally as our consulting investigator with us.”

The London investigator closes his eyes and lets his chin fall to his chest. A deep breath is drawn to fill that torso with life-giving nutrients and then slowly released as a mental process apparently has been gone through and a decision reached by the gesture. He then slowly raises his head and pulls back his heavy eyelids.

A distasteful grimace, barely noticeable, passes over our counselor’s features.

I see Mr. Temperance catch the expression. His excitement begins to dim.

A tiny frown precedes a slight smirk. The thin lips betray the slightest hint of a sneer.

“I’m afraid not, Madame. This case, though it had at one time showed some promise of interest, has now plunged into the depths of the commonplace. You do not require my skills, which are of a wholly different level than that of which you are in need. No, you see, yours is a case of needing a bodyguard. Security is not my field. This fellow Temperance would seem adequate enough in that regard. I think that my business here is concluded.”

I am shocked at his insensitive words. I was quite looking forward to having this man as a formidable ally.

My poor Mr. Temperance is wounded to the core at this turn of his mentor. Though he desperately fights to maintain a strong jaw line, I see his bottom lip quiver and his eyes pool up with sudden tears that threaten to overflow their containment. Neck muscles swell as my sensitive Ichabod forces a large gulp of nothingness down a fiercely resisting throat.

What a cold, cruel, clockwork, calculating machine this detective is! Mr. Temperance has obviously developed a substantial amount of affection for this talent-filled man. Mr. Temperance’s unquestioning trust and loyalty are being cast aside, rebuked by this callous and indifferent automaton. It is as if he allowed Mr. Temperance to gather many great bushels of fruity admiration for the remarkable mind and reasoning ability this man of consultation has displayed. Now the hopeful bounty of these tender emotions is piled up into a small room built beneath a horrifically large and powerful soul-destroying hypothetic hydraulic press. This organic Babbage Engine, apparently lacking any trace of fellow feeling, has engaged the relay that will close the circuit sending the ceiling of our little room to crush all the loving spirit from the naïve acolyte.

I can almost visualize this analytical computer nonchalantly bearing all his weight down upon his thumb, oblivious to the fact that he squashes the flame of respect burning so fervently within Mr. Temperance. How I wish that I had some great and dreadful metaphorical cleaver so that I could separate the damnable digit from its thoughtless task.

I can see my Ichabod’s heart being broken right before my eyes.

His true and sensitive feelings are ground to dust.

I make a last attempt to hold the detective’s interest and hopefully change his mind.

“Are we not in danger from possible foreign nationals?”

“I would say that the least of your threats will appear as enemies. On the contrary, Madame, the fiends that are after you look very much like you and me. It is the friendly faces you must revile and recoil from as if your very life depends on it. I should also advise you to avoid the moors.”

Mr. Temperance makes a courageous show of trying to put a more pleasant spin on the unpleasant affair.

He tries to smile and extends his hand for a parting handshake.

The Great Detective does not appear to notice the gesture. Rather, giving a final bow, turning on his heel, and whistling a cheery tune, he briskly walks away, giving every indication of offering Mr. Temperance and me his last consideration.

I can sees the new Missus and her little American beau is gonna be troubles. They should have been here at Plumtartt Manor hours ago. How are we to keep everything fresh and not all wilty if Old Lady Plumtartt is not going to conform to a proper schedule? I’ll takes a load off and enjoy a well earned tobacco break upon this servants’ entrance outdoor landing. Let that pissy butler get all upset about failing dandelions in the west wing’s upstairs petite salon, or fluffing the cushions of the couches in the Eastern grand billiard room, or refilling the kerosene in the cabinet room. I mean the cabinet room of the third floor, northern annex, not one of the other thirteen cabinet rooms.

Of course, none of these bloody levels are built at the same height. A nice architectural joke upon us, the poor servants who have to make this household function, it is. It’s as if three or four colossal continental cathedrals were broken into huge chunks, dumped into a gigantic butterchurn, mixed up thoroughly, and then poured out into a gynormous mold in the shape of a huge capital ‘E’; only the bits at the top and bottom have been nipped off leaving the little bit in the middle to represent the Northern Annex, what was added after Norman’s conquest, whoever he was. At times one must go up and down three short staircases just to cross a room. A straight line in this place? Hah! The mad designers of this labyrinth went to extreme measures making sure one has to navigate multiple weaving passages to travel through this Gothic maze. I gets lost in here every day. I’ve had to pull the rope what rings the servants’ bells for someone to come find me at least three times now.

Every bedroom is accompanied by its own private and interconnected honeycomb of serving rooms. Box, drawing, and dressing rooms surround the primary chamber on one side, while the bath, toilet and viewing rooms make up the other. High latticed windows festooned with red, blue, yellow and green coloured diamond cut panes do little to relieve the drudgery of maintaining these ridiculous amounts of floor space. Each of these bedrooms also has an adjoining maid’s quarters. The master bedroom’s adjoining maid’s quarters have their own adjoining maid’s quarters for seeing to the servant’s, servant’s, needs.

The master bedrooms of this ancient mausoleum give me the creeping willies to no end. It’s as if someone is asleep in the bed when I knows there ain’t no ones there. I always get the most disturbing sensation when I have to go in those rooms. Something about how the beds are built directly into the structure of the old mansion is off-putting. Constructed of quarried stone, they rise from out of the floor with a bas relief detailing horrible battles with medieval devilish foes. The stone pillar/bedposts that rise to a lofty ceiling are as stalactites. The heavy velvet curtains are like weighted shrouds. Perhaps the old brutish warriors that built this pile could not wait to sleep in their own crypts.

This place has been completely abandoned for over a year. Somehow, it escaped vandalism in that time. There’s been rumours of spectral phantoms and horrible creatures that have stalked the empty estate. Even leading up to the time when the house was left, the great estate was only using limited parts of the property. None of the old staff remain. The mistress what walked away from the place sent word to an employment agency to take on a fresh staff and to get the house back in order. That was three weeks ago. I thought this would be a cushy little billet. In me sixteenth year and not in a hurry to develop a lot of ambition, I was thinking that this would be a nice way to get three meals and a roof; along with some profitable wages. I thought the position would entail running a few errands around the house. Oh, how I regret taking on this horrible job! This butler of extreme ambition that is my supervisor is coupled with a lady head of household that is a living gargoyle. These two intend to get every inch of this Estate in top and proper form. Oh, how I am forced to toil without respite! Me poor hands ache constantly from their over work. I shall never remove the stench of silver polish from them! Polish! Polish! Polish! The furniture, the dinnerware, the banisters and the fixtures. It drives me mad!

Our esteemed butler, Manlington, torments my every waking minute. That towering twit wears his constant good humor and charming smile, but I knows it is a thin disguise for this ruthless slave-driver that would have me polishing spoons in my sleep if he could.

Oh, no, I hear his lyrical, effeminate voice melodiously trilling out my name! Perhaps if I stay put, he will pass me by and I can finish my last few moments of peace before the business of serving this hoighty-toighty Lord and Lady.

My blood runs cold as my heart turns to stone and is instantly filled with a nameless sense of dread. My name is called upon from a different source. It’s the sharp and angry cackle of our resident wicked witch. In my mind I can see her face as her unnerving screech calls out for me. Clad in black, a bitter face emerges above the high throated neckline of the severe dress. Her hair is surely pulled back in a no-nonsense bun. Though her chin is recessive, it is nonetheless formidable for it leads to the short horizontal line that represents the area that her lips have been vacuumed from. The inward suction is framed by a phalanx of radiating lines that follow the direction of the withdrawn kissers. This will be overshadowed by the prominent precipice of a strong nose that extends outward to an incredible distance before making a long plunge earthward. The hatchet-blade/hawkbeak feature is supplanted by a pair of black lanterns that wither the resolve of the most genuine and hard working of souls, and make them seek to confess their slothful habits. The overall impression is that this woman’s face would do well to grace the prow of a Bering Strait ice breaking ship. Should the fearful femme that rules this household be able to hold herself rigid as a plank of wood, perhaps a marauder viking would take her up and use that grim countenance as his battle-axe. She strikes me as a skinny, though dark and terrible, envoy of Valhalla. Rather than ‘Mrs.’ it is all I can do to refrain from addressing her as ‘Frau’.

I hear the approach of several people. The sounds are of young and feminine people. I now remember a few of the advantages of this gig.

Speaking in hurried undertones to each other, the downstairs maids approach from the marble patio. They stop speaking and look to me with devilish mischief in their scheming eyes.

“Hurry alongke, little page boy, das receiving line is forming in front for zee new lady und Beau.” The girls exchange knowing looks and mirthful twitters. “Don’t be late, or Manlington vill be zee very cross vith you.”

These three sisters, Delilah, Delilou, and Deliriah KruncheGrippe, hurry into the house in a rustle of thick skirts.

I guess they are right. I do not move as fast as the others in this vast and nervous beehive. It may take me a minute longer, so I better get moving.

“Drop yer privates and get yer posterior to the front of the ‘ouse our wittle page lad! ‘urry, boy, a’for our Manlington comes to foind ye ‘imself!”

~pop!~

“Augh! Maleficence, Oi did not need that firm slap on me bottom to get me moving!”

“Watch out, little page boy, the GoodeWoodey sisters are coming through!”

~pop!~

~pop!~

“Hey!”

Maleficence, Nonsense, and Obstinance GoodeWoodey, are a healthy bunch of girls. They are pleasantly plump in all the right places. Sturdy underbusts of the peasant farmgirl variety support and accent the charming figures of these red-headed milkmaidens. They claim to be second to none in the business of working cow udders and other related things. I heard one of them say she was looking forward to the dairy show so that she could show off her calves.

Eventually I make it to the Grand Foyer and the front of this huge house finally looms into sight.

Before I can make it past the circular staircase, I am assaulted by a swarm of feathery mosquitoes. The upstairs maids, Whimsy, Modesty and Gaiety BummeTwidell, brutally assault me with their feather dusters. They dance about me, their high heels clicking on the marble floor. They wear the very latest in upstairs maid attire, we are told. A very visible line marks the back of their hosiery as it follows the back of their lengthy legs up to an impossibly high hemline. This is thrust further up high into the air by great piles of flouncy pantaloons. The tiniest, most frilly and cosmetic of aprons adorns the front of the silken little dress that does very little to protect the girls’ arms, shoulders or upper bodies.

The brunette-haired girls call my name.

“Spikey! Oh, Spikey. Hurry Spike McGilligin, or Manlington will be most upset with you if you are late I think, too. Oui!”

“Ah-choo! Quit ticklin’s me! Aw-right, Oi’m almost there.”

Wearing this silly outfit is just about too much. I feel like a complete idiot in this ridiculous page boy costume, but our Manlington saw to it that everyone would be properly attired in the appropriate garb of their station.

I do not care if it
is
a tradition, I am not happy about the hair-cut I have had to get.

I have not had an opportunity to walk through this main entrance before. Good grief, this arched, double door is an impressive portal. I’ll just ease myself through. Maybe I can just go slip into line without a confrontation with our absorbed butler.

No such luck! I’m only halfway through the door before he sees me!

“
O
O
O
O
O
O
OOOh, Spike my boy, I was afraid you’d be late for the receiving line but of course I should have known you would not let me down. You look marvelous my dear boy, though, I do wish you could have polished up those adorable little boot buckles. I am sure those quadruple rows of brass buttons on your velveteen vest could have stood a nobbing of polish; nevertheless, with your white stockinged calves showing beneath the knee of your ribbon secured, poofy trouser leg hem, you are the very picture of a country manor’s household page boy.”

Manlington’s ebony face breaks into such a bright expression of happiness I am afraid that his dimples will pop off his high cheekbones. With a brief hopping toe twiddle, he swiftly prances over the vast expanse of the porch to snatch me by my collar and drag me into me place in the receiving line. I tries to pull towards a place with the girls, but the picky fellow insists that I should be stuck between the gardener and the shepherd. The shepherd is the only remaining member of the old estate, but he does not really consider himself as a part of the staff. It seems that his family disputes the ownership of the land and decided to squatte upon a sizable bit of acreage. This started several hundreds of years back, and this gentleman and his brothers are just carrying on the tradition and the squatte. To prevent bloodshed, it has been judged safest by all involved to look upon them as hired shepherds. For their part, they have chosen to look upon the pay they receive as rent for the Manor that sits in their yard.

Manlington merrily minces up the long receiving line giving last minute instructions as to etiquette, and granting glowing commendations on a job well done upon each person’s personal appearance, in an attempt to make them feel a bit better after all the corrections he has had to quickly make in their dress. He travels up and down the line many times, often rearranging us in different places in an effort to get everyone’s appearance to the highest pinnacle of presentation. He makes a great fuss over everyone, everyone but one person, that is. This person who stands at the head of the line and a little distant is above inspection from Manlington. The fearful Household Matron conducts her own ongoing inspection but from a stationary position.

“See here, Spike McGilligin, I don’t care for that surly attitude, you tarted up little gutter urchin.” The head of household glares at me hatefully with her shiny black eyes. “If you so much as batt an eye at either of these guests, er, I mean residents, no, I mean, the owner of this estate, I’ll have the cook throw you in the soup, you wretched little scamp. I’ve got my eye on you. Am I understood?!”

“Yes, Frau SaurSkowlle. Oops! Oi mean, Mrs. SaurSkowlle!”

Darn it! Why did a frightened squeak have to pop into me voice?

“Carriage, ah-ho!” calls down Morag the smelter. Amid his bubbling pots of molten lead that he has up on the roof with him he also has a little campsite and has not been down in weeks. Along with his roof repairs with the metal sealant, he also makes time to relieve many of the hundreds of chimneys that entangle the roof their occupation of starlings, rooks, and crows. At this time, though, Manlington has had him mount the soaring tower that looms over the front of this creepy keep. The stone pile climbs to a morose, gray and cloudy sky. From these lofty battlements he has maintained a faithful watch for our new Lady and her American souvenir.

Manlington jumps up and down with an excited twiddling of his feet in his exuberance before regaining his self control. The Head of Household servants, the fearsome Frau SaurSkowlle, I mean, Mrs. SaurSkowlle, looks on with angry disapproval.

The gates of the estate that face upon the Great Gnarly Growth Passage are somewhat distant. It takes a minute for the carriage to finally come into view from over an intervening hillock. A glorious set of four matched black horses that pull the estate’s beautiful carriage are at speed as we await their approach. Much care has gone into the paint and repair of the carriage that it might appear as new for the returning Missus.

The driver must stand on his perch and pull with all his might to coax his excited team into deceleration. He does so with some skill and flare as the speeding coach comes to a halt immediately opposite of the front door.