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

by Ichabod Temperance

  “Ma’am? Did you say something? I’m sorry, I can’t really hear you too well.”

  “I say, Manlington?”

  “Yes, Miss Plumtartt?”

  “Would it be too much trouble if we broke with tradition, and I were to have Mr. Temperance dine at this end of the table alongside me? The many yards of intervening table are making conversation a tad difficult.”

  Hurt and troubled sensibilities momentarily flit across the face of butlered perfection; however, the manservant’s manservant quickly rallies. His dark features reflect both the candlelight and an inner glow as he smiles with dimple popping joy.

  “As you wish, Madame.”

  Snapping his fingers at the many servants at hand, Manlington sees to the transference of dinnerware from the other end of the eighty foot table to this.

  “I sure do like this big ol’ house and ever’body here, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am.”

  “I am so glad, Mr. Temperance.”

  “I ain’t one to complain, but I don’t think we’re a gettin’ a lotta work outta them upstairs maids. They can’t make up a bed worth a hoot. They ain’t gotta lotta enthusiasm for sweeping or straightening up none, neither. They just kinda flounce around in those fluffy little skirts that I barely even noticed them prancing around in and pretend to be dusting with them feather dusters of theirs.”

  “Yes, the BumTwiddle sisters; I noted the same thing, sir. More than that, I confess, that I have been underwhelmed with the performance of our downstairs maids, as well. Though the KrunchGrippe sisters appear quite fearsome, I have not seen a lot of actual work from them. I cannot help but sense an aura of disdain for things so mundane as housework from the bevy of blond Bavarian beauties.”

  “Those red-headed milkmaidens are okay as far as I know. That is, the cows ain’t complaining, ‘cause the WilloughSickle boys assure me that them girlies can surely work an udder.”

  “Much of the household is afoot and about it seems. I spy our gardener of poor pruning skills passing by. Hello-oh, yoohoo, Mister Cruikshank! Might we have a word, sir?”

  “Yes, Mum. Oi saw to them shrubs loikes you asked me to,” the leering wolf says with a toothy smile.

  “Ah, yes. I am afraid to say that we were less than thrilled with the results.”

  “No worries, mum! Oi’ll get back on ‘em tomorrow.” His grin never falters. “We’ll get those Boxwoods...”

  “Eleagnes.”

  “Whatevers they be, into the pinnacle of perfection. Don’t you worry none, mums.”

  “I shan’t. Thank you, Mr. CruikShank.”

  “Yes, mum!” Malachi CruikShank smiles broadly at us both and gives us a wink before hurrying along on his way.

  “Do you smell something, Miss Plumtartt?”

  “I think I do, Mr. Temperance. An odour most unfortunate I should say.”

  “Yes Ma’am. Kinda a cross between rotten onions and smoldering sulfur.”

  “I think you describe it most accurately, sir.”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Thanky. I think it might be coming from these napkins.”

  -sniff.- “Ee-ew. You are correct, my astute friend. Come to think of it, I may have detected this smell in our sheets, pillows and towels as well.”

  “Yes, Ma’am, this nauseous napkin has been folded into a little presentational tent, awaiting to be fluffed out into a small spread of protective cover from tiny food particles.”

  “I say, my lurid linen, in a preposterous show of stubbornness, steadfastly holds its shape, my American paramour.”

  “I’m gonna hold my uncooperative towel away from the table to give it a vigorous shake, Miss Plumtartt.”

  -bhull-phuh-

  “Your napkin disintegrates into a cloud of dust and falls to the floor in a neat little pile, Mr. Temperance.”

  “Miss Purvey may have used too much starch, Ma’am.”

  “I believe I see her amongst the bustle of tonight’s activities. Excuse me! Oh, hello, there! Let’s see, maybe I shall ring this little porcelain bell to gain the attention of our laundress. ~tinkle,tinkle,tink~ Yes, that’s better. Oh, Miss Purvey! Miss Condolescense Purvey! May we have a word, please?”

  “Gee, just look at the happy and affable face of Miss Purvey light up at the call of her name.”

  “Charming, Mr. Temperance, however, she need not hitch up her skirts, as she swiftly trots and/or skips across the room to us.”

  Her back of the throat laugh that gurgles as she speaks is fully engaged.

  “Huh, huh, huh, ‘uhlo, Mums, aye-vening, suh. Huh, huh, huh, wot, huh, huh, huh, can Oi doose for ya? Huh, huh, huh.”

  Her eyes twinkle in merriment and her round cheeks frame an upturned bow of a mouth. She is the very picture and embodiment of a sweet, happy girl. Her constant deep throat chuckles are a consistent part of her loving exuberance.

  “I am disheartened to report that we are less than pleased with the linen services to date. It would bring us such joy if you could see to improving your skills in the all important position of our laundry girl. This gravely serious position is often overlooked in its difficulties and complexities. I am sure you will be able to improve your skills, should you apply yourself, my dear.”

  The upturned bow of Miss Purvey’s mouth is pulled to the floor. The cheeks wash into a deathly pallor and then flush again in ugly red splotches. The jolly eyes are now brimming, no, make that overflowing, with a salty river of tears. Her face is suddenly sopping wet with fluids gushing from every orifice. The perpetual deep-throated laugh now turns to a gasping, stuttered sob.

  “Huh, huh, huh. Oh, no! Huh, huh, huh. You’re not ‘appy! Huh, huh, huh. Doin’ deh laundwey ain’t easy! Huh, huh, huh. It’s HAW-WAWD!!! Huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, ehnnnh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh...”

  “Condolescense Purvey just ran from the room in complete emotional distress, crying her pitiful, and sensitive heart out, Ma’am. That poor little ol’ thing. We’ll have to see what we can do to get Miss Purvey feeling better and help get her straightened out.”

  “Of course, Mr. Temperance.”

  ~sniff, sniff, sniff~ “Hey, here comes the food!”

  “Yes, I say, it appears that our footmen from the stable have been recruited to serve dinner. My conjecture is the downstairs maids may consider themselves to be above such menial service.”

  “They’re a little on the snooty side, all right, Ma’am.”

  “Our cook, Miss Millicent Wallaby, has prepared a batch of singing hinnies for you, Sir and Madame. We hope you enjoy them!”

  “Thanks, Jabez! They smell delicious, buddy!”

  “Quite so, thank you, Mr. WilloughSickle.”

  “These pastries look mighty fine, Miss Plumtartt. Rrr. Um, I can’t quite bite into mine, Ma’am.”

  “This is a distressing conclusion when even you do not posses the mandibular strength to bite into said biscuit, Mr. Temperance.”

  “Yes, Ma’am, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am. I ain’t never met a food I couldn’t chew through. Let me try this here nutcracker. Oops! I just broke your cast iron implement on the uncrackable cracker! I’m gonna try the butt of my pistol.”

  “Take a care, Mr. Temperance, for this is proving detrimental to your revolver.”

  “Tee, hee!” giggles Horbaz WilloughSickle as the grinning Scotsman presents an enormous tureen of soup. “I be thinking the coook ‘as prepared ye a loovely sooup. Aye! Tee, hee! The coook is a clever lass and has loo-cated a specialty ladle for the dispensation of ‘er extraor-r-r-r-rdeenair-reelee theeck sooop.”

  “Hey there, Mr. Horbaz, sir. That there device presented for the serving of the soup is one that I believe is normally used in the serving of frozen dairy treats. It has a six inch handle. The ladle is in-line with the handle as opposed to being at the ninety degree mark. It is constructed of a heavier gauge metal than most kitchen implements. A thumb-activated lever works to swing a thin blade along the ladle’s bowl, thus freeing the contents from their delivery system.”

&
nbsp; “Eh hem, I see that a modicum of strength is required for our Mr. WilloughSickle to fill the scoop with the, indeed, extraordinarily thick soup. In fact, you must scrape at the resisting surface several times to fill each of our portions. These begrudgingly drop from the sturdy little ladle with the assistance of the thumb activated scoop release. The device does though form the gel into admittedly charming spheres.”

  “May I have that utensil, please, Mr. WilloughSickle?” Mr. Temperance indicates the awkward soup ladle. “Its construction has given me an idea.”

  “Tee, hee! I give it freely, boot dinnae tell the cook where ye got it. Tee, hee!”

  “Um, Miss Plumtartt? I’m finding that a few cautious pokes of the ‘soup’ with the tines of my fork is producing a creepy effect. Shudders pulsate through the crusted, gelled and pudding-like form that is very much like a dis-en-shelled mollusk or conch.”

  “Yes, Mr. Temperance, as I conduct my own tentative, investigative, probes, I too suffer from a deep loathing at the unidentifiable tubes that withdraw within this brave new life form.”

  “Maybe we should hold off before we dive in.”

  “I foresee fish as the next course, Mr. Temperance. Let us hope that Miss Wallaby enjoys more success with her aquatic culinary adventures.”

  “Oh, I think she will, Miss Plumtartt. I heard the page boy, Spike McGilligin, saying that we got in a nice, fresh batch of mackerel today. Why lookey here, I think it’s coming up now.”

  “Eh hem, I see that our course of fish being served is a baked dish. ‘Stargazer Pie,’ I think it is called. It is noted for having the fish’s tails and heads protruding from the crust to assure the diner of a positive, fish presence.”

  “Yes, Ma’am, I see that, but I’m thinkin’ this one may be under done, as the heads and tails that protrude from the golden flakey upper crust are still quite mobile. The tails are just-uh swishing in excitement at being invited to the party.”

  “I see. The eyes loll and the mouths gasp in wonder, eh hem?”

  “I really am pretty hungry, Ma’am. Do you think Millicent will let me have a piece of bread?”

  “Ah, the tiny porcelain bell at my disposal has the good-humoured Jabez WilloughSickle trotting forward.”

  “Bread for Mr. Temperance, please.”

  “Yes, Mum, I’ll be back in a jiffy!”

  “I like those grooms, Miss Plumtartt. Jabez and Horbaz let me do barn chores with them this afternoon.”

  “Are you sure they were not somehow tricking you into doing their work for them?”

  “Hunh? Well, knowing Horbaz, I reckon there may have been a bit of that, but that’s just part of his charm. I wouldn’t mind if they did fool me a little; I still enjoyed my time with them. Hey, here comes Horbaz. He’s carrying a tray with a large, domed lid.”

  “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,

  SPIIIIIIII-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.”