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

by Ichabod Temperance

  “Yes, Madame?” His charming, ear to ear smile grants the elegant butler a weightless buoyancy.

  “I should like to congratulate you on your preparations. The house is in splendid condition for the receiving of guests.”

  “OOOOOOOOOh, thank you, Madame, but in truth, I cannot accept all the credit. A most fortuitous occurrence has happened, for the employment agency has unexpectedly sent out more help. I have decided that the best fit for our newest arrival within the staff shall be as a personal secretary to me. I should very much like you to meet him. Oh, Uppsey, come in here a moment, would you?”

  I catch meself doing a perfect double take for the bloke that comes prancing in here is the exact doppleganger of our Manlington, in every respect; he wears the exact same shoes and tailored butler’s suit. His is a perfect mimicry of expression. With an aura of happy, effeminate exuberance, this caucazoidal interpretation is a perfect replica of Manlington. He shyly performs a high speed rendition of faux mincing tippy toes before bursting out in a short series of flighty leaps to drop before Persephabod in a deep curtsy and then to stand beside Manlington, as his exact twin. Except one is a very dark complected black man and the other is a very light complected white man with a high, broad forehead, and a thin hooked beak for a schnoz.

  “Madame Plumtartt, and Master Ichabod, may I present my personal secretary, Mr. Bobby Uppsey, Sr.”

  “Good Evening, Madame and my Lord. I cannot tell you how I thrill to attain this position. I am very much your humble servant. And may one make to be so bold, I adore your colour schemes, my dear!”

  “Thank you, Uppsey!” cries a surprised looking Lady Plumtartt. Her perfect puss is positively apoplectic. His Lordship, the sappy little master, is dumbstruck at the horrible apparition of two Manlingtons.

  A sharp, metallic ‘klack’ reverberates through the marbled front Hall as someone has lifted and released one of the front door’s Great Knockers.

  “We’ll get it!” sing out Uppsey and Manlington in harmonic unison, but before even the Olympic speeds of the dynamic doormen can reach the entrance, the impatient visitor has violently ‘KLACK!KLACK!KLACKED! the door several more times.

  Simultaneously, Manlington and Uppsey swing open the two front doors. In cheery chorus they call out:

  “Good evening, and welcome to Plumtartt Manor!”

  The hand sweeping gesture is combined with floor grazing bows. The jovial butlers graciously show the angry and glaring couple of Thurston and Beulah Purrington into the Purgatorial Parlor to await the other guests. At least they have enough sense to be fashionably late. The third, and hairiest member of the Purrington party is asked to wait outside.

  “Give us some food or drink or something!” orders Mr. Purrington.

  “Yeah, we didn’t make Winnifred carry us all the way over here for nothing!” grinds out a grimacing Beulah Purrington.

  ~Klack!~

  “We’ll get it!”

  The doors are once again swung open with a cheerful chorused welcome and a duodic sweeping bow to reveal the Colonel and Mrs. WinterBottom.

  “Jolly good, two butlers eh? Just rubbing our noses in our inability to afford even one butler much less two butlers, eh, you scoundrels? Heh, heh, just having you on, ol’ boy. Heh, heh, heh. Burbity. But really, two butlers, my word.”

  “Howdy Colonel, we sure are glad to have you and Mrs. WinterBottom over tonight. Hey there, Thurston and Beulah, do you all know Colonel WinterBottom and his spiritualist wife Mrs. WinterBottom? She is the one who will conduct our séance tonight.”

  “We’ve been neighbors for ten years but have never actually spoken. How do you do, I am Mrs. Okslanakishnia WinterBottom, and yours was Purrington? Beulah Purrington?”

  “Yeah, it was and still is. I know you people. You’re the snooty couple that leaves their Christmas decorations up past New Year’s.”

  “Burbity-burb. You must be from the distasteful menagerie-ridden home featuring the unsightly compost heap.”

  “It’s organic!”

  Klackity!-Klackity!-Klackity!-Klackity!-Klackity!

  Klackity!-Klackity!-Klackity!-Klackity!-Klackity!

  Somebody knows how to work those knockers!

  Signora Francesca Angelina Marianna Sforza bursts in, not bothering to wait on ebony and ivory to open the doors for her. Mr. Sforza saunters in, drawn upon the vacuum left in the sweeping wake of the onrushing Italian dreadnaughtte.

  “Hey! It’s-ah me, Signora Francesca Angelina Marianna Sforza! I have-ah come to-ah the Plumtartt Manor! Henh? Oh, such a beautiful House! Oh, such beautiful peoples! I love this place! I love-ah the scary animal farm peoples! I love the weirdo Colonel and his wacky wife that is here to talk to the ghoststessess-ahs! Si! How I love the funny dress Mrs. Ah-WinterBottom is wearing. The top of throat to floor length wrap hides every inch of her pasty skin. Even the hands they are hiding away up the sleeves of this vaguely eastern wizardry shiny dark purpley dress robe covered in the stars, moons and planets. All the ladies, they gots-ah the cumulus chasing hairs, but this spiritualista, she hides every strand up under the paisley turban with big cheesy fake ruby on the front. I love-ah how her eyes grow even larger at my words and try to jump out-ah her face from their creepy blue craters! Ha! Ha! I love-ah the funny twin butlers and the annoyed little page boy. I loves this American with the stupido face, but it is YOU, Persephone, that Signora Francesca Angelina Marianna Sforza loves-ah the best!”

  “I am so very charmed, Signora.”

  “Sure! Of course, you are, you betcha! Everybody wants the Signora to love them-ah. Sure! Ha! Ha! So? When you gone-ah quits the pussy-footing around and show us the good stuff, Persephone? Like-ah-h-h-h-h, how’s about showing us the Plumtartt Family Jewel collection, henh? I just know that you must have the great big piles of the jewels laying around in here somewheres. Maybe you got-ah the treasure chest in-ah your room hidden under the bed, henh? I do not see you displaying the many priceless treasures that your family has no doubt acquired over the centuries. Just look at Signora Francesca Angelina Marianna Sforza! How I love to display my precious gems! That is why I have chosen to wear this blood red strapless silk gown! When combined with my fiery red mane of billowed magnificence, I am the perfect exhibitional territory. My many multi-coloured rings of enormous size adorn the painted nail fingers of my lovely hands, si? Here is my Opal. Here is my Carbuncle. Behold my jewel encrusted bracelets; they are but a small balance to the incredible earrings that dangle so seductively around my beautiful face and the glittering diamond necklace that ends with the famous Sforza Stone that falls into the inviting abyss of Signora’s plunging cleavage formed by my glorious gazoombas. The Colonel likes-ah this diamond I am thinking because his gaze lingers upon it with drooling lust in his ogle, ogly, oglying eyes. Hey! Swami lady! Get your depraved letch army boy on-ah the leash, henh?”

  “In truth, this House’s wealth lies in its rich history rather than in actual treasure, so to speak. And while I do possess a modest jewelry collection, it is nothing to rival that of yourself, Signora.”

  “Henh? Yeah, yeah, sure, sure.”

  “Well!” Manlington claps his kidde gloved hands together in front of him, “I suggest a brief tour of the house, to soak in a bit of the atmosphere, before we begin tonight’s occultish escapades. I have taken the liberty of skimming through a few of the more notable points of interest in the long and illustrious Plumtartt lineage.”

  Manlington goes to lead the ensemble to the parlour door. He is almost there when his head and shoulders turn back into the room one second and two steps before his feet.

  “And of course I know that this will all be of the greatest interest to you, my young protégé, Spike McGilligin!”

  The towering tittering tyrant takes and tosses me toward the tour to attend the trip.

  “These marble floors we tread upon were quarried from the African country Kengo’s Holy Mountains of Eternal Tranquility, deep within the ‘Jungle of No Refund’. As you can see, the Ete
rnal Tranquility was interrupted by English confiscation. This banister that your hand rests upon for support up the Grand Stair is thought to be the only example of wood left from Conya’s extinct species of tree, plantus guudbiius.”

  The Grand Stair splits into two opposite stairs at the landing, then that set of stairs splits again. Every landing has a bust of some favored monarch and an accompanying amusing anecdote from Manlington’s endless font of quirky lore. A long hallway with a distant ceiling contains a disapproving gallery of stern Plumtartts through history. They stare down from their crowded mass of ancient paints with a stern bearing that reaches across the gulf of time. Looking at us with disdain, they seem to know that we are lesser men than they. General ‘So and So’ Plumtartt’s heroic service at the ‘Battle of Kiquemendegroiinne’, and Admiral ‘Wot’sis’ Plumtartt and how after he tore away the defenses of his cowering foes, he came to be known as ‘The Marauder of Bikini Bay’.

  The trophy room, bearing the spoils from dozens of animal slaying safaris, is thankfully bypassed by unanimous consent.

  We get to one hallway that only has one painting in it. The painter probably obtained his canvas from one of the admiral’s own Ship of the Line’s mainsails because the horrible thing looks likes it measures seven fathoms in height, and half a league in length. The terrible sea battle depicted involves scores of ships in far too great of graphic detail than is comfortable for those of us of gentle constitution. It must have taken a hundred maniacal painters to work out this gory masterpiece. Our party hugs the opposite wall as the violence shown gives the impression of wanting to draw us in.

  “This display of Native weaponry is gathered from infringement on many fearsome and tenacious warrior peoples. The vast array and assortment of spears, animal-hide shields, tomahawks, axes, boomerangs, knives, blowguns, and swords of unending variation were relieved of their rightful owners’ possession at gunpoint by the family Plumtartt’s fearless and courageous forebears.”

  It is announced that the Cathedral like vaulted ceiling hall we are entering is the North Annex. Built in commemoration of sending some promising, bloodthirsty, junior Plumtartt off on some distant gruesome Holy ordeal, this is supposed to be the oldest and most historic aspect in this old pile of a house.

  “As you can see by the ladders and scaffolding in place, there is still repair being done to the stained glass window after the unfortunate events of early last summer. A terrible monster attacked this very House in an attempt to kill Miss Plumtartt. The creature pushed itself up this wall and then entered through this window, depicting St. George slaying his dragon. The lower half of the window was damaged or destroyed. Most of the top portion was unharmed. Repairs have been vigorously under way and are now almost complete, hence the ladders and scaffolds that you see in place. Note the unusual architectural style the designer used as he conveys the prow of a ship in the outward protruded vertex. This rises to flatten again into our wonderful display in glass. The flanking doorways of the convex construction lead to outdoor terraces that provide a breath-taking view of The Great Sucking Death Mire that extends for as far as one can see to our North.”

  “I’ve had enough of a history lesson,” barks Thurston Purrington. “Enough piddlin’ about, let’s get to the main event.”

  “Hey! I don’t-ah believes it, but I, Signora Francesca Angelina Marianna Sforza agrees with the bitterly angry bearded man. If-ah you no show-ah us the gems, then I guess-ah we get on with the ghosteses act. What do you say, Mrs. SwamiBottom? You-ah ready to talks to the spooks?”

  “Those that exist beyond our flimsy corporeal mass beckon to us.” Unblinking peepers scan the tour. “If Miss Plumtartt is ready to proceed, than so am I.”

  “Of course, Mrs. WinterBottom. Uppsey and Manlington, would you be so kind as to navigate us back to the parlor chosen for our specter, spectral analysis?”

  “We would be delighted!” is happily sung to us in duodic dulcet tones.

  The ballerina butlers escort us back to the Petite Grande Sitting Salon. Every one is shown to their seat. I am not happy about where I am told to go and what I am told to do.

  “Now, Spike, be a good little man and climb aboard the bicycle. Master Temperance has assured me that contrary to appearance, it is perfectly safe.”

  I looks with some skepticism at the chore and responsibility I have been bequeathed.

  Gripping the pommel, I puts me foot ons the first pedal, and then I swings me leg over the saddle. Oh! I don’t like heights!

  “Now just sit tight, my helpful little chap, and we’ll be right back to you. Everyone, spread out around this circular table, if you please. That’s it, first Madame Plumtartt, then Master Temperance. Then Beulah and Thurston Purrington. Next we have Signora Francesca Angelina Marianna Sforza and then Mr. Sforza, and we are back around for Mrs. WinterBottom and Colonel WinterBottom. The only staff present are myself, my secretary, Bobby Uppsey Sr., and Spike McGilligin. The rest of the staff have been asked to stay in their quarters this evening. As is plainly seen, there is an added nuance in this attempt to speak across the beyond. Our American Beau of the House, Master Ichabod Temperance, has some macabre experiment that he wishes to conduct during the anticipated event. It’s something along the lines of drawing raw ectoplasm from out of the air itself should the sufficient amount of spiritual amplitude be achieved. To assist in the enhancement of the process, Mr. Temperance has employed our household page, Spike McGilligin, to pedal the tricycle that we have brought inside. The six foot tall, pedal driven wheel to the fore is held aloft to allow it to remain stationary. The two miniature rear tyres have been securely chocked. The primary wheel’s tyre has been removed from its hub so that a belt may rest in its channel. The belt runs to a dynamo electricity generator situated before our distrustful servant. You may start pedaling now, Spike.”

  “Oi bettuh get another sweet little tip out of this.”

  “Madame WinterBottom, the table is yours.”

  “Thank you, Manlington,” Mrs. WinterBottom’s spooky dark eyes survey the members of the round table one by one. The severe frown clamped on her mug conveys the gravity of the proceeding. “Everyone slow their breathing. Close your eyes and let your mind go blank.”

  The room does grow strangely quiet, except for me bloody pedaling. A somber mood descends over the circle of séance. Everyone’s breathing becomes synchronized and the whole room jumps as one when a huge flash of lightning and clap of thunder announces the arrival of a violent storm.

  “Should we grasp one another’s hands, thus creating a joined circle, perhaps, eh hem?”

  “I didn’t know there was gonna be any hand holding!Thurston only gets to hold my hand once a month, and then only if he’s completed his chores! Do you expect me to hold the hand of this ‘Temperance’ person? Oi don’t like it!”

  “Hey, Purrington lady, maybe you should try holding your hubby’s hand more often because he is over here trying to get all he can out-ah of my delectable digits!”

  “Oi gots itchy palms!”

  “Ha, ha! I betcha you do! Ha, ha!”

  “I require everyone to lightly place their fingers on the table,” speaks the deadpan voice of Mrs. WinterBottom. The assembled guests look about at one another and then do as they are told.

  “Shush! Settle your thoughts and breathe deeply. Everyone must calm their minds and open their spirits to visitation.”

  “WWWWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOh”

  “Great spirits of the unknowable beyond, hear us that call to you from the world of the living. We wish to communicate with one of your new arrivals.”

  The rising winds viciously whip about the house. The howling gale rattles the windows. A particularly strong gust even sends a blast of air down the chimney, disturbing the fire. The dancing light causes spooky shadows to dance about the room like fleeting images of wild demons. A little of the wind forces its way through window cracks to make the candles nervous.

  “Come to our world!” Mrs. WinterBottom sways
in her seat and stares without seeing before her. “Speak to us, those who have crossed over into the world of spirits! Let us be in communication with Malachi CruikShank!”

  Lightning, thunder, wind and rain buffet the massive Manor heralding the arrival of the undead’s entrance.

  As if from a great distance, the tiny tinkling of a tambourine’s jangly cymbals can faintly be heard. My blood runs cold and my spine nearly melts away. I desperately want to quit this awful tricycle, but I dare not with Manlington just three feet away.

  I see many frightened exchanges move about the table.

  “Malachi CruikShank! Speak to us! Give us a sign!”

  The table is moving! The participants appear very panicked to see this. All of their hands are in plain sight and no one is affecting the table’s movement. Nevertheless, the side with Mrs. WinterBottom looks like it is slowly rising!

  “Speak to us, Malachi!”

  Mrs. WinterBottom snaps about in place several times and then appears to be not quite herself. It is a very different voice that speaks to us. It is a more manly voice.

  “I hear you call to me. I am the sad wretched spirit that was once Malachi CruikShank. I was murdered in this house. The killer was Bishop RooksPawn. But no, it was the Curse! The Curse of Plumtartt Manor! RooksPawn was possessed and driven to slay me, Malachi CruikShank. Vengeful phantoms haunt these halls. The Curse of Plumtartt Manor killed me! You should all flee this house...”

  ~Snap! thud.~

  The sharp, cracking sound of breaking wood coincides with the table falling abruptly its few inches to the floor.

  “Ouch! Oh, I’ve got a devil of a splinter.”

  “Might I be of assistance, Colonel WinterBottom?” injects Manlington as he bounds to the Colonel’s side. “I really am good at this sort of thing. Just hold the injury to the light. Yes, you received a nasty little splinter in your wrist when that slat of wood you had secreted up your sleeve broke. It was clever, though, how you were able to sneak it underneath the edge to support this side of the table’s weight and thus create the illusion of the furniture’s levitation.