The Muse and Other Stories of History, Mystery, and Myth

by Lillian Stewart Carl

  Isabella, the king’s mother, is the same French princess who appears in the movie Braveheart, where almost nothing except her nationality is portrayed accurately. To begin with, she was six years old at the time of William Wallace’s judicial murder. . . .

  The bit of business with the child and the nutshell came from an article I read in a women’s magazine, probably while in a doctor’s waiting room, many years ago. You just never know what will come in handy.

  Sardines for Tea

  I’m here to tell you, all a fellow really needs for a full life is regular meals, a place on the hearth rug, and the occasional scratch behind the ears. If the cook finds it in her heart and menu to dispense a few sardines come tea time, then that simply crosses the t’s in contentment.

  So imagine my disgust one afternoon when I was awakened from the all-too-rare sunbath by a caterwauling of human voices. I sat up, stretched, smoothed my whiskers, and cantered off toward the main staircase. My elder colleague, Jasper, was already poised behind the balusters, tail wrapped tidily around his forefeet, eyeing the proceedings with the air of a judge regarding the worst sort of miscreant.

  “I say,” said I, as I took up a position beside him, “how’s a chap to get his eighteen hours of peaceful slumber when all Hades breaks loose in the entrance hall?”

  “Ah, there you are, young Bingo,” Jasper returned. “I regret to say that the humans have encountered a spot of bother. One moment they were sitting about in languid poses, digesting their midday repast and discussing current events. In the next moment Mrs. Arbuthnot burst through the door shrieking fit to singe one’s ears. By the by,” he added, “this fellow Lindbergh looks to have completed his flight, although if he wished to fly I should think a short trip amongst the trees, nabbing the odd bird on his way, would be much more sensible than this crossing the ocean business.”

  Nodding in agreement, I inserted my head between the balusters, all the better to see the scene below.

  Even at a low volume, Mrs. Arbuthnot’s voice could rattle the cups in their saucers. Now, in full cry, it made the veritable welkin ring. “Where is that constable! It’s only a moment’s cycle ride from the village—are you sure you rang the correct number, Violet?”

  “I spoke to the man myself, Sadie, and he promised to make all possible haste.” Lady Mompesson’s alabaster complexion had become a shade of mauve that contrasted poorly with her gray hair.

  “Constable?” I queried Jasper.

  “I regret to say that Mrs. Arbuthnot has suffered a theft,” he returned.

  “Good heavens!”

  As if to acquaint the entire household with her dilemma, Mrs. A. yelled, “Stolen! The Eye of the Tiger, the Arbuthnot family heirloom! My late husband’s great grandfather brought it home from India!”

  “Oh, ah,” said Lord Mompesson, his moustache quivering as though it had been blessed with the acute sensitivity of a cat’s whiskers. “Green, was it? Whacking great emerald set in little gold doodahs?”

  “I wore it last night at dinner.” Mrs. A’s glittering eye skewered poor Lord M. like a lepidopterist a butterfly.

  Celia Mompesson, slender limbs and golden curls all a-tremble, stepped forward to have a go at soothing the savage. “I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding. Perhaps you’ve mislaid it . . .”

  “Mislaid a priceless jewel, child? I think not! I put it away in my jewelry box when I retired, and this morning before I came down for breakfast I placed the box in the wardrobe. This afternoon I found the box there but the necklace gone!”

  “A bit thick, what?” I said to Jasper.

  He applied a quick lick to his impeccably groomed black fur. “Positively glutinous, young Bingo.”

  The bulging eye of the Arbuthnot rejected Celia as small game, and turned toward the lanky form of Freddie Quirk, leaning with an unconcerned air against the library door. “You there. Quirk. Your room is next to mine. You never came down to breakfast this morning—the younger generation, lying abed til all hours—did you see or hear anything?”

  Freddie stood up and straightened his tie, which of was a spiffing horseshoe design. Beside me Jasper shuddered, obviously not appreciating the man’s sartorial qualities.

  “Well,” said Freddie, his already long face elongating to where you’d expect him to be wearing horseshoes himself, “a bit difficult, isn’t it, to keep one’s eyes on the next room at the same time they’re closed in sleep. Although . . .” His face corrugated in thought.

  Celia clasped her hands, eyeing the man as though he were a star of the cinema, when in reality he looked to me like the sort of human gumboil she often had lounging at her feet. I mean to say, she’ll eventually marry and leave the house, but there’s no need for such a kind, gentle girl, a dab hand with a ball of yarn or a paper tied to a bit of twine, to rush too quickly from the parental embrace, is there?

  “I do believe I heard something, a door shutting or a heavy tread, as of the footsteps of a substantial sort of person, that penetrated even my sweet dreams.” Here Freddie smiled a smile of exceeding fatuousness at Celia, who simpered so hideously in return I promised myself I’d turn a blind eye and cold shoulder on her next overture with paper and string.

  At this critical juncture the doorbell rang. Without standing on ceremony—the butler stood with the rest of the domestic staff, huddled in the back hallway like chickens over whom has passed the shadow of a hawk—Lord M threw open the door.

  Not unexpectedly, a uniformed officer of the law stood upon the doorstep. “Police Constable Rupert Worple,” he announced. “What’s all this then? A robbery, you say. . . “ His eye fell upon the beauteous Celia. He whisked his hat off his head, revealing a face equipped with granite jaw, clear gaze, and intelligent brow.

  Mrs. A stepped into his line of sight like an elephant lumbering into the gunsights. “I’ve been robbed of a priceless necklace!”

  The officer reeled back a pace, then collected himself. “Has anyone left the house since you last saw your necklace?”

  “No, not a bit of it,” offered Lord Mompesson. “I was just having a word with Thatcher about the wine cellar and saw all the servants, including Mrs. Arbuthnot’s maid, gathered in the kitchen.”

  Ah, the kitchen, I repeated to myself. The domain of Mrs. Beecham. She was, I understand, the despair of the scullery maid, who in the course of her duties had to clear away the bits of meat, fish, and other comestibles that came flying from Mrs. Beecham’s expert hands as she worked. But, I ask you, should an artist be expected to keep tidy like lesser mortals? I think not.

  “Well then,” said P.C. Worple, “if you’d be so good as to collect the servants here in the hall, and show me the scene of the crime.”

  “Thatcher,” Lord Mompesson called to the butler. “See to it.”

  “Very good, my lord.” Thatcher’s slicked-back hair and lipless face gave him the appearance of a snake, if not in the grass then amongst the carpets. A fine specimen of a butler he might be, but he regarded the odd hairball, deposited discreetly upon the fringes of the Persian, with a very cold eye, which rather soured my view of him, if you take my meaning.

  He began chivvying the staff, including the rotund figure of Mrs. Beecham in her capacious but far from clean apron, and the scrawny one of Mrs. Arbuthnot’s maid from their lurking place.

  Meanwhile the other humans started up the stairs. I tried to remove my head from between the balusters and found it stuck. “Jasper. . . .”

  “Allow me, young Bingo.” With the slightest pressure of his teeth, Jasper seized the nape of my neck and pulled me forth like a cork from a bottle. I paused for a moment to smooth my fur back into place. I fancy that its golden color, not to mention the hint of a ruff at my throat, gives me a resemblance to the king of beasts, and no aristocrat should let himself be observed in disarray.

  Here came all the pairs of feet clomping up the staircase. Celia paused to tickle my ears—I re-thought my ill-considered impulse to give her the cut direct—and to my surpris
e, the young Lochinvar of the law offered his sturdy hand to Jasper’s discerning nose.

  “Come along,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot, as Freddie led the way down the corridor in the manner of a hound after a fox—if humans had had tails with which to express themselves, one would have been able to see it upraised in excitement behind him.

  Jasper wrinkled his nose. “P.C. Worple smells of soap and toast, a good honest smell. But which of them is scented with that heavy floral odor?”

  “That’s Mrs. Arbuthnot’s perfume,” I answered. “Offends the old nostrils like flowers left too long in the vase without a change of water, what? I caught a snootful when she turfed me out of her wardrobe this morning, just as I was settling down for the odd eighty winks on her silk peignoir.”

  “Neither Celia nor Lady Mompesson would deign to pour such an offensive odor upon themselves. Lord Mompesson’s bay rum is quite refreshing, considering . . .” Here Jasper paused, as though putting action to word and considering indeed.

  I left him to his cogitations and whiskered down the stairs. The servants were standing about babbling, although not as a brook, merrily. Thatcher stood aloof, displaying his habitual stuffed-frog expression. I slipped between him and the others and aimed for the back hall, thinking that perhaps some morsel of provender had been left unguarded in the kitchen when the Arbuthnot balloon went up. But I was distracted from my purpose by an odd smell.

  One of the humans had a bit of an air. It was not Mrs. Beecham, the old dear, who smiled benignly down upon me as I passed. She was scented with her usual glorious fragrance—kipper, beefsteak, and the finest Stilton. Not for nothing does Lord Mompesson resemble a bowl of jelly caught in a stiffish breeze.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot’s maid, Dolly, stood wringing her hands, her long, thin face set in such deep lineaments of concern that it resembled one or two thoroughbreds of my acquaintance. As her hands met and twisted, they emitted the spicy odor of nutmeg. I’m here to tell you, nutmeg is not one of my favorite flavors—it falls far short of poached salmon or day-old mouse—but I’d not pass up the chance to nip a bit of apple pie from Celia’s lovely fingers. Delicately, mind you, never being so inconsiderate as to bite the hand that feeds me.

  Nutmeg, it occurred to me as I trotted on down the hall toward the kitchen, was rarely served with breakfast. I cast my tongue’s memory back over the array of silver salvers on the sideboard—warm enough to burn the inquisitive nose, I’d discovered once in my impetuous youth. Kedgeree, kidneys, bacon, poached eggs. No nutmeg.

  And why should a lady’s maid be scented with food at all? This was something to be considered. No need to call on Jasper’s deductive abilities. I could solve this mystery myself.

  I altered my trajectory and oiled through the half-open door of the pantry. Here amongst the teapots and platters the odor of nutmeg was gaggingly strong. In fact, I discovered by inspecting the sole of my foot, a few grains lay upon the floor. Pulling a face—really, the things one is forced to do upon occasion—I licked the offending bits away and then turned my attention upwards.

  It was the work of but a moment to leap upward and land with my usual grace and dignity upon the shelf. The tins and bottles were lined up in good order, like the soldiers standing to attention in one of Lord M.’s photographs, waiting for the sergeant major to send them into culinary battle. Pepper, mustard, nutmeg. . . .

  The solution to the robbery flashed upon me at this point, entire and complete. Dolly had purloined her mistress’s jewel and tucked it away, here in the pantry, to be retrieved at her convenience. No wonder the maid’s face was etched so deeply with anxiety. It was not anxiety for Mrs. A—indeed, I failed to feel much anxiety for Mrs. A—but for herself.

  I nudged the tin of nutmeg to the edge of the shelf and let it fall. Gravity being what it is, the ensuing explosion was most gratifying. The lid of the tin shot out one way, the body another, and the darkish brownish nutmeg spilled across the floor. I sneezed.

  When I opened my eyes again, I saw humans standing in the doorway. Celia lifted me from my perch. “Why Bingo, you silly creature. What have you done? I’ve never known you to put a paw wrong!”

  My indignation at being accused of clumsiness was mollified by her embrace. I nestled against her bosom, purringly pleased with my own sagacity. And there are those who say that Bingo has nothing but wax between his ears.

  For a long moment P.C. Worple regarded my position, somewhat enviously, I wot. Then, with a shudder as though shaking himself to duty, honor, and country, he squatted down. Withdrawing a pen from his pocket, he lifted something shiny from the fragrant mess. Not the Eye of the Tiger, the big emerald, the object of desire, more’s the pity, but a raggedy-looking gold chain.

  The Arbuthnot squealed like a train approaching a crossing. “My necklace! The jewel’s been ripped from its setting! Infamous, I tell you, infamous!”

  “This is Mrs. Beecham’s pantry,” said Thatcher, his voice dripping doom. “Mr. Quirk averred that he heard the footsteps of a heavy person. Mrs. Beecham must have slipped into Mrs. Arbuthnot’s room whilst the household was at breakfast and stolen the jewel. I’ve always known her to be an untidy and frivolous person, but a thief—I’m shocked, I tell you. Shocked!”

  From the hallway, Lord and Lady Mompesson expressed various doubts and disbeliefs. I could almost hear Lord M.’s avoirdupois deflating. “. . . utter foolishness to imagine a cook of the caliber of Mrs. Beecham would desert her post in the kitchen to go thumping about in people’s bedrooms . . .”

  My whiskers went from jaunty to crestfallen, and the purr was stopped in my throat as by a choking hand. The entire sequence of events, set in train by my rashly following up the scent of nutmeg, rose before me like Hamlet’s father’s ghost.

  Once, when Mrs. Beecham went on her well-deserved but much-lamented holiday, Thatcher had employed a relative as a cook. The female Thatcher was lean, pale, sharp, and shared the Thatcher family’s disdain for the feline species. She provided Jasper and me with nuggets of noxious brown stuff from a bag labeled, for all I know, “kibbled gravel for terrace restoration.”

  Never trust someone who’s lean, pale, and sharp. Their moral faculties tend to be undernourished. We’d have a pretty thin time of it ourselves if Mrs. Beecham were clapped into chokey, and Thatcher’s relative became our cook-in-residence.

  “I’ll have a word with Mrs. Beecham,” said P.C. Worple. Celia, her lovely face furrowed, set me upon the floor, and the humans tottered en masse back toward the entrance hall.

  I was dashed low at that point, I’m here to say. The sight of Jasper sitting alone in the hall, in the manner of a bit of flotsam left upon the beach by a retreating tide, did little to warm the old cockles. I sneezed again.

  “Bless you, young Bingo,” said Jasper.

  “Bless us both,” I retorted, and proceeded to tell him of my ghastly vision of future kibble.

  He cocked his head to the side. “I doubt matters will come to that. May I ask what led you here to the pantry, and why you knocked the nutmeg onto the floor? With all due respect to Miss Celia, you hardly did it by accident.”

  “Well, the dear girl can’t always be right, can she? Look at that loathsome clot Freddie!

  “Of Mr Quirk, more in a moment, but first. . . .”

  “Oh, ah. Yes. I smelled nutmeg on Dolly’s hands, and thought that was a dashed rummy sort of thing, a lady’s maid quaffing the nutmeg and all.”

  “Rummy it is, young Bingo.” Jasper blinked his amber eyes gravely. “I have encountered a similar conundrum. You may remember how I followed the humans to Mrs. Arbuthnot’s bedroom. I was able to slide through the door unobserved by all but Mr. Quirk.”

  “The loathsome clot,” I observed.

  “Indubitably. He detected my presence and went so far as to label me ‘filthy beast’, at which time he urged me from the room with his foot, much in the manner of a man moving a hassock. I naturally increased my weight proportionally, so that he had to exert more effort than he’d original
ly intended, and was at last reduced to leaning over and taking hold of my body.”

  I shuddered at the very image.

  “It was however, at that moment I detected upon his hands the same floral odor as that in Mrs. Arbuthnot’s wardrobe.” Jasper licked his sleek flanks, cleansing them of the befouling touch.

  I pride myself upon my quickness of mind. I pounced on his meaning as though upon one of Celia’s bits of yarn. “You mean to say he stole her bottle of scent?”

  “No,” said Jasper, with only the faintest trace of asperity in the angle of his ears, “I mean to say he stole her necklace whilst she was at breakfast with the rest of the humans.”

  “But, but, I found the necklace here. . . .” I stopped to reconsider. “I found the setting of the necklace is all.”

  “Indeed, young Bingo. Hidden by the hands of Mrs. Arbuthnot’s maid.”

  Voices came from the entrance hall, Mrs. Beecham’s raised in protest, P.C. Worple’s calm and cool. It fair gave one the pip to see the old dear distracted from her duties in kitchen. We definitely needed to find some means of preserving the old status quo.

  But I didn’t need to inform Jasper of this. “The question,” he said, “presents itself in two parts. Firstly, why were the jewel and its setting separated? And secondly, where is the jewel now?”

  Jasper in full ratiocinative flow is an inspiring sight. “I hope you intend to point to Thatcher as the culprit.”

  “As Mr. Thatcher passed by me just now, I took the precaution of sniffing at his hands. They smelled of nothing but freshly-ironed newsprint. I rather suspect that he is merely taking advantage of the situation. No, we have the culprits before our noses—Freddie Quirk and Dolly. Dolly Quirk, I should think. Surely you’ve taken notice of the resemblance between her and the man I believe to be her brother.”