A Malevolent Manner (Patrick Pierce #1)

by William Scott

  *

  Talk around the dinner table was as innocuous as he’d been led to believe and mostly centered on the food that was passed around. To the delight of those assembled, the cooks had prepared a dish for all of them. Each member in turn praised it and tried to get their neighbour to try it. Pierce had gladly accepted the offer of paella from De la Gena, though had turned down the Borscht from Sirinova. Pierce had been surprised to find a platter of poutine placed before him. Though hesitant to try at first, his dining companions quickly warmed to the dish of rich gravy, creamy cheese curds, and crunchy fried potatoes.

  Despite being a new commodity, Pierce found himself doing more listening than speaking. No one appeared to be terribly interested in him or his past, to his great relief. He did however offer the odd comment to conversations, hoping his overall reticence would be ignored.

  “I simply adored horse drawn sleigh rides on the outskirts of Moscow,” admitted Sirinova. “The white expanses and invigorating air. You must have found the same thing in your Canadian winter’s comrade Commandant.”

  “Yes, invigorating,” Pierce replied simply to her question, while De la Gena shivered beside him.

  Pierce was able to offer similar single sentence comments to the conversations around him during the first half of the dinner. This proved difficult as the dinner, and the wine, progressed. He had to work carefully to not get drawn into some of the more heated discussions.

  “How can you say Shakespeare was a hack,” inquired a man in laced collar a few seats down. “The man was a genius.”

  “Not in German,” replied Schell, sitting across from him. He had a smirk on his face that Pierce had seen on his friend before. Schell probably had no views on Shakespeare one way or another, but merely wanted to have some fun at another’s expense.

  “Of course not, he was English.”

  “Exactly my point. A real genius is able to transcend simple things like language. Like Beethoven.”

  “So then why was he translated into so many languages?”

  “The bible has been translated into every known language,” offered Schell cheekily. “But it’s still a weak piece of literature.”

  “That’s sacrilege!” banged De la Gena on the table.

  “Signor, that’s not a terribly forceful counterpoint,” countered Sirinova, then turning to smile at Schell a few seats down. “Now Marx was very persuasive…”

  “You’re all missing the point,” interrupted Lace Collar, trying to refocus the conversation. “Shakespeare was a genius, even in translation.”

  “Perhaps he was in other languages,” admitted Schell. “Senor, does Shakespeare’s genius reveal itself in Spanish?”

  “The man was a damned heretic and a favourite of the evil Queen!” spat De la Gena still indignant from the bible comments.

  “But was he a genius?” prodded Schell.

  “He was nothing of the kind.”

  “God save the Queen!” sang out Lace Collar, eager to defend his ancient monarch and forgetting his previous argument.

  The conversations continued like this as the plates were removed and replaced with port and cheese. Pierce assumed that cultural and historic arguments were being made up and down the table, judging from the animated faces and rising voices surrounding him. The odd cackle and bellow of laughter told him that not all of the conversations were confrontational. This was probably due to the fact that Wilhelm Schell was at only one end of the table.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” Cleaver announced after tinkling his glass and standing. The conversations of those gathered around the long table slowly diminished and fell silent within seconds. “Thank you all for taking part in yet another successful Reminiscence. Sadly, as you may have noticed, our great leader Lord Lodge was not able to join us. He instructed me to pass on his regret for not attending, although his short respite for the Manor has done him well.”

  “Lord Cleaver!” called out Colonel Bufford as Cleaver paused during his speech. “A question for you sir, if you’ll answer it.”

  Cleaver took the interruption in stride, nodding his head in the Colonel’s direction. Bufford took the motion as a sign to proceed and stood to address the head of the table.

  “I can’t speak for everyone here,” he began, as half of those assembled either looked skyward or rolled their eyes. “But I know some of us are champing at the bit so to speak.”

  “You always are,” accepted Cleaver smiling.

  “Well, what can you tell us of the next hunt? It’s been almost a month and many of us are ready for another.” An echo of agreement spread around most of the table.

  “Well I can tell you that Mr. Drummond’s staff have been hard at work looking for a suitable challenge,” he began cautiously as the faces around in the room gave him their undivided attention. “And a hunt is indeed forthcoming.”

  “Who will we be hunting?” inquired Bufford fully aroused.

  “I cannot divulge all the details,” responded Cleaver. “They’re still being sorted out. However I can provide you with a preliminary time and place.”

  With this voices around the table began to murmur and whisper. Everyone was excited to find out any detail.

  “The hunt will take place in Twentieth century Portugal and Spain.”

  This information was like a fuse reaching its end and the room exploded into energetic chatter. Everyone seemed to have a view or something to say about this news. Veronique Laflamme was gushing while she exclaimed that she simply adored Barcelona. Meanwhile Colonel Bufford hooted and hollered, while waving a pair of pistoled fingers around the air.

  Pierce was one of the few members without a reaction. At first he believed that he’d been the only one to hear Bufford’s question properly and Cleaver neglect to correct him. However as he looked at those at the table and the uniforms they wore, he realized no mistake had been made to correct. Bufford had asked who they were going to hunt, not what.

  Bile began to creep up his throat as the full brunt of the realization hit him. Everyone was excitedly discussing hunting down a human being in Spain. He felt dizzy and sick to his stomach, starting to sway slightly in his seat.

  Without realizing it a pair of waiters had come up behind him and helped him out of his seat and out of the room, drawing as little attention as possible.

  “Are you alright my Lord?” inquired one of the waiters returning with a glass of water. He handed it to Pierce, who had been deposited on a couch in a hallway outside of the dining room.

  Pierce took a sip and nodded slowly. It took all of his power to maintain his composure as Dr. Cleaver emerged from the dining room and approached him.

  “My poor fellow,” he exclaimed in concern. “Mme. Laflamme just told me you were looking slightly pale before dinner. I hope you haven’t over exerted your self.”

  Unable to speak, Pierce simply took another sip of water.

  “All of these foreign foods can create havoc on a person’s constitution. Let me check you quickly.” The doctor conducted various examinations in swift succession, finally reaching a conclusion with a series of nods. “Elevated heart rate, quick pulse, pale skin, but no fever. With some rest you should be fine.”

  Dr. Cleaver instructed the waiters to take him up to Pierce’s rooms and to inform his valet. As the one went to fetch Melrose, Pierce stopped him with a raised hand.

  “Sir?” he inquired, anxious to complete Cleavers order.

  “After you inform Melrose, get MacDuff for me.”