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

by Ichabod Temperance

  Manlington continues to bait the Puritan bear. “Perhaps you would like it if Miss Plumtartt were to call out their names in summons?”

  The zealot’s orbs begin to spin in unnatural orbits.

  “If you think it would help, I should be happy to oblige,” Miss Plumtartt offers, “but I really do not wish to put Mr. BarbarraHaughnne to any distress.”

  “Think nothing of it, Miss Plumtartt! I am sure it would bring an inestimable joy to our shepherd to hear his brothers’ pleasing names being spoken by a non-conformed aristocratic débutante. Their names are...”

  “Dinnae ye spaketh they-are Huh-oly names aloud whithe ye whickedde tah-un-n-n-guh. Aye-it oh-feends me eee-yares. Ye moost aulle close ye nekkid eee-yares to the righteous coon-soo-noonts.”

  Not trusting us to close our ears to the sacred names of his uptight brothers, Jebediah steps off a few feet from us as the harsh and strict old goat molester does not want to soil his brothers’ good names by having the likes of us hear them spoken aloud. He looks back at us and we take the hint in his body language, and skootch away a few more feet and then cover our ears. He judges the distance and then steps away a few more feet. He then turns out to the sullen gray moors. These fog enshrouded stony fields filled with bottomless holes of awful muck hold a strange allure to this imposing man. The bleak and barren landscape has carved its features upon this implacable bulkhead of human endurance. Some hold this walking fortress of faith, Jebidiah BarbarraHaughnne in ridicule; others hold the powerful force of the man in awe.

  He takes a deep breath before bellowing the name of the first brother in a voice that reverberates through the mist with the strength of an ocean liner’s foghorn.

  “Yabadabadubadiah!}}} } } } }”

  The name rolls out across the marsh. Only the sad whistle of the indifferent wind tearing about the house’s staunch presence chooses to respond.

  “Yabadabadubadiah!}}} } } } }”

  We await a returning call but none is delivered. The fierce countenance of the Shepherd grows dark with frustration. A distrustful glance is cast our way before looking back upon the unforgiving landscape. At last, he draws a breath of air that would rival the bellows of Vulcan’s forge.

  “YA-BA-DA-BA-DU-BA-DI-AH!”

  We wait in silence with no results.

  “Perhaps you would like to call up the elder?” Manlington suggests in a most helpful manner.

  After a moment’s angry scowl sent in Manlington’s direction, Mr. BarbarraHaughnne calls to his other brother.

  “Skoobidubidubadiah!”

  “Wher-r-r-r-e a-r-r-r-r-e yo-o-o-u-u-u?}}} } }”

  A fierce rustling of leaves in the trees is our only audible answer. The cruel moors and the gusting wind mock us as we wait for the brothers that do not come.

  “Let us continue the reception,” says a bright and cheery Manlington, but it is obvious that even he, along with all present, is disturbed by the fearful brothers’ absence. When men such as these say they will do something, they do it. If they had indicated that they would attend, then there should be no obstacle that could deter them.

  What could keep these brutish men in check?

  The blond downstairs maids look down upon the new residents from beneath highly arched eyebrows with great disdain, but the upstairs maids make quite a show over the new couple, especially Ichabubs. The Madame ends this little festivity by bodily dragging the little American inside by the rear of his belt.

  The big doors close with a heavy thud. The deep, concussive note sends a leaden wave of silence over the assembly. An indefinable sadness passes through the assembled members of the staff. The wind is picking up in strength, tugging at our clothing, pulling at the dry, late summer leaves and making a mournful moaning howl as it whistles under the balustrades. The staff, that is normally so chatty and high-strung, is strangely melancholy. Without a word, the servants of the great estate shuffle along in desultory fashion to their varied duties. I watch them all go back inside, all but Jebidiah, who stands looking across the unforgiving moors awaiting the return of his kin.

  Chapter Five.

  The Adventure of the

  Reconsidered Signalman.

  This bloody fog is thicker than week old kidney soup. I needs me a Brazilian machete to cut and foist me way through this impenetrable gloop.

  With the arrival of the Lady and the Tramp, the dynamics of this mission have elevated into higher revolutions. The time has come to attempt communication with my handler. I’ve managed to slip out of the mansion unnoticed, I think. Not that hard of a trick in this place, really. It’s impossible to keep track of anyone within that senseless maze. There are exactly twenty-seven ground floor and patio entrances. Slipping away was child’s play, but making contact with an operative one does not know is always tricky. I think he or she has already attempted communication but I did not catch it. I hope that this more obvious but faster form of communique will appeal to this highly touted professional.

  As soon as I step away from the house I am fully saturated in the moist and velvet black of night. Visibility is virtually nil in the ever present fog, except for patches of intermittent clear atmosphere.

  I’ll remove me pocket lantern in preparation of an attempt at contact with my unknown partner. I can’t see any landmarks of the countryside. Blast it, I have already lost my bearings. I hardly know up from down, much less East from West.

  Hello, what’s this? Do I catch broken glimpses of light? I think I do. That should be my deep plant partner.

  As I have my little lantern ready to go, I can signal that I’m here. Wait! I was just spinning the thumb wheel to spark me lantern when I see another answering light! Someone else is answering the signals already! And hello again! There are now signals of some kind in yet one more direction.

  My word! What I see now are a great many little flashing lights, winking their signals of intelligence-carrying data.

  I see a figure moving out upon the Forsaken Barrows. Great Raleigh’s canned tobacco, I think it is that of a woman, dancing in a ghostly manner while wearing an ephemeral white dress. Funny, I can only see the dress, and not the person within, as if the empty gown is brought to life by an invisible apparition.

  I remove my thumb from the sparking wheel of my tiny lantern, closing the top to protect its reflecting mirrors and cautiously move back to the house and into my chambers. I think it may be a better plan to communicate through the safer, if clumsier, method for which my contact previously showed a predilection. This place has more than enough intrigue going on than for me to worry about adding mine.

  Chapter Six.

  The Private Case of the

  Welcome Wagon’s Wander.

  “Oh, Mr. Temperance, how delightful!”

  “Yes, Ma’am, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am, though, if I may, you are referencing this cute little pony and cart, where I am referring to how pretty you are.”

  I am momentarily stunned at Miss Plumtartt’s magical beauty. Her twinkling blue eyes and the bright glow of the morning sun in her auburn hair induce a skull draining light-headedness. My Persephone radiates with a greater splendor than the early morning English sunshine. I catch myself swaying a bit before I realize that I am falling under a pleasing spell.

  “Mr. RooksPawn and the younger WilloughSickle brother helped me get her hitched up.”

  “And the elder WilloughSickle?”

  “I think he was doing some hitching up of another kind in the hayloft.”

  “I see.”

  “These little English carts are the cutest things, ain’t they, Ma’am? Riding in this here wicker seat makes me feel like I’m inside of a picnic basket.”

  “Quite. Are you responsible for the festive ribbons that brighten our conveyance, eh hem?”

  ~batt, batt, batt~

  “Uhb, … oh, yeah, no, I mean, yes, Ma’am, I didn’t. I asked Miss Purvey to tie a few ribbons on the cart for me.”

  “And the flowers?”

  “Oh, well,
I thought Mary the pony would be nicer if I fixed her up in a Hollyhock tiara, but I ain’t sure she likes it.”

  “Indeed, though she is a beautiful little pony, I am under the impression that the many flower accouterments you have prepared in floral ensemble go unappreciated by the wearer.”

  “Did you sleep well last night, Miss Plumtartt?”

  “Divinely, Mr. Temperance. Thank you so much. I did not realize how much I missed sleeping in an ancient stone bed.”

  “That was a new one on me, Miss Plumtartt. I slept as sound as Papa Bear in the middle of a winter-long hibernation. I betcha we left all our troubles behind back in London, don’t you think so, Ma’am?”

  “Indeed Mr. Temperance. With this overtly bleak backdrop, everything in it seems bright and beautiful.”

  “Like you, Miss Plumtartt.”

  -Squeal!- “Mr. Temperance, what a sweet thing to say!”

  “Gosh, once we get away from the Manor, the property turns kind of boggy, don’t it, Ma’am?”

  “Rather, Mr. Temperance. Now that the house is out of sight behind us, we find ourselves under assault by flying insects.”

  “I reckon they come up out of the bogs. Those standing pools of water give the air a stale, sour stench. It’s like they poison the atmosphere with their oozing miasmers.”

  “The scents are not as we might hope for, sir.”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  The rich fabrics of Miss Plumtartt’s fresh, yellow dress rustle as she adjusts her position to address me. A little knot above and between her lovely brows denotes a trace of concern on her perfect features.

  “I have an incident to report to you, Mr. Temperance.”

  “Oh my Goodness, what has happened, Ma’am!”

  “Oh, nothing too terribly serious. It’s just a trivial thing, really. You see, I was unpacking my things and found where I was missing a shoe.”

  “Missing a shoe? You mean, missing another shoe? Golly, that is sort of curious, ain’t it?”

  -Sigh.- “Yes, Mr. Temperance, this was very distressing as I was looking forward to wearing the daring new style from the Goochi Line. It features a red leather slipper but with a daring, four inch heel, named for an Italian assassin’s knife.”

  “Gee whiz, that’s a shame, Ma’am. Well, here we are, at the gates to the Plumtartt Estate. The Estate exits onto the Great Gnarly Growth Passage. We are facing South, so which way do we go? Left, to the East, or right, to the West? I’d like to learn a little about the area and the people here.”

  “Starboard if you please, Captain. Let us travel into the Western environs.”

  “Yes, Ma’am, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am. Giddy-ap, Mary!”

  “I think this roadway got its name by the way it rises from the grim swamp, Ma’am.”

  “Actually, it has absolutely nothing to do with the true origination, but that is a much nicer interpretation. Be aware of this lane’s pitfalls, Mr. Temperance. Though Mary is a capable little horse, anything less than constant vigilance by the driver will have us sliding into an unhappy ending.”

  “I see that repairs are being made to the house following our adventures here last year, Ma’am. The family chapel was completely demolished and the old doors were shredded into little bits.”

  “I well remember the occasion, sir. The damages suffered at that time were truly extensive. The worst and most painful to me, though, was to that of the North Annex stained glass window.”

  “I never got to see that! It’s of old St. George and a dragon, ain’t it?”

  “Indeed it is. It is of a historic nature. Much of the house was added onto by generation following generation, but that annex is of the oldest surviving section of the house. The creature that attacked me that night smashed many of the panes, but meticulous repairs are being seen to. It is very important to me for father said that the treasure of our house was in that window. As a young girl I would often hear him say, ‘Hope is in the House’.”

  “That’s a real nice sentiment, Miss Plumtartt. Say, look up ahead. I think I see a road branching off to the left, directly across from that low outcropping of rock.”

  “Actually, I believe I see a sign dangling from a length of iron attached to the front of that pile of rock surfacing from the mire. Can you make it out?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. It looks like there is a depiction of a horribly tormented, tusked hog. I can just make out the name in faded and flaking ancient paint strokes. This bleak, featureless establishment is saddled with the disturbing moniker of ‘The Wailing Pig’.”

  “I say, what a rustic and flavourful moniker to hang upon this lovely public house, eh hem?”

  “Yes, Ma’am, I think it was the centuries of gathered lichen and magpie poop that gave the thatched roof an appearance of being a big rock. I see now that this caps a low, roughly lain stone hut.”

  “I am sure the clientèle of such a charming establishment, so earthy in appearance, will be of an open and welcoming nature. Let us go and soak in a bit of the local colour of this quaint, rural, commune.”

  “Now, Mary, you sit tight while I escort Miss Plumtartt inside. All right, please be careful not to muss that bright shiny yellow dress, Miss Plumtartt. I still feel bad about your London outfit.”

  “My only real concern is getting the six foot diameter hat brim through the low, thin doorway, Mr. Temperance.”

  As I open the creaky door, we hear several low and intent conversations come to an abrupt end. I step down into the low ceilinged room, acutely aware of the scrutinizing stares I am receiving and extend a hand to assist Miss Plumtartt. It is as if the Sun herself were entering, such is the stark contrast between the dark, smoky tavern and the pastel, luminance radiating from my precious princess.

  After a moment of absorbing the silenced conversations, I guide Miss Plumtartt through the awkward stillness of the silent room. The ceiling is so low, that even Miss Plumtartt and I must stoop a bit to cross its short floor space for her hat is very nearly broad enough to touch each wall simultaneously. The sullen hatefulness of the occupants is oppressive.

  “Howdy there, Mr. Barman, sir, may we place an order with you?”

  “Hmmph.”

  “Thanks, mister. I reckon it’ll be hot tea for the Lady, and milk for myself, please, sir.”

  “Muh-eelk?”

  The surly and ingracious fellow gets an appreciative chuckle from his customer cohorts.

  “Put it in a dirty mug.”

  “Huh-h-h!”

  “Watch out lads, he’s mad!”

  “Gentlemen, my name is Persephone Plumtartt. I am the new master of Plumtartt Manor. I intend to raise it back to the state of glory it held in yesteryear. In the meantime, we should very much like to reacquaint ourselves with our neighbors. Does anyone know anything of the surrounding estates and their residents? Moreover, has there been any unusual activity in the community during my family’s absence?”

  One or two snorts of disgust are Miss Plumtartt’s dismissive reply.

  Furtive, meaningful glances dart about the reclusive moorsmen. This is not a talkative bunch. The surly shepherds glare at us with unabated suspicion and distrust. The vibration I sense flowing from this hard faced group of fellows is one of resentment that an outsider to their clannish huddle would enter their private sanctum and dare to ask for information that is theirs by birthright and a long life on the harsh moors.

  At last, one sallow chap clears his throat and gives the impression that he is about to give us a lesson on behalf of his grim brothers.

  “That Estate of yours, Ploom-tar-r-r-rtt Manor. A pox on these fair lands it is. T’is naughtte but trouble! The how-oose are said tae be haurnted. Many the noights a few foolhearty younglets have goone an’ ‘ad a loooksaboot. They invar-r-r-riably end by fleeing for their loives, weeping in fear from the ter-r-r-ible visions of ghosts...”

  “No, t’was Banshees!”

  “No, it weren’t, it woz vengeful knockstuhnaul spee-witz wotz come to soooks the loife ou
ts o’ deh living!”

  “And they aint’s deh fanciful gothic slinky black gown wotz shows off der magnificent, if improbable, female figures kind of life dwainin’ speewit kind of ghouls, neithuh. They is of the ugly male variety.”

  “An’ din’nae feergetz the ‘Bride’!”

  “Aye!” {chorus}

  “The Barrow Bride! She traipses the moors in the moonloights, searching for ‘er lost hubby...”

  “”Wuvver!”

  “Keys!”

  “And our neighbors?” presses Miss Plumtartt.

  The hard glances flit about the room again.

  “Oi don’t knows about dats, Miss. Why that moight be akin to gossip.”

  “Tattlin’ tales.”

  “Spreadin’ the poop.”

  “We don’t prittle-pattle wiff outsiders! O’ course, it is said that your family did live on that ground going back before the time of King George.”

  “Henwy!”

  “Arfur!”

  “So’s, Oi don’t guess you’re really an outsider so much. And they is your neighbors after all. Oi suppose it moight be considered,...decent...”

  “Gwacious!”

  “Neighbuhwee!”

  “I don’t guess it hurts none to tell ye that this first house you come upon the GrimSmackle trail is a fine old estate let out to a real gentleman. A retired Colonel, Colonel WinterBottom, and his wife ‘ave lived there for many years. They are a veh-wee wee-spectable couple, deh is. ‘e is known to ‘ave ‘ad an exemplary service record from his long career in India. His wife is a bit on the barmy side though. Dabbles in the occult I hear.”

  “Yeah, an she goes about the ‘ouse in heathen dress!”

  “Naw! She runs aboot wiffout a stitch! Oi heards it from me own brudduh in law wot seen her naykid flesh for ‘imself.”