Eucalyptusti brings his unicycle to a gyroscopic, spinning stop, with the wheel parallel to me. He tears the goggles from his black leather, ear-flapped, skull-bonnet and flings them angrily to the ground.
“Ee-yew nasty wittle git! Nobody attacks the European Eunion of Eunited Eunicyclists! Oi’ll muhduh-wait ee-yews!”
The only control mechanism of the machine that I am able to discern is a single throttle that is between Eucalyptusti’s legs. This he slams forward engaging the wheel. Holding the throttle lever for support, he leans over towards me. This has the effect of turning his cycle in my direction.
I hold the horrible ancient weapon by its wooden handle and begin its steel ball weighted spin. Eucalyptusti’s steed bounces wildly and he screams a bloody war cry as he speeds towards me with his cricket bat held on high wanting to deal me a creased double off spin flipper, but I intend to charge the toe-masher with a donkey drop fielding.
At the last possible instant I loose the flail. Striking the leading edge of the monocycle, the chain is just long enough to encircle the wheel bringing the ball and handle together in a brief, but devastating, harmony. Tyre and hub are locked together just long enough to disrupt he stationary stabilization feature of the flying foal that keeps its operator safely at the bottom of the wheel.
Euclyptusti’s war cry of revenge turns to screams of desperate frustration as the whirling juggernaughtte is spun heels over haunches over my head and across the moor.
I look and see that Miss Plumtartt is still making a good show of herself. She really does know how to make good use of that parasol, but I think her haranguers shall soon overpower her.
Euripides’ cycle is still upright from where I dismounted him from it with my improvised elastic lasso a few seconds ago. It is at a slow roll and at a severe wobble that threatens to allow the wheel to topple at any moment. I am already running to the machine to assume possession. In circumstances such as these, it is best to trust to gut instincts and follow the directions given. Assumption of the pilot’s seat helps to provide a low center of gravity and thus instill stabilization in the tyre before it falls over.
I slam the single throttle control all the way forward. A magnificent plume of murky moorish mire is shot high in the air in a manner that might remind an observer of a proud cock’s high-feathered tail. Leaning in the direction of my imperiled princess, a fountain of water is flung skyward as several three hundred and sixty degree turns must spin out before my charger finally grips true turf. I am off as if shot from a cannon of righteous indignation.
One is forced to trust in luck and hope for the best in controlling this novel cycle. The speed is exhilarating. More time is spent in the air than on the ground, for every time this hurtling wheel hits a boulder, with which this terrain is heavily saturated, the craft is bounced into a moment of free flight, and I have the sensation of being a bird, yet having the ability to fly without wings. I must constantly adjust my view from one side to the other around the obstruction of the forward hub as it is an unavoidable blind spot created by the chromed rim. The incredible speed is such that the air actually presses against my eyes. With the weeds that whip at my face and the mud that is flung into my eyes at painful velocities, I rue that this is one time that I really need some goggles and I don’t have any.
So far, no bottomless pits of quickmire have taken me into a deadly suction. The momentum and nature of the steam-cycle lends itself to protection from the moor’s deadly appetites.
With many a skilled parry, thrust and lunge in combination with some athletic running and dodging, Miss Plumtartt has proven to be quite a match for our foes, but now they have employed a net strung between two of the psychlists. Like a very pretty school of aristocratic British fish, Miss Plumtartt is ensnared in the knotted hemp.
“Oh! Ow! Oh! Mr. Temperance, help!”
My British beauty is brutally bounced upon her bustled, bounteous, behind.
Two unipsychlers laugh uproariously to have Miss Plumtartt in their possession.
“‘ey, Eugacifraugi, we got ‘er!”
“Yeah Eupicitwitides,” croaks Eugacifraugi with a rude emission, “now it’s just up to our mate Euciligucides to finish off that annoi‘in ‘ittle git!”
The annoying little git is on an intercept course as the lance wielding Euciligucides circles about to come alongside me. He is unable to use his lance without risk of upset to himself should it pass through my wheel and possibly disrupt his own vehicle. He prudently returns his jousting stick to its collapsed position. As we both gain on Miss Plumtartt’s drag drivers, our own proximity to one another closes.
“That’s for intuhfeerin at the mooseum, you filthy yank!” honks Euciligucides as he smacks me with his cupped short staff. “Deh Pwumtartt gurl is ours!”
I attempt to block and/or absorb with my right arm, the blows of the EuphaMystic Knight. I kick at his wheel and he at mine in an effort to wreck the other.
Euciligucides gets an insane leer across his mug. He puts the end of his staff to the inside of my hub.
“Peese off, you dirty punk.”
Engaging the lance’s extension, the abrupt dispersion sends my wheel into a sickening spin. Anger and desperation do not allow me to give in to the nausea. Several dizzying seconds take forever to pass before I am able to regain control of the gyro-destabilizing assault and maintain pursuit.
The spin which paused my pursuit allows Euciligucides to reverse his own direction and return to finish me off. We now charge directly at each other. He has abandoned his good sense in his deranged desire to kill me. My game of chicken with the goose is punctuated by his lance pointed at my heart.
I think it is my own reckless fury that allows me to drive directly into him, thus denying his deadly shot at my own person. Instead, I drive directly upon his lance. The downward turn of my wheel casts the point into the ground and Euciligucides into a distant flight southward for the winter.
Collision with the Goose’s wheel does not upset me. I spin my wheel making a quick return for the lance and then resume my rescue operation.
Miss Plumtartt is tumbling free of the net from which she was being dragged. The tandem fishermen drop their netting and return to reclaim their prize. My arrival to Miss Plumtartt’s position coincides with that of Eugacifraugi and Eupicitwitides. They are dismayed at my collision course and possession of Euciligucides’ lance. Breaking off their attack, they go and collect their mates. I break off my attack on them to collect Miss Plumtartt.
I reckon I present a dashing appearance as I rein the cycle to a stop. Propping the lance on my knee I pat my thigh and with a wink I ask:
“Howdy, Ma’am, wanna go for a ride?”
“Most amusing, Mr. Temperance.”
Despite my nonchalance and joking manner, Miss Plumtartt is sweet enough to grant me a highly prized peck on the cheek in appreciation of her persistent paramour.
Miss Plumtartt sits on my lap holding my lance as we enjoy a more sedately paced ride back to Plumtartt Manor.
“I sure am glad you were wearing your bustle when them byker boys swept you up in that net, Miss Plumtartt, otherwise you’d of busted your...”
“Yes, Mr. Temperance, it was indeed fortunate.”
“How did you get loose from the netting?”
“Simplicity itself, Mr. Temperance. I used a knife.”
“But I’ve never known you to carry a knife, Miss Plumtartt.”
“I rather took a fancy to Signora Francesca Angelina Marianna Sforza’s chosen place of concealment.”
“Did them boys remind you of anybody?”
“I hope I do not come across a tad snooty if I say that they are of a societal stratum I do not normally entertain, but now that you bring it to my attention, do you think these solitary wheeled cyclists are someone we should recognize?”
“I think they might be the Arabian Ninja Indian Pirates that tried to abduct you in London the other night.”
“Of course, Mr. Temperance, you must b
e correct on that account. How extraordinary! Let us be on our guard.”
“Looks like we are barely puttering our steam wheel into the stable yard on the very last of her fuels and pressure.”
“Tee, hee! What’s this! Our bonnie Master Icky and the buh-yooteeful Miss Ploomtartt leaves on foots but return astride a magnificent brass steed! Tee, hee!”
“Yessir, Horbaz. How about seeing to her needs and putting her to bed.”
“Mr. Temperance!”
“I meant the Unibyke, not you, Miss Plumtartt!”
“Mr. WilloughSickle, please find our shepherd and have him come to the house at once and have Jabez alert the authorities that the missing BarbaraHaughnne brothers have been found. They have been murdered.”
“Aye, Mum.”
“Let me get the door for you as we step into the kitchen, Miss Plumtartt.”
“Oh, ‘ello, Mum!”
“Huh, huh, huh.”
“Ah, Miss Wallaby and Miss Purvey.”
“Yeah, Mum. Oi’ve been trying to console the poor distraught girl. She is very upset about our Mr. RooksPawn being arrested for murder.”
“Huh, huh, gulp, huh. Oh, mum, me, I means, our, Mr. RooksPawn didn’t kill that stupid ol’ gawd-nuh. Huh, sniff, huh. ‘E didn’t ‘ave no call to, mum. They hardly spoke a word to one uhnuvvuh, and when they did it was friendly enough. It don’t make no sense. Huh, huh, huh. At the wisk of me position I confess. Huh, huh, huh. I ‘ave woe-mantic fee-wins foe-wuh ‘im, huh, huh, huh.”
“You do appear to feel very strongly about this, Miss Purvey, and I am not one to dictate affairs of the heart among the staff. I too have a confession of sorts. I admit to being dismayed at the thin amount of evidence required for our able coachman’s arrest. I wonder if there is not something we can do to help secure his freedom?”
“Gee whiz, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am, you mean you want us to mount a rescue mission and bust him outta the pokey? I think it’s a fine thing to be loyal to your staff, Miss Plumtartt, but I don’t know if we oughtta go so far as to mount an assault against the Sheriff’s office.”
“No, Mr. Temperance, I had in mind that we might find some evidence that will prove Mr. RooksPawn’s innocence or lead us to the true murderer. Is this agreeable, Miss Purvey?”
“Huh, huh, huh! Oh, yes, mum, huh, huh, thank you!”
“Millicent, run and fetch Manlington. I wish to inspect Mr. RooksPawn’s quarters.”
“Yes, Mum.” {With a curtsy.}
We soon hear the footsteps of Miss Wallaby’s return and the pitter patter of Manlington’s skipping gait. His handsome boyish features peak their mahogany dimples from high upon upon the doorframe.
“Ah, ye-e-e-e-esss?”
“Hey there, Mr. Manlington, Miss Plumtartt would like to be shown to Mr. RooksPawn’s room.”
“Your wish is my command, Monsieur Temperance. Madame, please accompany me this way.”
Mr. Manlington takes us to the staff’s quarters.
“Mr. RooksPawn’s room is locked, but I have upon me a ring with keys to all doors. Here we are, Madame; I now have the door open.”
“Thank you, Manlington. The coachman’s quarters is a neatly kept room. The sparse furniture is arranged in a tidy manner. A quick perusal does not indicate anything amiss. Hello, what’s this? A closer examination reveals an object secreted beneath the mattress. My word! This instrument would be consistent in nature with the wound inflicted on our victim, the gardener Malachi CruikShank.”
Miss Plumtartt holds an ice-pick aloft.
“Huh! Huh! . . . Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh....”
Miss Condolescence Purvey is fainting! Manlington and I both jump to break her fall. Fortunately Miss Plumtartt does not try to catch Miss Purvey since she has an ice-pick in her hand.
“I’m gonna let you handle things here, Miss Plumtartt; there’s a few things I need to see to so I’ll be ready tonight.”
“Oh, yes, you did mention something about building a contraption of some sort. Run along, Mr. Temperance, I shall see to this affair.”
I reckon I’ll go ahead and just take it as a given that it’ll be okay if I scavenge a few odds and ends from around the Manor and its surrounding buildings. Professor Plumtartt did a lot of his research here on the estate. Between the large laboratory, the mechanical shop, and the barn’s full complement of farm machineries this estate is a smörgåsbord of everything I could hope for or desire to transfer my idea into a functioning device.
Wow, a séance! I’ve never been to one of them things before. It might be interesting.
Chapter Nine.
The Case of the
Yellow Stained Spike.
“Oh, ho! You are so ticklish! You squeal like a little girl when I tickle you under the chin with my feather duster, Spikey McGilligin! Should I dust around your nose as well? Ho, ho, ho!”
“Hee, hee, hee! Ah-choo! Leave me alone you silly pigeon! Leave off wiff yer feather duster, Whimsey BummeTwiddell!”
“So sorry, Mr. Serious Pants! Ho, ho! I will let you get back to your work little page boy. Work, work, work!”
Ugh, that silly girl is right. This barmey bloke Temperance has had me running all over the mansion helping him with his mad scientist creations. It’s bad enough for Manlington to run me ragged but at least it’s in the house. This cruel foreman Temperance has had me doin’ outside labour! Inconceivable! ‘Dismantle this heavy bit of farm machinery for me please, Spike’, as if saying ‘please’ makes it any more pleasant. I thinks I got me a callous! I’ll probably end up getting tetanus and lockjaw from handling that rusty junk. They’ll be sorry when I’m dead and gone and they don’t have me to kick around anymore.
“Hi, Spike. Here’s a glass of milk and a couple of nice sandwiches I made for you. I sure do appreciate all your hard work you’ve put in. Here’s a little tip on top of your other wages, too.”
“Uh, yeah, thanks I guess, Ichabod.”
These sandwiches are pretty good, but I’m still gonna be put out.
Now I hear the rain setting in outside. At least we got this crazed apparatus built before the clouds opened up, but now these hoighty toighty guests that we’re expecting will be splashing mud and water all over the entrance hall. Manlington will be impossible to deal with if there is a speck of dirt to be seen. I can just hear his drivel, ‘soppy, foppy, Spikey come moppy.’ Ugh! I’m gonna be sick, I knows it, and we haven't even started yet.
Here comes Lady Plumtartt from one doorway and Ichabod from another. I’ll just stand over here hiding behind the Aspidistra and concentrate on developing my invisibility skills.
“My word, Mr. Temperance, you have been busy. I would venture that this Petite Grande Sitting Salon has never been graced by such an overflowing array of electrical apparati and metal mayhem. My word, these components are of the farm machineries! Mr. Temperance! Did you really need to disassemble the harrow, the combine, and the tined reaper?”
“I wanted to make a good job of it, Miss Plumtartt.”
“I see. Could you not have arranged the ring of disassembled curved bars that encircle the table to be facing outward, rather than in, eh hem? Their pointed tips impart a gruesome and disquieting menace, you see.”
“Gee whiz, Ma’am, I didn’t think of that, but I was real happy to find that I had access to lots and lots of wire to conduct the currents.”
“Yes, and the cows will be immensely pleased at finding that they are no longer enclosed by wire fencing.”
“Oh yeah. I’m real sorry ‘bout that Miss Plumtartt, but I’m sure they’ll be okay. Cows have a lot of horse sense. I’m glad y’all got cows on this spread because that allowed me to commandeer one of these over-sized heavy glass milk jugs. Why, this bottle must hold four gallons of dairy wholesomeness and will make a perfect ectoplasm reclamation vessel.”
“Your efforts invade the territory of supererogation, Mr. Temperance.”
“Hunh?”
“That is, you go beyond that which is considered n
ecessary.”
“Oh, yes, Ma’am! Thank you, Miss Plumtartt!”
“I did not intend such as a compliment, Mr. Temperance.”
Baron Temper-pants’ homely mug twists itself in a way I can’t bear to watch. His eyebrows meet on his forehead to convey a humble subservience that makes me want to be ill.
“Somethin’s been a-gnawin’ at me like a hungry termite onna petrified chunk of teak, Ma’am. May I share it with you?”
“Pray unburden yourself.”
“Why do you think Mister RooksPawn would go to the trouble of hiding what appears to be the murder weapon in his own room where it would seem to insure the proof of his own guilt? He coulda hid that sticker anywheres. He could have ducked out the back and threw the incriminating weapon out on the moors and that would have been the end of it, but the inference is that he stuck it under his own mattress. Seems like a bone-headed play to me, Ma’am.”
“There is merit in your words, Mr. Temperance, but I think you are trying to divert my attention from your ambitious endeavors. Your ectoplasmic reclamation project stands in stark contrast to our Manlington’s preparation of the house. If I cannot admit to being overwhelmed with your handiwork for the séance, I can safely say that I am so with Manlington’s ambiotic ambitions. His settings and atmospheric enhancements are beyond divine. Here he is now. Oh, Manlington?”
With his arms folded across his chest and elbows held high, that great tall git Manlington spins his way into the room on a series of pirouettes that would make a Russki ballerina dizzy. After a trio of stationary toe flutters and with arms shoved straight down, flat palmed, fingers out, he swiftly prances up to Princess Face and Little Lord Fauntlebod.
A Study in Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 4) Page 16