by Ashly Graham
‘Well, what does she expect?,’ she muttered, ‘we live in the country.’ And she trudged on. When she reached the Old Rectory gates, which were open, she saw that Effie must already have parked, as she called it, the bay gelding who had transported her, for she was walking alone back up the driveway from the house to meet her friend. Effie’s journey must have gone well, for her appearance was as pristine as when she had left the cottage, except for one stray lock of hair, which she coiled behind her ear as she adjusted the strap on a bulging shoulder-bag.
Observing the state of her footslogging companion, Effie smiled. ‘For once you’re the one who looks as though she’s been cleaning out the Augean stables.’
‘Very funny. I prefer to call it a devil-may-care dishabille. Shall we? I assume you’ve tethered the beast.’
‘In the stable block. That black stallion of Diemen’s did its best to break out of its stall at the sight of us. Would have done, but it was loaded with steel chains. Didn’t look at all happy. There was foam around its mouth.’
Effie waited as Ophelia stood on one foot and wiped both sides of her hiking boots on a clump of grass on the bank outside the wrought-iron gates, and used a twig to ream out the rubber cleats. While disapproving of the air of status and exclusivity that the gates conveyed, as they squared their shoulders and marched through them the pair could not help but admire their intricate design and glossy sheen. The raked toffee-coloured gravel of the driveway, which crunched pleasurably underfoot, was so thick that one was in danger of twisting an ankle.
At the front door Effie yanked the brass bell-pull hoping that it would come away in her hand. It did not.
‘H’m. I wonder where those brute dogs are,’ said Effie; and she was answered by an outbreak of baying from within. ‘Pity. I was hoping that in this dog-eat-dog world they might have eliminated each other.’
Ophelia made use of the boot-scraper to no discernible effect, and the manservant, opening the door, smirked. ‘Car break down, Mother? I could hose you off if you like.’
Effie sniffed. ‘Not everyone needs a Land-Rover to go a country mile, you know,’ she said, addressing the hallway over the man’s shoulder in anticipation of the dogs bounding down the passage. There was no sign of them, however, and she was relieved to conclude that the decision must have been made to shut them in the back rather than keep them out to intimidate them. ‘After we’ve left I suggest you go boil your head.’
‘Too much to do,’ said the man. ‘There’s no rest for the wicked.’
Ophelia hastened to reduce the tension. ‘I’ll take my boots off, so as not to make a mess of your nice polished floor. Is it safe to leave them here without the dogs eating them?’ Without waiting for an answer she bent to unlace the hooks, and wondered why it was only difficult when she was being watched. ‘I’d be obliged for the loan of a small towel, though.’ The manservant, reluctant to leave them alone, hesitated, then tossed his head and went inside to get one from the downstairs powder room. When he came back, Ophelia, who was sitting on the steps so that Effie could tug the boots off, got up and attempted to wipe some of the dirt off her clothes; but she only succeeded in smearing herself into a worse condition. After Effie had wiped her hands on the other side of the towel she tossed it to the man, who dropped it, picked it up between thumb and forefinger, and deposited it in a corner inside the door.
Leading them inside, he turned to the left into the dining room. Entering, they saw that the table and sideboard had been set with all the essentials of genteel country house breakfasting. There was a smell of bacon and sausages.
The devil lady, who had been listening round the corner from the kitchen at the rear of the hall, advanced and paused to examine herself in a gilt-framed mirror. She patted her hair. Then she took a deep breath and walked down the marbled floor to join her guests.
‘Good morning, ladies. Thank you so much for coming, I know how inconvenient it must be for you to be abroad at such a godly hour. Won’t you sit? Please, wherever you like, we’re quite informal here.’ She looked Ophelia up and down, and then at the plushly covered chairs. ‘I hope you’re both hungry, because my man puts together an excellent breakfast. It’s my favourite meal of the day, though I think a good high tea can run it close. The coffee is Blue Mountain and freshly ground.’ As the devil lady walked past the sideboard and took the head of the table, Ophelia availed herself of the window end near the door, while Effie rounded behind her, pulled out the chair in the middle, plumped herself down on the cushioned seat of the complaining frame, and glared at her own reflection in the mirror on the wall opposite above the sideboard.
The devil lady, despite her soignée appearance, chignon, and courteous manner, was still suffering from a headache that had begun the night before and had not been improved by the brace of coffee pots with which her manservant had roused her that morning an hour before usual, when he came in with her tray and drew the curtains open. She had lain awake through the small hours, and only dozed off after the dawn chorus had ended.
Part of what had been troubling the DL was the failure of her scheme to suborn the Bishop and his sidekick the Archdeacon, when things went pear-shaped after the weather had turned unexpectedly nasty and caused them to abort their own attendance at the Old Rectory for tea. Had things gone according to plan she was confident that, after she had promised them substantial funding, perhaps for the Cathedral Appeal and perhaps not, in sackfuls of used large-denomination banknotes, and the favour of granting any special personal requests that they might have of a Faustian nature, by the time the porcine prelates had swallowed the last smoked salmon sandwich, toasted crumpet, and slice of Madeira cake, they would have thanked her profusely for saving two busy people a lot of time and effort in finding such a man as the Reverend Fletcher Dark and persuading him to replace the former Rector, whose collar the Lady of the Manor had done them the service of turning around, thereby saving the Church the fag of having to go through the process of defrocking him.
Indeed, dear Fletcher, who was so highly regarded in the profession, one dared say he was future cathedral Dean material at least, it was a wonder that the lady—kudos to her—had been able to persuade such an overqualified person to accept the job. Verily, those ecclesiastical muck-a-mucks would have asseverated, Fletcher Dark was indubitably possessed in great measure of those talents so greatly prized by the Church of England, namely an administrative bent and love of paperwork. For proof that these were in woefully short supply, one had to look no further than the epistolophobic curate Ophelia Blondi-Tremolo, who had been a thorn in their corpulence and the corpus of the Church for so long. If only she would get rid of her!
Exit the Bishop and his archdeacon, overflowing with Earl Grey tea, Dundee cake, and gratitude.
But the plan had gone awry, and in a change of strategy the devil lady wanted to propose that, given the Bishop’s disfavourable disposition to both parties, it was in all their interests to stay off his radar screen. Each side would cease and desist from trying to involve him in the fray, and may the best woman win.
In a discussion such as she had in mind for today, the DL was more than aware that privacy and discretion were of the utmost importance, which meant being out of sight and earshot of both the spies in the fireplace and her manservant. This was why she had instructed her man to serve breakfast in the dining room, where although there was a functioning chimney it had been ascertained that the flue was not connected to the one in the drawing-room. And, the weather being fine and warm, as double protection should the demons find some means of decamping down the hall, she had the perfect excuse to tell her man that there was no need to bother lighting the fire. Deprived of their element, there would be nothing to fear from them. Then, when Ophelia and Effie arrived, she would dismiss her servant to the kitchen out of eavesdropping range to await the ring of the service bell, should they need extra coffee or if the sideboard needed replenishing.
Thus informed, he had looked very askance at her, upon wh
ich she took pleasure in advising him that, in upper-class households, servants never waited on their masters and mistresses at breakfast.
Everyone jumped as the door was flung open to admit the Reverend Fletcher Dark, who had let himself in the front door.
The devil lady pulled herself together. ‘Ah, Father Fletcher, there you are. I was beginning to think you must have overslept.’
The reverend, who was dressed in a balding brown corduroy jacket, was looking more than usually cadaverous: Sunday morning services he was compelled to tolerate as a necessary goodness, but he resented having to get up early on any other day of the week. It was the only point on which everyone in the room might have agreed. He had done a poor job of shaving and there was blood on his collar, owing to his having woken up in a foul mood with a headache of his own, and a grog-blossom on his nose, caused by an excess of cheap port following last night’s supper of burnt Welsh rarebit.
‘Damned if I don’t despise the dawn of dastardly day,’ he rasped. ‘Consume coffee quickly.’
Omitting to inquire whether or not the others were served, Dark made a beeline for the sideboard, picked up a Georgian chased silver pot with a narrow curved spout, and pointed it in the direction of a bone-china cup without having ascertained the measure of the pour, so that a cup and a half’s quantity of coffee came out. Downing the coffee black and unsweetened, he poured himself another cupful, more accurately this time though with a shaking hand, and rolled with it rattling in the saucer to the chair next to the sideboard, opposite Effie. Leaning across the table to reach a bowl of demerara sugar, he sat down, slopped four teaspoonfuls into his cup, and stirred so vigorously that liquid spilled over the rim. Swearing under his breath, he picked up the cup and mopped the saucer with his napkin, which had been folded in the shape of a bishop’s mitre. Heavily starched, he had to shake it several times to get it open.
In an attempt to cover his rudeness, the DL dispensed with protocol and instructed her man, who was trying to look inconspicuous by the door in the hope that he might escape attention and not be told to leave, to pour coffee for the rest of them at the table before he left.
Effie, wishing to take the initiative, opened her mouth, confident that the harsh words she had prepared on the journey over would flow forth. But they did not, and she made no objection when the servant filled her cup accurately from a second pot of coffee. Trying to look as though her arm was acting independently of her, she added milk from the creamer on the table, stirred in two spoonfuls of white sugar from the bowl in front of her, and took a mouthful. It was very good.
When the three of them were similarly provided, the devil lady continued in her role of hostess. ‘Everything is on the sideboard, so please help yourselves. Guests first,’ she added, glaring at Dark. ‘There’s orange, grapefruit, pineapple, and low-sodium tomato juice. Stewed prunes, fruit salad, cereals various, and porridge. Oh, and tea if you’d prefer it, I should have mentioned that sooner. There’s kedgeree in the earthenware dish, and under the covers you’ll find kippers, kidneys, sausages, bacon—the latter a trifle crisp for some tastes, but we’re used to things being overdone where we come from. Call it a house special. You’ve a choice of eggs: poached, scrambled, or fried. There are grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, black pudding, and fried bread. Wrapped in napkins in the baskets are white and brown toast, hard rolls, croissants, and brioches. Butter dishes are in front of each of you, and little jars of marmalade, jam, jelly, and honey.’
A look from the devil lady to her manservant sent him to the kitchen to refill the coffee-pots, and when he returned she ordered him, separating her words for emphasis, to set them on the mats in the centre of the table and make himself scarce. When he banged the door behind him in dudgeon, the DL affected not to notice.
Effie and Ophelia, who were both hungry from their exertions that morning, looked at each other, shrugged, pushed back their chairs and went to the sideboard, skirting behind Dark, who was fidgeting from an inability to possess what passed for his soul in patience. Taking warmed plates from a springed server, the women used the tongs and spoons provided to make their selections from the silver chafing-dishes that were simmering over spirit-burners. As soon as they had returned to the table and fallen to satisfying the inner woman, the devil lady, who was not much interested in food this early, secured and dissected a kipper. Removing the backbone, she sat twisting it between the tines of her fork. The second the others were out of his way, Dark leaped into action. Bearing two indiscriminately heaped plates to the table, and not bothering to cut anything up, he ate double-fisted with an extra serving fork that he had taken from the sideboard. He had a curious and impressive ability to chew, swallow, and put more food into his mouth at the same time, and his piggy eyes darted from side to side as if he suspected that someone was going to try and steal something from him.
Nourishment, and distaste for Dark, released a flood of words from Effie. ‘Look here, Diemen,’ she said, removing a herring-bone from her teeth, and wiping it onto the table-cloth in preference to laying it at the edge of her plate; ‘we’ve got you all figured out. Don’t think that we’re to be won over by a decent breakfast. It’s time to put our cards on the table and get down to brass tacks. We know why you’re here, and we’re dedicated to getting rid of you. The gloves are off and the die is cast. Admit it, everything you’ve come up with so far has turned out to be a damp squid. What’s a la-di-da city woman doing down amongst us lot anyway? If we’re your punishment for screwing up somewhere else, we’ve already proved that we can tighten some screws of our own, and there’s more eggs in the basket they came from. You’ve bitten off more than you can chew, you have.’ Effie removed a recalcitrant morsel from behind a molar with her index finger. ‘By bell, book and candle we’re going to send you screaming back to Hell, where if wrong’s wrong they’ll have you picking polyps out of the Devil’s arse for a million years.’
Ophelia, solemn and straight-backed, laid her utensils down gently; and Effie, who was still hungry and realized that hospitality might be terminated if she overdid the invective too soon, reined in her animosity and went to the sideboard to replenish her plate.
‘My dear Effie...’, said the devil lady to her back, endeavouring to remain in the spirit of toujours la politesse.
Effie sparked again. ‘The nearest deer,’ she said over her shoulder, a tongue of bacon sticking out of her mouth, ‘is in my larder, and there are more in the woods waiting to be shot, gralloched and hung in the butcher’s window. We could arrange the same for you.’
‘Nae doot. May I call you Effie, then? Just plain Effie.’
‘If you must. You’re still Diemen to me.’
Before the DL could continue, the reverend, who was still breakfasting with gusto, added another accomplishment to his ability to masticate and ingest at the same time, that of speech. ‘Skewer me a sausage,’ he enunciated; ‘devil me a kidney. Carve me a corpuscle. Fry them fritters. Can’t complain at kippers and kedgeree. Mosey those mushrooms to me, to me. Churlish to refuse.’ His conspicuous consumption faded to a blur behind his knife and fork.
The DL cast a sour look towards him as she resumed. ‘Effie, I’m sorry, but I’m as much a fact of life here as you are. The world is an equal-opportunity place for good and ill, and you can’t avoid having me or someone like me around. We devils are hardly on the verge of extinction. Where there are people there are devils. You’re right, though, I have slipped in the rankings. The trajectory of my career is not on the upward curve it once was. But believe me, if I were still at the top of my game, you wouldn’t be sitting here taking your best shot at me over breakfast. You should be grateful for that, and while you’re at it a bit of professional respect wouldn’t go amiss. Also, you might want to ease up on the glass-house-stone-throwing act. Though I’ll admit Ophelia remains something of an enigma to me, your personal history does not make for dull reading, especially in the early chapters.’
Effie blushed—which she had not done since the f
ormer vicar, in his cups, had caught her under the mistletoe at the village Christmas party. She looked sideways at Ophelia, but her friend did not seem to be paying attention as she alternately sipped coffee and nibbled a piece of toast.
‘What, then,’ Effie persisted, anxious not to be the one under discussion, ‘are you doing here? And what exactly are you? What are you made of? Though why I should believe anything you say, I don’t know.’
‘The answer, Effie, to those questions, and any others you care to ask me, is: Evil. Evil sent me here, I am an incarnation of Evil, I am made of Evil. You may disbelieve that if you will, along with your silent partner in whose mouth the butter is at this moment melting.’
Effie’s cheeks puffed.
The DL smiled. ‘What sets us apart is that for me the sentence has already been imposed, whereas your Judgement, your Assessment, is still to come. Until then you can do whatever you please so long as you’re prepared to take the consequences in the fullness of Time.’
Effie fixed her with a gimlet eye. ‘Just calling it evil isn’t good…isn’t enough. I want details.’ She regretted the question and looked to Ophelia for help, but she was busy doing a biopsy of a mushroom.
The devil lady waved an expansive arm. ‘Very well. I’m a cesspool of morality. A corrupter. A soul destroyer. A sower of sin. Mayhem and murder are my modi operandi.’
In for a penny, thought Effie. ‘You’re fobbing me off with generalities.’
‘I’m the slaughterer of innocents, the terrorist, the torturer. I’m the dictator, the promulgator of genocide, the sadist, the cheat, the embezzler, the liar, the profiteer, the fraud, the kidnapper, the hit-and-run man, the perverter of justice, the rapist, the purveyor of child pornography. Et cetera, et cetera. The Seven Deadly Sins are like lemonade shandy compared to the cocktail mixed in me, who am deader than Death itself. But before you get on your high horse again, Effie—an accomplishment I’ve noticed you’ve not yet mastered, though I confess nor have I, I’ll tell you that my actions do not originate with me. You must not think of me as a person and attempt to apply your standards, or lack of them, to me. You cannot, must not, blame me for anything I do, because I have no choice. Only you have choice. My choices are made, my fate is sealed.’ The DL jerked her head towards Dark, who was again at the sideboard. ‘Even…even that has choice.’