The Missing Mallard [Or, Duck, Macalley! Duck! ]

by Robert Dahlen

  Contents

  Title Page

  About This Book

  The Missing Mallard

  More by Robert Dahlen

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  The Missing Mallard

  (Or, “Duck, Mcalley! Duck”!)

  A story from Peavley Manor

  by Robert Dahlen

  One would think that an auction of duck paraphernalia would not create that much excitement. Unfortunately for Alice Peavley and her valet Macalley, one of the items in the auction, a golden duck figurine, is attracting far too much attention...especially from a number of villains and scoundrels. Food fights, pixie sorceresses, mad scientists, adorable yet destructive automatons - can Alice and Macalley prevail, or has doom come to Darbyfield?

  © 2017 Robert Dahlen. All rights reserved.

  No one is quite sure why the late Trenton Fotheringay had such a great affection for ducks. It does seem to the casual observer that his behavior was what could be expected from a man who would name his daughters Hesperia and Antigone. However, his obsession did not manifest until after they were born, which leads me to believe that it was a natural reaction to having to deal with two daughters who spent their days coming up with creative ways to hate one another.

  His obsession took the form of a collection. Trenton Fotheringay amassed an astonishing amount of duck figurines, art featuring ducks, books about ducks, housewares adorned with ducks in some manner, and even furniture shaped like ducks. It should come as no surprise to learn that he was a vegetarian. He kept his ever-expanding collection in his study, where he would often retreat following yet another daughterly quarrel.

  The elder Fotheringay left this mortal coil some years back, most likely with a sigh of relief. He exacted his revenge on his only heirs, the daughters, by leaving all his possessions - including his mansion, his investments, and his collection of duck paraphernalia - to the both of them, to be owned and administered jointly.

  As time went on, the daughters tried on numerous occasions to reach a rapprochement. All those attempts failed, almost always loudly and either caused by or resulting in much consumption of alcoholic beverages. Finally, Hesperia and Antigone agreed to hire a manager to handle their financial affairs. Her first task was to dispose of Trenton’s duck collection.

  This is what brought my valet Macalley to the Darbyfield library on viewing day. A distant cousin of his, Maccollin, had been hired to organize the sale. The manager had persuaded the Fotheringay sisters to take a vacation to the Tirnogs during this time, and had accompanied them to minimize their squabbling and prevent potential diplomatic incidents.

  Maccollin had asked Macalley for his assistance in preparing for the sale. Macalley had confided in me that “assistance” meant, in this case, that he would have to do a significant portion of the work. Even so, family was family, and more importantly, Macalley had set the condition that in return for his help, a portion of the proceeds were to go the Darbyfield Public Library Fund.

  It had not been the quietest of weeks for me. I had been busy with charity functions, a stubborn shower valve, and supervising the gardeners who had replanted the flowerbeds on the front lawn. I longed for nothing more than a few days of peace, a chance to catch up on my reading. Not having my reliable and versatile valet on hand did not seem peaceful. Still, I would dance a waltz with an unbathed goblin in a hailstorm to support our small but wonderful library, so I gave Macalley my blessing to assist Maccollin with the sale.

  The event was to take place over three days. Monday would involve a viewing at the library, to give the buyers a look at the scope and contents of the Fotheringay collection. The duck items would then be moved to G.H. Wollenhall’s, our local steakhouse, where most of them would be sold off on Tuesday. The choicest items were to be held for an auction on Wednesday.

  I had given Macalley a ride to the library, in part because I had an odd urge to see this collection for myself. I knew there were would be a great number of ducks for our perusal. What I hadn't expected, or even attempted to imagine, was the sheer size of the crowd. Every spot within 500 yards of the library where one could park a motorcar or a carriage had been taken.

  Even after that discovery, I was slightly stunned when Macalley and I stepped into the library. There were humans from across the lands of the Crescent Sea and beyond, ogling every little item as if it were a 24-carat diamond, comparing notes and swapping stories. Elves examined eiders, trolls talked about teals, and a princely pixie in a scandalously revealing outfit pondered over a pintail.

  The sight of so many people was overwhelming enough, but then I beheld what they were scrutinizing with such eagerness. There was table after table filled with duck items. There were somewhat practical things such as bookends and teapots, decorated ties and sweaters, and whimsical pieces such as a portrait of Elfking Barkbirch with the head of a duck, which I suspect would make listening to his long-winded proclamations much more tolerable. One shelf was filled with a selection of books and other duckish paper ephemera, and a large glass display case held some well-crafted if odd-looking jewelry. Several buyers were carefully examining an armchair with a duck's head mounted on the back.

  “Ye gods, Macalley!” I exclaimed softly as we started to wander the floor. “I never expected this large a turnout for…”

  “Ducks?” Macalley said.

  “Exactly.” I shook my head slowly. “They are a respectable sort of bird, but what about them triggers such enthusiasm?”

  A man with a truly impressive set of graying muttonchops glanced up from a candelabra. “You're not a fan of these feathered marvels?” he said to me.

  “I have no strong opinion either way,” I replied neutrally.

  “Or perhaps you mean, eider way!” The muttonchopped man chuckled.

  I smiled quickly and politely. “Have we had the pleasure?”

  “Ah. Manners.” He held out his hand. “Arthur Storch.”

  “Alice Peavley.” I shook his hand.

  “From Peavley Manor?” Storch smiled. “That must be Macalley, then!” Macalley nodded quietly.

  “You've heard of us, then?”

  “Oh, yes! My local newspaper, the Copper Cove Courant, has published some of the accounts of your exploits from the Times.”

  “They have?” Out of politeness, I fought back the urge to raise an eyebrow.

  “Yes! I quite enjoyed the one about the baking contest. They're a welcome change from those Weston Easterly stories. But we were talking about ducks, weren't we?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Adorable creatures.” Storch tapped his head. “I contracted a love for the dear things when I was young. I found it oddly endearing that they would swarm me for a handful of breadcrumbs at the pond.”

  “Is that so?” I said, again with a politeness that I must admit was slightly forced. I was not in the habit of feeding our feathered friends. I will not speak in mixed company of the last time I tried, and what those blasted birds did to my second best pair of boots.

  “Indeed.” Storch paused briefly. “I know it must seem odd to the casual observer. I care not what they think. The sight of those dear birds brings my heart joy, and I hope it always will.”

  “Do you collect duck items?”

  “I do, though not to the degree old Trenton did. But who could? He had deep pockets, and would spend gleefully on whatever he…”

  Storch paused and stared at a painting of a weary looking woman of early middle age. She sat in a chair by a pond, surrounded by ducks. “An interesting choice of subject matter,” I observed.

  Macalley cleared his throat. “I do believ
e that the woman shown in the painting is Fotheringay’s wife, Ethelind.”

  “Wife? Whatever became of her?”

  “Once she had finished posing for the painting, she ran off with the artist.”

  “Ah.” I found myself unable to blame Ethelind, but I opted not to share that thought aloud.

  “An interesting work nonetheless,” Storch said. “It might—”

  “Retract that at once, Glitterglim, you scoundrel!” We turned our attention away from the painting and towards the far end of the library. The speaker, a rather short woman with waist-length braided blonde hair and a red pantsuit, was pointing a finger at the pixie we had seen earlier.

  “I must beg your pardon,” Glitterglim said with a smirk. “What offense have I caused today, Peirea?”

  “Your remark!”

  “About ducks?”

  Peirea swept her hand towards the back wall, where a figure was being displayed in a glass case set upon a pedestal. It was a small golden duck, lovingly detailed, with miniscule black gems for eyes. It might have been a trick of the afternoon sun, but it seemed to me to be glowing.

  “This is a mallard, you simpleton!” Peirea snapped. “A mallard! Not just another duck!”

  Glitterglim feigned a yawn. “They’re all ducks to me.”

  “I’ll fry you like a rasher of bacon!” Peirea shouted, fire in her eyes.

  “Not in here!” A short, plump, graying woman in a green dress stepped between the pixie and the pyromancer. “Not in this library!”

  “But—” Peirea started to say.

  The woman folded her arms. “I don’t want to hear another word out of either of you,” she said crossly. I was glad that I had never been on Clarinda Tapping’s bad side. She was the head librarian, and she brooked no interruptions in the library’s operations, be it overdue books or rude patrons.

  Glitterglim chortled. “You can tell who she’s siding—”

  Clarinda spun and glared at the pixie. “That’s enough,” she snapped. “Keep it up, and both of you will be ejected and banned from the sale and auction.” I held my breath for a moment, but then Glitterglim nodded and walked away, as Peirea slunk off in the opposite direction.

  “I do say,” I murmured.

  Clarinda sighed. “Duck collecting can bring out the worst in people. No offense meant, Master Storch.”

  “None taken. If you’ll excuse me?” Storch tipped his hat to us and set off to examine a stand that held walking sticks and umbrellas.

  “But it can also bring out the best people.” Clarinda smiled. “How are you today, Alice!”

  “Very well.” I smiled back. “Quite the turnout!”

  “And good afternoon, Macalley!”

  “Good afternoon.” Macalley glanced at the golden duck. “That one seems to be attracting a good deal of attention.”

  “I know. It’s helping out the ticket sales.”

  “Ticket sales?” Macalley raised an eyebrow ever so slightly.

  “We decided to hold a raffle to raise funds, with the drawing Tuesday after the dinner. That golden duck is to be the grand prize.” I could hear the joy in Clarinda’s voice as she added, “We’ve sold over 200 tickets so far!”

  “Marvelous!” I said.

  “But someone I know hasn’t bought any yet.” There was a twinkle in Clarinda’s eye.

  I laughed. “I suspect someone is dropping a hint!” I said as I reached for my purse.

  A few minutes later, Macalley and I stepped out of the library, my raffle ticket claim stub in my purse. “Only the one, madame?” Macalley said as we walked to the motorcar. I was headed home, to renew my acquaintance with the delightful, daffy Dilly Dell, while he was to help Maccollin move the Fotheringay collection to G.H. Wollenhall’s.

  “Just for a lark,” I told him as he opened the motorcar door. “And a good cause.”

  Macalley raised an eyebrow. “You’re not worried that you might actually have to find a space to display that duck, madame?”

  “Not at all, Macalley. I never win these raffles,” I said with a grin as I started the motorcar.

  Macalley, always thoughtful, had a small array of cold cuts and cheeses laid out in the icebox, along with wheat crackers and a bottle of white wine left to air out. I had a quick supper, then settled into my favorite chair with a full glass at my elbow and a delightful book in hand. Some might find this setting uninspiring or dull, but for me, it was a quiet moment of paradise.

  The newest misadventure of Dilly Dell, a naive wood elf trying to find her way in the big city, was to have been a perfect end to my day. I had just started the third to last chapter, trying to figure out in my mind how Dilly would escape her latest romantic quandary and debating if I should have a second glass of wine, when the telephone rang.

  I rolled my eyes. “It never fails,” I said to myself as I slipped a bookmark into the book and set it aside. I hurried over to the telephone and tried not to sound too put upon as I answered with a “Hello?”

  “Good evening, Madame Alice.”

  Macalley’s voice was as steady as ever, but the mere fact that he was calling at all pushed any irritation out of my mind. “Good evening, Macalley,” I responded. “How is the duck migration coming along?”

  “I’m afraid I shall need you to come to the library at once.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What happened?”

  “A situation that I cannot discuss over the telephone has arisen.”

  Knowing Macalley, I realized that “situation” was quite probably an understatement. “I’ll be right over,” I told him. I hung up the telephone and hurried to the garage, grateful that I hadn’t gotten to that second glass of wine.

  Macalley was waiting outside the library when I arrived. There was also a group of trolls in red outfits who were carrying items out of the building, loading them into a trio of carriages for transport to the steakhouse. I stopped the motorcar nearby and walked over to Macalley. “Good evening, madame,” he said quietly.

  “Good evening.” I glanced at the troll porters. “Things seem under control here. Why did you need me?”

  Macalley glanced at the library door. “I can explain why inside,” he said.

  I nodded and followed him into the library. The meeting room had been almost emptied, but the glass case that had held the golden duck was still there. However, the duck was not.

  Standing next to the empty case was a gnome. He was, physically, a near opposite to Macalley with his rotund frame and his shoulder-length hair. He was fussing with his tie as he spoke to a troll porter. “Your cousin?” I said softly to Macalley.

  “Alas,” he whispered.

  The gnome saw us approaching and hurried over to join us. “Macalley?” he asked. “She’s not with the local police, is she?”

  “Hardly. Madame Alice? My cousin Maccollin. Maccollin, this is my employer, Alice Peavley.”

  “A pleasure,” Maccollin said as we shook hands.

  “Likewise, I’m sure. What happened with the golden duck?” I asked.

  “My assistant Grash—” Maccollin pointed at the troll. “—contracted with a local crew of porters to handle the moving of the Fotheringay Collection. It seems that one of the crew might have stolen the duck; they have gone missing.”

  Grash cleared his throat. “I do believe that the thief was posing as one of the crew.”

  “Regardless.” Maccollin fixed his stare on his cousin. “We have contacted the police, but they’re not moving quickly enough. We need to locate the stolen item before word spreads and we have to refund what was spent on the raffle tickets. And I know that you can get things done, Macalley.”

  “I understand, Maccollin. One moment.” Macalley beckoned me to join him in the hall.

  “What is it?” I asked as we stepped out.

  “Madame Alice…” Macalley paused. “Did you happen to notice anything unusual about the missing mallard?”

  I thought it over for a moment. “It did seem to be...glowing?”

/>   Macalley raised an eyebrow. “You saw it too, then. If that is the case…”

  “Then there might be sorcery involved. And if there is…” I smiled. “I know who can assist us.”

  It was fortunate for us that Aurielt, Darbyfield’s resident wizard, was a night owl. Their preferred schedule might not have been suitable for most of their clients, but it was perfect for our needs. We drove the motorcar to their home, explained the situation while swearing them to secrecy, and brought them to the library.

  Aurielt was rather unimposing for a wizard, short and hefty, with spiky black hair and a plain navy blue robe; however, I knew from earlier dealings that with them, appearances were deceiving. They carefully tapped the interior of the glass case with their wand. “You were right, Alice,” they said. “There is something magic about that duck.”

  “You can tell just by examining that case?” I asked.

  “When an artifact is powerful enough, it leaves traces of dwimm wherever it is brought.” Aurielt slowly swung their wand around. “And this one...how in the world did it wind up with Fotheringay?”

  “He won an auction for it some twenty years ago,” Maccollin said. “The bidding was quite fierce, from what I’m told.”

  Aurielt nodded. “I’m not comfortable with an artifact with this level of power being anywhere near Darbyfield.”

  “I take it none of us should be?” I said.

  “Spot on. But there is one good thing about it being that powerful.”

  “And that is?”

  Aurielt drew their wand back and smiled. “Since the thief didn’t put it in an enchanted case or otherwise try to shield it, I can follow the trail it left. We’ll use your motorcar.”

  Macalley was at the wheel of the motorcar as we drove through the night. Aurielt was in the seat next to him, their wand glowing eerily as they swept it through the air and shouted directions. I sat in the back seat, holding on to the duck’s glass case.

  Aurielt soon had us pull off the main road and onto a trail. Macalley had to slow the motorcar down in the darkness as we bumped along. “Stop here,” the wizard said after a few more minutes. They spoke softly, and their wand lit up.