A Study in Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 4) (19 page)

The Grand Stair splits into two opposite stairs at the landing, then that set of stairs splits again. Every landing has a bust of some favored monarch and an accompanying amusing anecdote from Manlington’s endless font of quirky lore. A long hallway with a distant ceiling contains a disapproving gallery of stern Plumtartts through history. They stare down from their crowded mass of ancient paints with a stern bearing that reaches across the gulf of time. Looking at us with disdain, they seem to know that we are lesser men than they. General ‘So and So’ Plumtartt’s heroic service at the ‘Battle of Kiquemendegroiinne’, and Admiral ‘Wot’sis’ Plumtartt and how after he tore away the defenses of his cowering foes, he came to be known as ‘The Marauder of Bikini Bay’.

The trophy room, bearing the spoils from dozens of animal slaying safaris, is thankfully bypassed by unanimous consent.

We get to one hallway that only has one painting in it. The painter probably obtained his canvas from one of the admiral’s own Ship of the Line’s mainsails because the horrible thing looks likes it measures seven fathoms in height, and half a league in length. The terrible sea battle depicted involves scores of ships in far too great of graphic detail than is comfortable for those of us of gentle constitution. It must have taken a hundred maniacal painters to work out this gory masterpiece. Our party hugs the opposite wall as the violence shown gives the impression of wanting to draw us in.

“This display of Native weaponry is gathered from infringement on many fearsome and tenacious warrior peoples. The vast array and assortment of spears, animal-hide shields, tomahawks, axes, boomerangs, knives, blowguns, and swords of unending variation were relieved of their rightful owners’ possession at gunpoint by the family Plumtartt’s fearless and courageous forebears.”

It is announced that the Cathedral like vaulted ceiling hall we are entering is the North Annex. Built in commemoration of sending some promising, bloodthirsty, junior Plumtartt off on some distant gruesome Holy ordeal, this is supposed to be the oldest and most historic aspect in this old pile of a house.

“As you can see by the ladders and scaffolding in place, there is still repair being done to the stained glass window after the unfortunate events of early last summer. A terrible monster attacked this very House in an attempt to kill Miss Plumtartt. The creature pushed itself up this wall and then entered through this window, depicting St. George slaying his dragon. The lower half of the window was damaged or destroyed. Most of the top portion was unharmed. Repairs have been vigorously under way and are now almost complete, hence the ladders and scaffolds that you see in place. Note the unusual architectural style the designer used as he conveys the prow of a ship in the outward protruded vertex. This rises to flatten again into our wonderful display in glass. The flanking doorways of the convex construction lead to outdoor terraces that provide a breath-taking view of The Great Sucking Death Mire that extends for as far as one can see to our North.”

“I’ve had enough of a history lesson,” barks Thurston Purrington. “Enough piddlin’ about, let’s get to the main event.”

“Hey! I don’t-ah believes it, but I, Signora Francesca Angelina Marianna Sforza agrees with the bitterly angry bearded man. If-ah you no show-ah us the gems, then I guess-ah we get on with the ghosteses act. What do you say, Mrs. SwamiBottom? You-ah ready to talks to the spooks?”

“Those that exist beyond our flimsy corporeal mass beckon to us.” Unblinking peepers scan the tour. “If Miss Plumtartt is ready to proceed, than so am I.”

“Of course, Mrs. WinterBottom. Uppsey and Manlington, would you be so kind as to navigate us back to the parlor chosen for our specter, spectral analysis?”

“
We would be delighted
!” is happily sung to us in duodic dulcet tones.

The ballerina butlers escort us back to the Petite Grande Sitting Salon. Every one is shown to their seat. I am not happy about where I am told to go and what I am told to do.

“Now, Spike, be a good little man and climb aboard the bicycle. Master Temperance has assured me that contrary to appearance, it is perfectly safe.”

I looks with some skepticism at the chore and responsibility I have been bequeathed.

Gripping the pommel, I puts me foot ons the first pedal, and then I swings me leg over the saddle. Oh! I don’t like heights!

“Now just sit tight, my helpful little chap, and we’ll be right back to you. Everyone, spread out around this circular table, if you please. That’s it, first Madame Plumtartt, then Master Temperance. Then Beulah and Thurston Purrington. Next we have Signora Francesca Angelina Marianna Sforza and then Mr. Sforza, and we are back around for Mrs. WinterBottom and Colonel WinterBottom. The only staff present are myself, my secretary, Bobby Uppsey Sr., and Spike McGilligin. The rest of the staff have been asked to stay in their quarters this evening. As is plainly seen, there is an added nuance in this attempt to speak across the beyond. Our American Beau of the House, Master Ichabod Temperance, has some macabre experiment that he wishes to conduct during the anticipated event. It’s something along the lines of drawing raw ectoplasm from out of the air itself should the sufficient amount of spiritual amplitude be achieved. To assist in the enhancement of the process, Mr. Temperance has employed our household page, Spike McGilligin, to pedal the tricycle that we have brought inside. The six foot tall, pedal driven wheel to the fore is held aloft to allow it to remain stationary. The two miniature rear tyres have been securely chocked. The primary wheel’s tyre has been removed from its hub so that a belt may rest in its channel. The belt runs to a dynamo electricity generator situated before our distrustful servant. You may start pedaling now, Spike.”

“Oi bettuh get another sweet little tip out of this.”

“Madame WinterBottom, the table is yours.”

“Thank you, Manlington,” Mrs. WinterBottom’s spooky dark eyes survey the members of the round table one by one. The severe frown clamped on her mug conveys the gravity of the proceeding. “Everyone slow their breathing. Close your eyes and let your mind go blank.”

The room does grow strangely quiet, except for me bloody pedaling. A somber mood descends over the circle of séance. Everyone’s breathing becomes synchronized and the whole room jumps as one when a huge flash of lightning and clap of thunder announces the arrival of a violent storm.

“Should we grasp one another’s hands, thus creating a joined circle, perhaps, eh hem?”

“I didn’t know there was gonna be any hand holding!Thurston only gets to hold my hand once a month, and then only if he’s completed his chores! Do you expect me to hold the hand of this ‘Temperance’ person? Oi don’t like it!”

“Hey, Purrington lady, maybe you should try holding your hubby’s hand more often because he is over here trying to get all he can out-ah of my delectable digits!”

“Oi gots itchy palms!”

“Ha, ha! I betcha you do! Ha, ha!”

“I require everyone to lightly place their fingers on the table,” speaks the deadpan voice of Mrs. WinterBottom. The assembled guests look about at one another and then do as they are told.

“Shush! Settle your thoughts and breathe deeply. Everyone must calm their minds and open their spirits to visitation.”

“
W
W
W
W
WWOO
O
O
O
O
O
O
O
O
O
OO
O
O
O
Oh”

“Great spirits of the unknowable beyond, hear us that call to you from the world of the living. We wish to communicate with one of your new arrivals.”

The rising winds viciously whip about the house. The howling gale rattles the windows. A particularly strong gust even sends a blast of air down the chimney, disturbing the fire. The dancing light causes spooky shadows to dance about the room like fleeting images of wild demons. A little of the wind forces its way through window cracks to make the candles nervous.

“Come to our world!” Mrs. WinterBottom sways in her seat and stares without seeing before her. “Speak to us, those who have crossed over into the world of spirits! Let us be in communication with Malachi CruikShank!”

Lightning, thunder, wind and rain buffet the massive Manor heralding the arrival of the undead’s entrance.

As if from a great distance, the tiny tinkling of a tambourine’s jangly cymbals can faintly be heard. My blood runs cold and my spine nearly melts away. I desperately want to quit this awful tricycle, but I dare not with Manlington just three feet away.

I see many frightened exchanges move about the table.

“Malachi CruikShank! Speak to us! Give us a sign!”

The table is moving! The participants appear very panicked to see this. All of their hands are in plain sight and no one is affecting the table’s movement. Nevertheless, the side with Mrs. WinterBottom looks like it is slowly rising!

“Speak to us, Malachi!”

Mrs. WinterBottom snaps about in place several times and then appears to be not quite herself. It is a very different voice that speaks to us. It is a more manly voice.

“I hear you call to me. I am the sad wretched spirit that was once Malachi CruikShank. I was murdered in this house. The killer was Bishop RooksPawn. But no, it was the Curse! The Curse of Plumtartt Manor! RooksPawn was possessed and driven to slay me, Malachi CruikShank. Vengeful phantoms haunt these halls. The Curse of Plumtartt Manor killed me! You should all flee this house...”

~Snap!
thud.~

The sharp, cracking sound of breaking wood coincides with the table falling abruptly its few inches to the floor.

“Ouch! Oh, I’ve got a devil of a splinter.”

“Might I be of assistance, Colonel WinterBottom?” injects Manlington as he bounds to the Colonel’s side. “I really am good at this sort of thing. Just hold the injury to the light. Yes, you received a nasty little splinter in your wrist when that slat of wood you had secreted up your sleeve broke. It was clever, though, how you were able to sneak it underneath the edge to support this side of the table’s weight and thus create the illusion of the furniture’s levitation.

“Cursed luck.”

“Buck up, old bean, it really was quite a thrill there for a minute, good fellow,” Manlington smiles, attempting to cheer his patient.

“Burbity-burb. Er, thank you Manlington.”

“No, no, I am quite the mystic, really!” Mrs. WinterBottom jumps up,
~tinkle.~
dropping the tiny tambourine she was manipulating with her knees to the floor. “Oops.”

“Wait a minute,”says Thurston Purrington looking closer at the Colonel. “Hey, don’t I know you? ‘ere, Beulah, grab ‘im!”

Beulah Purrington moves quickly to pin the Colonel’s arms behind him.

“What, what? Hear now, unhand me woman!”

Thurston Purrington puts his wiry bearded face close to the Colonel’s, giving the distinguished officer a meticulous and scrutinizing examination before a look of amazement and surprise overcomes his features.

“Hey! I does know you! Let me sees something.”

The powerful Thurston Purrington spits into his palm and then rubs the saliva solution none too gently into the strongly protesting Colonel’s forehead. A few half hearted pleas are made by the onlookers to dissuade or at least be a bit more gentle with the Colonel towards the Purrington couple, but no one wants to interfere too forcefully with the fearsome pair’s actions.

“There! What did I tells ya!”

Mrs Purrington holds the struggling Colonel securely. He cannot hide what Mr. Purrington has revealed. A winestain birthmark in the shape of a Valentine’s heart graces the center of his forehead in a blaze of silver guilt.

“Sergeant Eric Cleese! You was a part of the detail what secured the Plumtartt expedition’s treasures back to England. Professor Plumtartt gave me a chance after prison that no one else would. He trusted me to watch over the expedition on the Upper Nile to ensure against treacheries such as this. The temptation of such priceless treasure was too much to trust to the average man. I have never shirked in my loyalty to the Professor, even now, over two years since his passing and ten years after the return from Egypt.”

“Oh, Blythe my dear,” the fraudulent Colonel looks to his exposed wife for help, “what do Oi do?”

“Oh, Eh-wic, Oi suppose we must confess all there is.” Mrs. Winterbottom’s voice and accents are vastly changed, now.

“Blast you, Purrington! There could have been enough treasure for us all, you fool.”

“Nevermind that, tell us your tale.”

“Very well, then. It was during my Egyptian posting. I got tossed in the clink after a drunken Cairo brawl. There I met three amazing little pips. Clever native lads they were. They had been through extreme hardships, poor fellows. Each lad was a physical wreck, what with their twisted postures, misshapen lips, jaundiced faces and leprous limbs. Well it seems that these fellows had been a part of this expedition that I was detailed to help guard on its passage back to England. One night during the expedition, one of the boys, the ugly one, had a hanker for an apple. Stretching down into the barrel, he had fallen in. While cooped up in the bottom of the barrel, he happened to overhear a private conversation between the leading archaeologist and Professor Plumtartt. An unexpectedly rare find had been made. The
‘Jewels of Impossibility’
had been found.”