Patrick deWitt - Undermajordomo Minor

Having reached the far end of the castle, Mr Olderglough led Lucy back in the direction they’d come, though by a separate series of labyrinthine passages, these no less unpleasant than the others. They were going to visit the scullery, Mr Olderglough explained. He talked as he walked.

“You will awaken at five-thirty in the morning, to bring me my tea by six. This will be waiting for you on a tray in the scullery, having been prepared by Agnes, whom you will soon meet, and whom you will surely come to admire, as she is admirable in any number of ways and you are, it would seem to me, a lad with a good head on your shoulders, the sort in possession of the ability to separate wheat from chaff.”

“I hope that I am, sir, and thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I will take my tea abed, and so you should be prepared to witness me in my sleeping attire. It is nothing too terribly flashy, mind you, only I thought it prudent to warn you ahead of time.”

“That’s fine, sir.”

“Good. Now. I will ask you to ferry me the tea tray as it stands. That is, do not pour the tea from the pot, and neither should you add the cream or sugar to the teacup, as these are small actions I prefer to perform in my own way, and according to my personal tastes, known to no one save for myself.”

“I understand.”

“Negligible accomplishments adding up to something significant over a period of time, and cumulatively, do you know just what I mean here, boy?”

“I believe I don’t, sir.”

“I shall not sit idly by and settle for anything other than a perfect cup of tea.”

“No.”

“Compromise is a plague of sorts, would you agree, yes or no?”

“I don’t know that I’ve thought of it before, sir.”

“A man accepts an inferior cup of tea, telling himself it is only a small thing. But what comes next? Do you see?”

“I suppose, sir.”

“Very good. Now. After my breakfast, you will return to find your own breakfast awaiting you in the scullery. Do not forget to compliment Agnes’s fare, even if the fare does not warrant it.”

“I understand.”

“The fare will not warrant it.”

“I understand.”

“You will not starve here, boy, but neither will you grow fat.”

“No.”

“After eating, Agnes will likely send you into the village to fetch us our stores for the day. Have you much experience in the marketplace?”

“No, sir.”

“Can you identify a fresh vegetable versus a non-fresh vegetable?”

“I surely can.”

“What we’re after is a vegetable in its prime.”

“Yes.”

“Too young will not do. And too old — worse yet.”

“I will seek out the freshest vegetables.”

“That’s the attitude. Now, might I ask what you know of haggling?”

“I know of its existence.”

“But have you yourself haggled?”

“No, sir.”

“They will name a high price, but you must not pay this price,” Mr Olderglough explained.

“No.”

“You must pay a lower price.”

“This is haggling.”

“Just so. And now. What of meat.”

“Meat, sir.”

“Have you bought it?”

“I’ve never, no.”

“You will want to keep a sharp eye on the wily butcher.”

“Is he wily, sir?”

“Is he wily! He will sell you gristle with a smile on his face, then sing a carefree tune all the way home.”

“I’ll watch him closely, sir.”

“If you bring gristle to Agnes, it will be unpleasant for you.”

“I will not do it.”

“All is right with the world, then.” Mr Olderglough smiled at Lucy. “This is going quite well, isn’t it? You and I?”

“I hope so, sir.”

“It certainly seems it, if you ask me.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Indeed. And now, here we are. Let’s see if our grande dame is scampering about.”

They had arrived at the scullery, an incongruous space in that it was orderly, clean, and well lit, with many candles ablaze, a row of low windows lining the east-facing wall, and a cheering if modest fire crinkling in a small hearth in the corner. This last, in addition to the heat from the stove, made for a warmer room than any other Lucy had met at the castle, and he stood awhile, basking in it. Agnes was nowhere to be seen. Mr Olderglough was standing with eyes closed, swaying slightly and grinning, as one enamoured of a fond memory.

“Are you all right, sir?” asked Lucy.

Mr Olderglough opened his eyes. “There once were twenty souls in our employ here, boy. Can you imagine it? Coachmen, waiting maids, porters, a cook, a nurse. All gone now, alas.”

“I thought you’d said Agnes was the cook, sir?”

“Originally she was the chambermaid. When the cook left us, then did Agnes step forward, claiming a deft hand.”

“But it seems you take issue with her cooking, is that correct?”

“Not so far as she knows. But in my private mind, yes, I am unenthusiastic.”

“And why do you not speak with her about it, may I ask?”

“Because I dislike unpleasantness. Also there is the fact of my being somewhat afraid of her. And then, too, I’m not much interested in eating.” He looked at Lucy. “Are you?”

“I like to eat,” Lucy said.

“Is that right?” Mr Olderglough shook his head, as if to accommodate an eccentricity. “Personally, it never held much sway for me.”

Lucy said, “May I ask what became of the others?”

“Well, they’ve gone away, haven’t they?”

“But why have they, sir?”

“I suppose they thought it the wisest course of action, is all.” Mr Olderglough looked wistfully about the room. “Twenty souls,” he said, “and here, what’s become of us? Well, we’ve got you in our company now, boy, and this heartens me, I can tell you that much.”

Lucy was not so heartened. He followed Mr Olderglough to the larder; the shelves were all but bare. There came from the corner the scratching of rodents, and now began a thumping, squabbling battle, a lengthy affair concluding with the agonized squeal of the defeated: high and sharp at its commencement, distantly windy at its resolution. Mr Olderglough wore a satisfied expression, as though the outcome were favourable to him. Drawing back his cascading forelock, he said, “I find the constant upkeep of the body woefully fatiguing, don’t you?”

Mr Olderglough led Lucy up a tight spiral stairwell, impressive in its dizzying, seemingly endless redundancy, in addition to its airlessness and general gloominess. They passed a landing outfitted with a stubby-legged bench of hardwood which Mr Olderglough addressed with a tap of the toe of his boot. At the top of this stairwell was Lucy’s room, a cramped space with a slanted ceiling and a small window located in the centre of the lone exterior wall. The furnishings consisted of a two-drawer dresser, a rocking chair, a modest bed, and a potbellied stove pushed into the corner. Lucy lay his valise on the bed and opened it. Mr Olderglough, standing at his back, said, “I suppose you must be tired after your journey.”

“I suppose I must be,” Lucy replied. He was considering his possessions. Here was every single thing he owned, and it didn’t seem like much to him, because it wasn’t.

Mr Olderglough said, “Then you may rest, or not rest, as per your desire. At any rate, the afternoon is yours. Tomorrow you will begin your appointment proper, does that agree with you? Well, then, good day to you, boy.”

“Thank you, sir. Good day to you as well.”

Mr Olderglough left the room and closed the door, and Lucy sat down upon the bed. Mr Olderglough opened the door and re-entered the room, and Lucy stood.

“I forgot about the letters.”

“Letters, sir?”

“The letters, yes. The Baron maintains a robust correspondence with the Baroness, living currently, apparently, or so he believes I should say, in the far eastern province. Every morning you will find a sealed envelope on the side table in the entryway. This will be taken by yourself to the station, where you will meet the nine o’clock train. The train will not stop. The letter will be passed off to the train engineer himself, and achieved thus.” He lifted his good arm high above his head.