Patrick deWitt - Undermajordomo Minor

“You do, for one. And Mewe, and your father.”

“But we were only teasing you.” She was picking at her sleeve, and Lucy noticed again how mangy the coat was, how worn and homely and unbefitting such a person as Klara. She’d got hold of a thread, and as she pulled on it the sleeve became ever more sorry-looking, and Lucy grew rankled by her intentional worsening of the garment. “Stop it,” he said, and she did. The thread had come loose and was sticking to her fingers; she snapped her wrist and the thread slipped away on the air, and they both watched this.

She turned back to face him. “Don’t you know why we tease you? Why I do?”

“It’s likely you find me funny in some way,” Lucy ventured.

Her face softened. “No, Lucy. That’s not what it is at all.”

“What is it, then?”

She thought a moment, then shifted her weight. She was opening her mouth to speak when the wily butcher laid Lucy’s goods on the counter with a thud. “Here,” he said. “And tell that Baron he might settle his debts one of these days.” Lucy took up his bundles, nodded to Klara, and exited without another word. As he cleared the village, his mind was teeming with notions and possibilities. It occurred to him that, much in the way one experiences a brightening when walking beneath a cherry tree in bloom, so too did Klara generate and throw light.

That night Lucy couldn’t sleep. He sat in his rocking chair before the stove, feeding twigs into its black mouth and staring out the window at the village, half-hidden in a shroud of unmoving fog. It was past midnight when, intermingled with the crackling of the fire, he became aware of an extraneous noise, a muffled bustle taking place behind him, and he turned to look, assuming it was the puppy settling in her sleep. But no, she was dozing leadenly atop his pillow, and Lucy thought he must have imagined the sound. He had resumed his window-watching when it occurred a second time, only more distinctly, and now Lucy’s attentions were drawn to the door.

The knob was turning. This was being performed slowly, as though whoever was doing it did not wish to draw attention to the fact that he was. When the knob reached the limit of its rotation, the door swelled in its jamb; but being bolted, it couldn’t be opened, and the knob turned backwards, just as cautiously as before, to its point of origin. Lucy stared, rooted by fright. When the knob began again to turn, he called out,

“Who’s there?”

The reply registered scarcely above a murmur. The voice was a man’s, and his tone was illustrative of one possessed by deep confusion and hurt:

“Why are you in my room?”

A simple enough question, and yet these six words summoned a tingling dread in Lucy. He stood away from the rocker, creeping sideways, and to the bed. Locating the heavy telescope under his pillow, he took this up in his hand, never looking away from the door. “This is not your room,” he answered, as evenly as he could. “This is my room.”

“No,” said the voice, and again: “No.” Now the man began pacing in the hallway, pacing and whispering to himself, hissing some unknown threats or remonstrations. Suddenly he struck the door with his fist, so that Lucy jumped back, holding the telescope high in the air like a club. “No,” said the voice a third time, then shuffled away down the stairs. Lucy moved to his bed but sat up a long while afterwards, regarding the doorknob with an anticipatory anguish, and he thought that if it began turning once more he would cry out from the shock of it. When he awoke in the morning, the telescope was still gripped in his cramping fist, and the puppy was sniffing at the base of the door.

Lucy entered Mr Olderglough’s room, breakfast tray in hand. Mr Olderglough drew himself up in his bed, patting his lap, casting back his sleeping cap, and looking pleased at the fact of being doted on. After the tray was delivered he began the artful preparations of his tea; Lucy stood by, wondering how he might give voice to his thoughts. At last he decided there was no other way than to simply say it, and so he did: “A man tried to enter my room last night, sir.”

Mr Olderglough was distracted by the cautious measuring-out of his sugar. “What’s that, my boy?” he asked. “What is it, now?”

“A man, sir. Tried to enter my room last night.”

“A man?”

“Yes, and a strange man he was.”

“Is that right?” Mr Olderglough said wonderingly. Pouring in the cream, he stirred and sampled his tea; finding its taste satisfactory, he nodded in appreciation at life’s small but dependable comforts. “And what was so strange about him, I wonder?”

“Well, the fact of him trying to get into my room was strange.”

Mr Olderglough pondered this. “I don’t know that I would call that strange, in and of itself. What are rooms for if not entering, after all. Or else exiting. Indeed, think of how many rooms we enter and exit in our span of days, boy. Room to room to room. And we call it a life.” He chuckled at the folly of it. But Lucy was in no mood for Mr Olderglough’s wistful opining; in fact he was feeling peevish towards his superior, who was quite obviously acting the innocent when he surely knew just what Lucy was talking about with regard to the visitor of the evening prior.

Lucy said, “I most certainly would describe it as strange, sir. For we must consider that it was not a common-use room, but my own room, and that I was abed, and that it was the middle of the night. If that isn’t strange, then I don’t know what is. To say nothing of the fact of his attitude.”

“Oh, was his attitude strange as well,” asked Mr Olderglough flatly.

“It was. He seemed in a fever, and was speaking to himself — cackling and grumbling and disagreeing.”

“As though he were two people, do you mean?”

“Or several people, yes, sir. You are aware of this person?”

“I am, lad. And aren’t you glad you locked your door, like I told you? I’m no spring chicken, I won’t deny it, but I know of what I speak.”

“But who is he?”

“He is very rarely about, these days.”

“And what is the matter with him?”

“This and that. Actually, I suspect he’s mad.”

Lucy took a breath. “That he’s mad.”

“Yes.”

“You’re telling me that there’s a madman stalking the halls of the castle at night, is that correct?”

“Stalking,” said Mr Olderglough, shaking his head as he spread marmalade over his bread. “There you go with your theatrical wordage again.”

“Is he not stalking, sir?”

“He is walking.”

“But what does he want ?” said Lucy, his voice taking on a shade of exasperation.

“Who can tell? Surely it isn’t only one thing.”

“And why is that?”

“Because no one wants only one thing.”

As calmly as he might, Lucy asked, “Can nothing be done about him?”

“What would you suggest, boy?”

“Expel him?”

“Excellent idea. And do let me know how that pans out for you, eh?”

“All I know, sir,” said Lucy, “is that I shall never feel safe here, knowing he might pounce on me at any moment.”

“No, no. He only comes out late at night. This I can say with certainty. You get to your room at a decent hour, and lock up your door before turning in, and all will be well with you. Now if you don’t mind, I—”

“The man thought it his room, sir.”

“What?”

“The man thought my room was his own. He seemed quite sure of it.”

“Is that so?” said Mr Olderglough.

“It is so. And would you care to tell me why?”

“Why?” said Mr Olderglough, blinking politely.

Lucy said, “Whatever happened to Mr Broom, sir?”