Patrick deWitt - Undermajordomo Minor

Something had gone wrong the night before, something which wouldn’t be mended. Who could say whether this was a shared sense of loathsome shame stemming from the ballroom happenings, or some lingering hostility which had taken hold of the group permanently — Lucy wasn’t sure the performance of the evening prior was not ongoing. But whatever the reason, the joy vanished from the guests, and also the Baron, and most acutely, the Baroness, who, upon recognizing that the happy times had once more ended, left the table without saying goodbye to her old friends, disappearing into her private chambers and locking herself in.

Lucy and Mr Olderglough were kept busy all that day and into the late afternoon, assisting the guests with their packing, and transporting their baggage to the station. The Count was acting the infant, but was clearly relishing being the centre of sympathetic attentions. Lucy was made uncomfortable by the man, fearful he would suddenly recall how he had come to be injured; but he only looked to Lucy as another body to lean upon and moan at. Lucy and Mr Olderglough escorted the Count onto his train; when this pulled away, Mr Olderglough said, “It looks like we’ll have a quieter time, boy, and I dare say we’ve earned it.” Lucy noticed he was smiling but trying to hide it.

“What is it, sir?”

Mr Olderglough cleared his throat. “Well, I find myself wondering what exactly happened to the Count last night. You wouldn’t have any idea, would you?”

“Ah, it seems he fell, sir.”

“That is the theory, yes. Must have been a nasty fall, eh?”

“It must have been.”

“If it was indeed a fall, that is.”

“Yes.”

Mr Olderglough paused to ponder. “And I wonder, too,” he continued, “just what happened to Agnes’s pestle?”

“Her pestle, sir?”

“Her pestle, yes. Didn’t you know that she found it this morning, split in two?”

“Is that right?”

Mr Olderglough nodded.

Lucy shook his head. “That’s a shame.”

Mr Olderglough nodded. “Lastly,” he said, “I am curious as to what happened with young Klara’s uniform.”

“Her uniform, sir?”

“Agnes tells me it was ripped at the neck and sleeve. I hope she hasn’t come to any harm?”

“No, sir, she hasn’t.”

“She got home safe, then?”

“Safe and sound.”

“Well thank goodness for that. She seems a very nice girl.”

“She is, sir. And thank you for saying so.”

They walked for a time in silence. They were both smiling, now. Mr Olderglough said, “Would you agree that the most appealing thing about a mystery is the fact of its mysteriousness?”

Lucy considered this. “Perhaps I would, sir.”

“But also the most frustrating, wouldn’t you say?”

“Perhaps it is. But as is not unrarely the case, sir, I must admit to not knowing quite what you’re talking about.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Well, no matter.” He looked away. “You may take the night off, if you wish.”

“I would like that very much, sir, and thank you.”

“Yes, boy. Off you go, now.”

Lucy walked towards the village then, listening to the chirring of crickets in the dusky air. He found himself drawn once again to the sight of the smoke spilling from Klara’s chimney. He wished he might live forever in that wonderful hovel.

As he came nearer the village he noticed a crowd had assembled outside the shanty. Stepping to the front of the pack, now he saw the focus of their attentions: Adolphus stood before Klara’s door, famished and decrepit, in filth and bloodied rags, held up on either side by two of his comrades. One of these men knocked, and Klara answered, standing in silence and stillness, regarding Adolphus as though he were a spectre. When she took him in her arms, a burst of jubilation came up among the villagers. She led him inside, and the crowd dispersed, all except for Lucy. When he recognized it was not possible for him to enter the shanty, he turned and walked away.

There followed a desolate era where Lucy didn’t know quite where he stood with Klara. It was only days before and they had been connected as if by blood; now he heard nothing from her, and neither did he hear from Memel or Mewe. It was said among the villagers that Adolphus had been tortured and starved and was still very much in danger of dying, but time passed with no news of his demise, and as the smoke continued to spill from Klara’s chimney, Lucy knew she had to be nursing and feeding him and tending to his wounds. Meanwhile, and as if in concert with this unnerving scenario, the mood among the castle inhabitants grew ever more removed, with the Baroness forever breaking away from the Baron to be alone in her chambers, and the Baron chasing after her, his voice gone high and pleading. Finally they retired to their respective rooms, and a cruel silence existed in every hall and doorway. From the scullery, Agnes and Mr Olderglough spoke only in whispers, and their words were unsure, for they were the both of them fearful of what was likely to come. It was an in-between time, and Lucy shirked his duties to spy on the village with his telescope, as when he had first arrived.

One morning he watched Klara walking through the village and to the shanty, a bundle of kindling in her arms. He studied her face, but she wore no expression whatsoever; seven days had passed since Adolphus’s return, and a hard kernel of contempt had formed in Lucy’s heart. Why had she not come to him? Surely she knew he was aware of Adolphus staying with her; surely she knew he was in pain about it. What did it mean that she hadn’t bothered to address this? Well, what else could it mean? He told himself it was a matter of pride to wait for her, when in fact he was simply too frightened to go himself. When he thought of the way she might phrase her goodbye, he was sickened.

Klara dropped her kindling and stared with an awestruck expression into the distance. Adolphus had emerged from the shanty and was standing under his own power in the doorway. The sun glanced off his face, and while it was plain he was not yet healthy, he was far healthier than before, and he smiled easily, beckoning with his hands for Klara to come nearer, and she did this. They stood before one another awhile, speaking unknown tender words. When Klara reached up her hand and stroked Adolphus’s cheek, then did Lucy know he had lost her. This is how it happened that his heart was so superbly broken.

Lucy was disinclined to leave the castle, and took to maundering in the halls, carrying his burden here and there, eating little, sleeping less, and saying nothing, for he found speaking to be actually painful for him. At last he retreated to his room, blacked out his window with ash, folded and stowed his telescope, and took to bed. At the start he had no specific thoughts or notions but was merely inhabiting a deep, even ache; then came the visions of merciful death, and he pondered the variants with a swooning reverence. On the third day of this, Mr Olderglough came to visit, and Rose was at his side. As they entered the room, Lucy drew the pillow over his face. “Please don’t,” he said.

“Don’t what, boy?”

“Don’t say it.”

“Don’t say what?”

“Don’t say anything.”

Mr Olderglough sat on the bed. “Are you not well, Lucy?”

“I’m not, no.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m not well.”

“I suppose it’s something to do with Klara, is that it?”

Lucy didn’t answer. Mr Olderglough bowed his head, and his forelock came uncoiled. “What may I do to help you?”

“Nothing.”

“And when will you be better, I wonder?”

“I don’t want to be better.”