The House Off Quincy

While I am still not finished rewriting Anon, Sir, Anon, I refuse to bother with any real projects. In the wings, however, is an original fairy-tale with a vague outline (Toadhaven League), a rewrite of The Baby, and this. I'm not certain what this is, but I wrote it in one sitting and it amused me and I thought I'd toss it to you and let you guess about where it is headed. Oh, and because I strive not to do the obvious, please don't guess that A & B will become a couple. I hate jilting-jessies. Anyway, I give you this, referred to in my files as The House Off Quincy. (This title is strictly an organizational  ploy, not a fixed moniker.)

The House Off Quincy

By Rachel Heffington

“Would mademoiselle like me to look out for her partner in the lobby?” The maitre d’ bowed over the table, over her arm, till the white breast of his uniform nearly brushed the pink carnations.

“No, merci,” she answered.

“Mademoiselle is waiting for someone, no? Allow me to page him.”

“Monsieur is most helpful but no, merci.”

“Mademoiselle came tonight alone?”

Corinna Demarque quieted her fretful hands like white doves in the lap of her black dress, and smiled. Allowances must be made for the man’s ill-concealed curiosity. He was, after all, French. Corinna, quite American herself, had an unusually deep well of patience where the French were concerned.

“As it happens,” she said, “I am celebrating tonight.”

An expression of surprise hovered on the waiter’s lips. She could feel the shape of the words forming behind his white bow-tie.

“Alone,” she said it before him. She didn’t like it breathing down her neck. It was better this way.

Graceful lines at the corners of his eyes appeared. “Would Mademoiselle like me to bring a glass of wine, then?”

If any night occasioned wine, it was tonight. Corinna, however, did not feel that festal. “A Shirley Temple, if you please.”

The man drew himself tall, folded in half like a linen sheet, and backed away.

“No … wait.” Her cheeks felt too hot. Ordering a soda at a brand-new, rather swanky French restaurant was no way to conduct a professed celebration. “Coffee,” she said, her eyes catching a neat advertisement offering one cup for four dollars.

“One café, mademoiselle. C’est bon.”

Corinna let loose her hands and clutched her napkin instead, patting the dampness away from her palms. She was bewilderingly hot at the idea of coffee and her stomach churned at the nauseous suggestion. It was much too hot for coffee – much too hot for anything – but wine was far too daring, even for she who felt exceptionally brave tonight.

The waiter returned, bearing a miniscule cup of coffee. “Cream, mademoiselle?”

“Mmmm please. And sugar.”

“Mademoiselle will excuse me a moment, oui? I did not anticipate the sugar.”

She traced his trim, departing figure on its way kitchen-ward. Were the French snobs about their coffee? She had thought it a trait peculiar to Starbucks employees. Never mind. Nothing, not even snobby waiters, could dampen her ardor this evening.

The waiter appeared a third time, bearing a trampled, orphaned packet of sugar. It looked pitiful, sitting alone in the center of a shining silver plate. He deposited this offending object next to the blue shell-like demitasse cup and bowed.

“I made a rather large decision today,” Corinna announced. She wasn’t sure what was going to follow this, but it had better be something good.

“Oui, mademoiselle?” The waiter’s graceful crinkles were gone and his eyes wore an intensely veiled expression. Bored. Bored as a middle-schooler in mid-terms.

Corinna folded her hands again. “I’ve decided to move out of—”

“Out of my way, mademoiselle? I wish to pass.”

Corinna stared at the ridiculously rude Frenchman before realizing he looked quite as scandalized as her. Turning, then, Corinna saw a familiar pair of blue eyes looking down at her.

“Ashton.”

The waiter sailed off, noiseless.

“Miss Demarque.”

She wasn’t certain she wanted Ashton Merrill to see her in this get-up. A little black dress and her mama’s pearls were a risky enough combination; Corinna’s mouth burned at the thought of the bright red lipstick she’d recklessly swiped on in the giddy heights of her excitement. And the hat.

“Won’t you sit down, Ashton?” Immediately, she wished she’d tossed out her Southern sense of etiquette with the last of this week’s newspaper. She didn’t want Ashton Merrill’s company any more than she wanted that horrible cup of coffee. If she was rude and modern, she’d not be bothered with him.

Unfortunately for Corinna’s peace of mind, Ashton cast his undeniably well-built frame into the petite chair opposite and his eyes roved over her. “Aren’t you a picture this evening?”

“I wouldn’t know. I didn’t look in the mirror.” Lies.

“That’d explain your lipstick.” In the up-rush of her ire, Ashton spread his hands and his low laugh rumbled. “Teasing you, Miss Demarque. You look very chic. Very Parisian.”

It had always been this way, Corinna thought. Always always Ashton Merrill got to tease her up one side and down the other. Didn’t matter what she did. Didn’t matter what she didn’t do. Somehow, Ashton had a laugh. Still, it wasn’t a terrible fate to sit in a place like La Salle across the table from a man wearing a new seersucker suit.

“He’s a nice-looking man. A nice-looking man.” Corinna’s grandmother had been a fan, whatever her own opinion might be.

“How’s the coffee?” he asked.

“Wonderful.” More lies. “Why are you here?”

“I missed Paris and Paris, it appears, had come to Terrence Heights. I couldn’t stay away.”

“Are you alone too?” she asked. “I think I’ve entirely shocked that poor man. Apparently, La Salle isn’t the kind of place single young women come to.”

Ashton kidnapped her coffee and took the ridiculous cup between his forefinger and thumb. “How scandalous of you.”

“I know!” she sounded ridiculously pleased, even to herself.

“Well, I’m not alone. Mama and Louise are in the powder room.” He took a sip from her coffee cup and grimaced.

Corinna smiled. “I was bourgeoisie enough to demand sugar. Won’t you take some?”

“All kidding aside, Corinna, why are you here alone? You told the waiter you were … celebrating?”

She hid herself behind the convenient brim of her over-size black hat. “Ashton Merrill. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, eavesdropping on a private conversation.”

“Because you and the waiter have such vital secrets to tell each other?”

“Shut up, Ashton.”

“Are you celebrating or playing tea-party? It’s a little hard to tell.” He pinched the brim of her hat and tugged it up, off her head.

She clutched it with both hands and shot absolutely pagan glances at him. “You know what? You are not a gentleman.”

“Settle down, Miss Demarque. Golly day, you’re riled.”

Riled she most certainly was. Corinna jumped to her feet and grabbed for her clutch-purse. It lay in the way of the carnations and if Ashton had not at that moment steadied the vase, her vehemence would have scattered the pink ruffles gaily across the expanse of her now-empty seat. “You are ruinin’ a perfectly fine evening. I don’t even like coffee.”

She steamed away from the table, high-heels punctuating her umbrage with sharp stabbing sounds as she crossed the marble floor. The sound of Ashton’s footsteps close on her own spurred her into an angry trot. He grabbed her elbow at the revolving door and squeezed in behind her so they were dumped on the sidewalk outside together.

“Now, hush up Corinna. Tell me what you were celebrating. I’ll listen. Promise.”

“Don’t you know I have a life?”

“Of course I do!”

“And it isn’t anyone’s to tell me what to do with.”

“Are we even having the same conversation?”

Corinna pressed her pointer-fingers to the bridge of her nose and breathed deep and slow. She opened her eyes to find real concern on his handsome face. It bugged her worse than anything.

She sighed. “Look, I’m not celebrating anything. I just made that up.”

“Then what are you doin’ at La Salle at eight-thirty on a Friday night?”

Three cars passed by in the humid night air in the time it took Corinna to boost her courage enough to answer: “Waiting for one Mr. Frederick Sherman—my date. Mr. Sherman appears to have gone M.I.A. Otherwise known as, flown the coop.”

Ashton didn’t say anything for a second. She could have ignored him after that, but then his big old hand settled on Corinna’s shoulder with the same bluff comfort he’d always been able to dish out.

“I’m sorry, Corinna.”

She wouldn’t cry. There was no reason to cry. No reason whatsoever.

“Don’t cry, Corey.”

“Don’t call me Corey,” she said in a voice redolent of the dreaded summer cold.

“Look, if he ain’t gentleman enough to go on a date, you wouldn’t want him anyway.”

“Isn’t gentleman enough. And you just don’t understand, do you? It isn’t always a gentleman we want. Sometimes a man is quite enough for the purpose.”

Emboldened and a little frightened by the accidental scandal her words conjured, Corinna continued: “What I mean is, sometimes it’d be enough to come out to Terrence Heights on a Friday night with a man and sit across the table from him and talk about the weather and just have people know you aren’t shriveling up in some big old house off Quincy Street.”

She sniffed. He shifted his feet.

“I don’t care about not being married, honestly,” she said.

A few couples enjoying an evening walk in the sticky darkness walked by and the scent of Old Spice and gardenias filled the space behind their passage.

“I just don’t want people thinking I can’t get a man.”

“Why are you tellin’ me this, Corinna? Isn’t this something you ought to be telling one of your girl-friends over manicures?” The understanding from a moment ago had died out and Ashton was once again the most provoking man in Virginia.

“Get back to your Mama and your girl, Ashton.” Corinna pulled her car keys out of her clutch and managed a little smile. “You don’t want to leave them to that awful waiter.”

Ashton obeyed and was again a part of the La Salle atmosphere, spoiled once and for all for Corinna. Her little blue Nissan was parked along the street under a lamp still adorned with a tinsel wreath from Christmas. She felt ashamed to remember she’d waxed her ugly little car so it’d shine for tonight and had scrounged three quarters to stuff in the parking meter so she’d have three hours without danger of being towed.

Corinna checked her Mama’s silver watch. One hour, ten minutes. Well that was a complete waste of two of the quarters. Not that she thought it’d work, but Corinna banged the top of the parking meter in passing and inserted two fingers in the trapdoor. No coins jangled into her hand.

She yanked the driver-side door open, feeling dejected.

Seventy-five cents wasted on a man who hadn’t even showed up. Not to mention the four-dollar coffee … for which she hadn’t paid. Corinna eyed the calliope of light caught in La Salle’s revolving door and wondered if she ought to go back. But no, Ashton would take care of her bill. He’d drunk the coffee anyway.

“Goodbye, vanity.” Corinna yanked the drooping black straw hat from her head and tossed it into the passenger seat as if it’d been a murder weapon. She balanced against the open door and took her pumps off, one by one. Through the bottoms of her hose she could feel the concrete, still warm from broiling in the sun all day. She tossed the shoes in. One hit the passenger window; the other bounced off the glove-box and dented the crown of the black hat.

The only thing that remained was the guilty red lipstick and this Corinna could do nothing about: she’d religiously followed online instructions for its application that insured at least seven hours of stay-power.

“Thank you, Google,” she breathed viciously and climbed into the seat, slamming the door behind her.

Sweet August, she needed some Advil.

In a spirit of judgement and lemon juice

When one has initiated a certain thing like Chatterbox, it does help if one participates along with the populace. Here, then, is my offering from Vivi & Farnham. This is Vivi's first night at Whistlecreig Manor and Farnham has just inquired of his butler whether it was time for supper or not. Thanks to everyone who has entered Chatterbox so far! Your entries have been varied and amusing and it's quite a pleasure to read how you each used the subject of "food".

“It is time, sir,” Allen replied. He tucked the silver tray under his arm, bowed, pivoted on his heel, and departed.

“Well, follow him. Dining room’s just across the great hall. When I passed by earlier it was making a very ancient and fishlike smell.”

Genevieve’s stomach balked. “Oh...my.”

“No need to look so ill, Miss Langley. Quoting Shakespeare. Allen’s made branzino. Off we go. I won’t enjoy it but you might.” He stood, tugged the edges of his cardigan, and jutted his elbow at her.

She paused a second, wondering what he meant for her to do with it. Some odd gesture of gallantry, I suppose. Genevieve slipped her arm through his and suppressed a smile.

He cut his eyes at her. “You think me odd, Miss Langley? What a pass the world has come to when gentlemen no longer escort their ladies to table. Have you never been elbowed round?”

“Never.”

“‘Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow.’ If ever I get my hands on a man of your acquaintance, I’ll teach him.”

Her uncle’s arm was a warm thing to clasp as they made their way through the tangle of passages and Genevieve thought what a sad fact it was that gentlemen no longer “elbow” their ladies as Farnham had so bluntly put it; there was a certain peaceable respect in the gesture that made her feel like royalty as they hurried through the echoing hall and into another cell of firelight. The smell of baked seabass filled the room and through a curl of steam and candle-glow, Genevieve saw Allen pouring water into crystal glasses like a tee-totalling Bacchus in a three-piece suit. Farnham released her arm and pulled a chair out, waiting for her to sit before he pushed it in again. He took the place across from her, leaving the chair at the head of the table empty.

Genevieve had spread her napkin and thus exhausted any action that required no conversation. “Are we expecting company?”

Farnham laid his napkin across his legs with meticulous care and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “None. The welcoming committee had gone to London to visit the Queen else they would have been here to pay you homage.”

She felt the sting of his sarcasm and wished he wouldn’t take everything she said as a personal insult. “I only wondered, as you weren’t sitting at the head of the table.”

“I’ve saved a place for Macbeth’s ghost.”

“I thought theatre-people refused to say the name of The Scottish Play.”

Farnham speared a potato with his fork and passed the bowl to her. “I am not superstitious. Why should I not use his name any less than I’d use yours? You’re not going to give me bad luck, are you?”

Genevieve served herself and set the bowl before the empty plate at the head of the table and bowed toward it. “Then Macbeth, dear sir, would you take some supper?”

Farnham scoffed. “Silly girl. I was in jest. I leave a place at the head of the table because I hate to have my back to the gaping hall.”

“You’re afraid?”

“Curious. I like to know if anyone is looking at me.”

“Oh, uncle, narcissism never did any man a good turn.” Geneveive laughed at Farnham’s befuddled expression and laughed harder when he flapped his elbows with an annoyed look.

“Perhaps we’d better bless the food and have done with ghosts,” he said.

“Oui, monsieur, c’est une bonne idée.”

Farnham bowed his head and Genevieve did the same. She wondered where Allen had gone to and if he thought his employer’s behavior in regards to the empty seat a bit odd.

“For what Thou hast given us, liege Lord, we thank Thee and ask that our lives might be of service to Thee,” Farnham prayed in an elegant, soothing voice that seemed to treasure the holy words. “In Thy Son’s magnificent name do we pray. Amen.”

“Amen.”

“One thing you will need to know, Miss Langley.” Farnham turned his fork with the potato still speared on the tines and smiled at it. “We are often interrupted during our supper.”

“By whom?”

“Or what? Or whither? Never you mind, for it changes every time. I thought you would like to be advised, though.”

Puzzled, she shrugged. “Of course. Thank you.”

Allen brought the branzinos on two plates and set one before each of them. The whole fish in its crispy, salted jacket stared at her with a glassy eye and Genevieve thought it seemed to look at Whistlecreig and its inhabitants in a spirit of judgement and lemon-juice. “I incline to concur,” she whispered.

“To whom are you speaking?” Farnham asked.

Genevieve snapped straight, blushing to realize she’d been overheard. “To my fish, if you must know.”

“I could have gone a long time without knowing that.” There was a bit of a silence--horrifyingly awkward--and Farnham smashed the potato he’d been turning on the fork since first stabbing it. “Tell me, Miss Langley, are you one of those nature-spiritualist people who eat nothing but dried fruit and hot water and apologize to the Earth for taking even that much from Her bosom? No? Good, because I was going to tell you that I’ll have none of that here. We eat fish. We eat poultry and lamb and pork and whatever we take a fancy for. Allen raises cabbages and he doesn’t weep a little weep over each plant as he decapitates it and takes its head to steam in a pot.”

“Really, sir!” Allen’s voice intruded.

Farnham stopped Allen with an imperious gesture of his hand. “I imagine we’d eat a horse if we decided it would taste any good. What I mean to say is that you’ll find your feelings constantly trod upon if you insist on animals and plants having spirits and crying tears and marrying and owning property and all of that ridiculous brouhaha one hears so much about in this modern age. Animals have lives and I like them to live their lives in comfort and decency. But I’ve got a life too and what’s more, I’ve got a soul, and when the time is right I have no compunction about eating a bunny or two to keep body and soul entwined.”

“Sir. Your potato,” Allen murmured.

Genevieve passed a hand over her lips, praying she wouldn’t dissolve into laughter as she watched Farnham stare at the shapeless mash that had once been a potato sitting cheek-to-jowl with the fin-tail of his branzino.

“Hmmm...well dear me,” Farnham muttered.

Allen cleared his throat. “‘I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit’, sir? Was that, perhaps, the quotation for which you were searching?”

Farnham drew himself up. “Oh fie on you, Allen.”

Genevieve tried to keep her amusement inside but the aggrieved expression on Allen’s face and the surprise on Farnham’s as if he’d been an unlucky Jove discovering his Titantic strength was too much to be borne in silence. She laughed aloud--peals of it--and the idea of anyone laughing in a place like Whistlecreig only made her situation funnier. Farnham sat back, affronted, and Allen whisked himself off someplace--Genevieve could only imagine where--and still she laughed. It was just too bang ridiculous, this house and these people and her uncle’s passionate description of his butler merrily guillotining the cabbages in the garden.

“I suppose you think I’m joking,” he said after she’d finally stopped laughing long enough to begin to feel embarrassed.

“No. That’s what makes it so...so...” the hilarity almost burst out again but by a valiant sip of water, Genevieve saved herself from further disgrace.

“Now that your fish is quite cold,” her uncle said, “shall we proceed with our supper?”

“By all means.” Genevieve fanned her cheeks. “Branzino has given me permission to consume him as soon as he is cooled.”

Farnham was furious, she supposed. For the next fifteen minutes he flicked at the skin of his fish, making small cuts in the flesh but eating very little. He seemed to have lost all his appetite and when Allen finally came around with steaming cups of wassail, he beamed upon Farnham with a fatherly eye.

“I think a bit of company is good for you, sir.”

“How so?”

“Look at how you’ve eaten. That’s appetite there.”

Geneveive fingered her napkin, curious to see Allen employing sarcasm which seemed to be his master’s forte. But Farnham was not laughing--he even seemed a bit astonished and looked at the plate with a certain fondness.

“You know, Allen,” he said, “I think I did make a good attempt.”

“Enjoy your cider, sir.” Allen rested his fingers on Farnham’s shoulder for a moment then cleared away the dishes, leaving Genevieve and her uncle alone again.

Breakfast at Whistlecreig

I haven't really given you a broad piece of Vivi & Farnham to digest since first announcing Anon, Sir, Anon. I suppose you will be wanting chunks now and then like I've done with all the rest of my stories. Here's the thing: I'm not certain how much I'll be able to share (as far as large pieces) once the mystery gets rolling. You can never be over-careful with those things. This bit, however, is the perfect way to introduce you to two of my principle characters and their personalities, ways they interact with other people, etc. Also, it gives you to the tone of my novel which is decidedly cozy-Wodehousian-with-a-bit-of-dry-Christie-for-good-measure. It is going to be serious in parts, but the overall tone is what you see below. Enjoy this bit...it relaxed me to write it. Oh. And to reward you for your patience in reading all the way through (and for any comments/critiques you might want to provide afterward) I present you with two sketches of Vivi & Farnham. They are probably not good likenesses of my people, and they're not very good sketches at any rate, but they are inspirational to me and that's why I made them.

Farnham watched his niece at the stove, fascinated at the way she appeared to have taken up residence in the kitchen. He’d always heard that women transform a home but he’d never liked the idea. Now, however, it appeared that “transformation” meant much in the way of well-cooked food, dustless furniture and someone to talk to, not--as his fellow bachelors were fond of saying--dumping a chap on his head, tossing his cigar boxes, and snipping his curtains to fashionable shreds.

Genevieve wasn’t a pretty girl--her mouth was too small and her nose too snub. Farnham knew that but somehow as he watched his niece moving through the motions of making breakfast without a hint of the sense of imminent crisis with which he cooked, he thought he’d at last found a woman who didn’t set him on edge.

But, “See that you don’t burn the rashers,” was the only compliment he dished out.

Genevieve took up a fork and turned the bacon in the pan till it gave a maddened sizzle. “There’s no worry it’ll burn--it is all fat and no meat. Where do you buy your bacon?”

“Garridy’s.”

“I shall buy it at Hilton’s from now on.”

“Why?”

“Their pigs look happier.”

Farnham didn’t have an argument for this - he’d wouldn’t know what a happy pig looked like. “Are you my housekeeper now?”

“Someone has to do it, dear.”

He resented this Mab for calling him “dear” in that motherly tone. “I have Allen for that.”

“Allen is a butler.” She smiled that curious smile of hers where the left side of her mouth quirked upward and removed a tray of puddings from the oven. “And butlers resent housework.”

“He’s never complained.”

“They never do, but they retaliate in a million different ways. I know, dear, I took over household decisions for Mama on my twenty-third birthday. Ours invariably rubbed Father’s black shoes with brown polish until we discovered that he’d been made to cook muffins for breakfast every Thursday. Put him right off his tea and the inner peace of the household was intricately bungled till I figured out where things had gone awry..”

The smell of the frying bacon and hot puddings knotted Farnham’s stomach, but from hunger or those bang ulcers he couldn’t tell; the thought of eating meat turned his stomach to a hotbed of pain. “I don’t think I can manage bacon this morning.”

“Heavens no. This is for me.” Genevieve forked the crispy rashers onto her plate and lifted a pudding from its tin bed, settling it beside two fried eggs.

Farnham resented girls with healthy appetites. “Where’s mine?”

She nodded at the stove. “Just there. I’ll fix it for you in a tick.”

“Can’t I have a pudding?”

“Not with your ‘bang ulcers’. Yes, you’ve been speaking aloud. I’m putting you on a strict diet of porridge and camomile tea with perhaps a bit of scone if you’re quite an angel.”

He drew himself up. “Farnham of Whistlecreig is never an angel.”

“Then you’ll have to do without scones.”

“Bang it.”

“Now about this murder.”

“Yes, I was wondering when we’d get to speak about that.” He rubbed his palms together and felt the pain in his stomach fading as anticipation of exploring the thing rose. “We’ll pop round to have a look at the body after breakfast, shan’t we?”

“Your call. I’m not experienced in these matters. What is the proper ettiquette? Wait until noon and stay no longer than ten minutes, or don’t wear white after Michaelmas?”

“Do you know you’re a menace? ‘Better three hours too soon than a minute too late’.”

“You know best, dear.”

“Don’t call me that.” His fist clenched almost against his will and shook out his fingers with a shaky laugh. “Sorry.”

She made a face. “No, I’m sorry - I had almost settled in my role of maiden aunt before I was uprooted and sent here and I’m used to sweetening my conversation to suit fretful children. Well, if you are to tell me what to call you, I’m afraid I must have my preferences too.”

“You don’t want to be called Genevieve?”

“Do you like it?”

He was shocked to see a shy, girlish look flit over her face as if she wanted to hear what he thought--really wanted to hear. “Oh...umm...it’s a fine name. Fine. If you like it, that is. If you don’t like it then...we’ll call you something else.”

“Vivi.”

“Sorry?”

“Call me Vivi, please. No one does. It’s always ‘My eldest, Genevieve’ or worse yet, ‘Genevieve - the capable one.’ I’m tired of being capable - it means they’ve given up on me. Call me Vivi.”

He saw the set of her jaw and the weariness behind her eyes and since he was not entirely heartless, he guessed the story of the battles she’d fought over the labels. “Vivi then.”

They had a hum of silence then--an absence of conversation, rather--filled with the homely, comfortable sounds of bacon fat hissing in the cooling skillet and silverware against china as Vivi set out a few dishes on the table.

“I didn’t know what dishes you usually used but I like the china.”

“As do I. Family heirloom.”

“Really?” She smiled and set his silverware beside his bowl of porridge.

The steam curled upward and filled Farnham’s nose with the wholesome scent of oats and milk. This, he thought, his stomach could handle, and it was nothing like the clods of rocky oatmeal Allen made sometimes. “Shall we pray?”

“Mmm.”

Vivi folded her hands and bowed her head. Sunlight from the window behind her made an aura over her head till she looked like the paintings of angelic children saying prayers before bed that he’d seen sometimes in the cheaper stores. All this Farnham took in at a glance, for he was accustomed to seeing and digesting a thing in as long as it took most men to straighten their ties.

He closed his eyes and let the rare peace fall over his shoulders. “Dear Lord, for our food we thank Thee. For our comfort, our home, our lives. May we never forget to serve Thee with our hearts and souls, and may you guide our footsteps this day. Amen.”

As Farnham dolloped honey on his porridge, he reflected on the beauty of rote prayers. Certainly he made up his own prayers--constantly--but there was a steadiness in the repetition of the same words he’d prayed every meal for the last forty years that the made-up ones lacked. It was the difference between stepping into a church under construction and a cathedral that had stood six hundred years, steeped in worship.

“The murder victim--who was she?” Vivi asked, bringing Farnham’s mind back round to the day’s business.

He grunted and flicked his napkin. “Most bodies don’t come with calling cards. How should I know?”

“Doesn’t anyone carry identification? I’d hate to be murdered and no one know it was me.”

“Remind me to get Allen to sew a label on your coat-sleeve.”

Vivi forked into her pudding and ate it while Farnham watched, idly swirling his porridge. He was thinking about what the Police Inspector had told him. “Vivi...it’s...not going to be pretty.”

“I should think not; it’s a murder.”

Farnham slapped the surface of his porridge with the back of the spoon. “Her face is...well...it’s quite...”

“Quite what?”

“Bashed in.”

Vivi chewed and swallowed then wiped her lips with her napkin. “Poor darling.”

“Wouldn’t you rather stay here?--As your uncle I want to protect you, you’ll understand, but I’m not demanding you stay.”

She smiled at him sweetly. “You’re a chivalrous old goose, but I want to come. Maybe I can be of some use.”

He wouldn’t go that far, but there might be something after all in what she said about butlers feeling resentment when forced to do work out of their proper line--Allen might not take kindly to toadying for a lady. “All right,” he said, and took a spoonful of porridge with the same dutifulness with which he took castor oil. “You can come along.”

“Eat it all. I’m going upstairs to primp and when I come back I expect the bowl to be empty.”

Farnham sighed. “Are you my nursemaid now?”

“Aren’t I? I think it was in the job description.”

Bang it. The girl was right.

And that, dear people, is your first goodly chunk of Anon, Sir, Anon. Now, I give you the sketches I promised in wretched photo-quality because I was too lazy to scan them:

 

This is obviously Vivi. She's labeled. She's not terribly attractive but there's something approachable about her, wouldn't you say? She's short as well--a fact mentioned elsewhere but that you might want to know.

 

And obviously this is Vivi & Farnham upon Vivi's arrival and subsequent appearance in the Tribunal at Whistlecreig.

 Pardon the absolutely wretched quality of these images. I just thought you might like to see what they were like. And I do hope you enjoyed the bit I call "Breakfast at Whistlecreig". Toodle-loo!