The Thackery T. Lambshead Cabinet of Curiosities

“Figures,” she said. She crossed her arms, scanned the room, then nodded as if she had made a decision. Her curls bobbed. “Right, here’s what we’ll do. You get five minutes, I get five minutes. We coordinate our questions so we don’t ask the same thing. Then we share notes. All right?”

“Hold on a minute—”

“It’s the only fair way.”

“I didn’t agree to a press conference—”

“Two of us are hardly a press conference.”

“But—”

“And don’t try to blame me, it’s the doctor who double-booked us.”

I wasn’t going to, Jerome thought, aggrieved. The afternoon was crumbling, and Jerome felt the portraits staring at him, a burning on the back of his neck. “I think that since I was here first it’s only fair that I should have the interview. Perhaps you could reschedule—”

“Now how is that fair? I came all the way from New York to get this interview! You’re from where, Oxford? You can show up on his doorstep anytime!”

He blinked again, put off-balance by her identifying his accent so precisely. He was the son of a professor there, and had scandalized the family by not going into academics himself. Roving reporting had seemed so much more productive. Romantic, even. So much for that. “I can see we’ve gotten off to a bad start—”

“Whose fault is that? I’ve been nothing but polite.”

“On the contrary—”

Just then the double doors to the library opened once more, freezing Jerome and the woman reporter in place, her with one hand on her hip, waving her notebook; him pointing as if scolding a small child. The housekeeper, a hunched, wizened woman in a pressed brown cotton dress, scowled at them. Jerome tucked his hands behind his back.

“The doctor is very sorry, but he’ll have to reschedule with both of you. He’ll send letters to confirm a time.” She stood next to the open door, clearly indicating that they should depart.

The woman reporter said, “Did he say why? What’s he doing that he can’t take ten minutes off to talk?”

“The doctor is very sorry,” the housekeeper said again, her scowl growing deeper. She reminded Jerome of a headmistress at a particularly dank primary school. He knew a solid wall when he saw one.

Jerome gestured forward, letting the lady reporter exit first. She puckered her lips as if about to argue, before stalking out of the room. Jerome followed.

Once they were standing on the front steps of the manor, the housekeeper shut the door behind them with a slam of finality.

“Well. So much for that,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’d like to share a cab back to the village?”

“I’d rather walk,” she said, and did just that, following the lane away from the building.

He watched her, astonished at the many unkind adjectives his mind was conjuring to describe her.

His cab arrived, and gratefully he rode it away, ignoring the hassled mutterings of the driver. They passed the woman reporter on the road, still marching, still with that look of witchy fury on her face, which was flushed now and streaked with sweat. A better man might have stopped and offered a ride yet again.

Further on the road, they passed an impressive black Bentley, filled with children. They seemed to be playing some game resembling badminton, in the backseat. And what were they doing, going to the doctor’s manor? Lambshead didn’t have children, did he? Grandchildren? Nieces and nephews? Jerome hadn’t thought so, and he’d certainly never find out now.

He left it all—the doctor, the manor, the housekeeper, the car full of children, and the harridan of a reporter—behind, determined not to think on the day anymore. The pub and a pint awaited.

Mille-fleur

Their screaming certainly did carry in the close confines of the automobile.

The chauffeur scowled at Sylvia in the rearview mirror, and she turned away, her headache doubling.

“Children, please sit. All of you, sit now. Sit down.” She had been instructed by Lady Smythe-Helsing not to raise her voice at the children, as that would damage their fragile psyches. She had also been instructed not to ever lay a hand on any of them in an effort to control them—such efforts led to violence, which could not be tolerated. If she ever did any such thing out of Lady Smythe-Helsing’s view, the children would report it. Never mind them, the chauffeur would report it. And he had the gall to glare at her for their misbehavior.

So here they were, the four little darlings scrambling all over the seats and each other, throwing their dolls and stuffed bears and India-rubber balls, kicking at the windows and ceilings, punching and screaming. Alice, Andrew, Anna, Arthur.