Gibbous House 102

The Professor placed a glass of leaded crystal before me, it was an exquisite thing. Brilliants glittered as the candlelight caught the geometric cuts in the glass.

'Beautiful, isn't it?' He said.

I raised the stemware to eye level:

'Indeed, the vessel is a thing of rare beauty. What pray is the unattractive liquid it contains?'

'It is a digestif, Mr Moffat. The Germans are exceptionally blessed with a number of truly magnificent bitters, but this, good sir, is a giant among them: Kujawische Magen-Essenz.'

The liquid had the colour of the water in a well-used horse trough. Its name seemed a grandiose appelation for something quite so unappetising. Nevertheless, I sipped a little of it. It was less emetic than the Absinthe, but not by a very great amount. The Professor returned to his seat.

Meanwhile, the reporter was making little impression on his loaf and still less on the enormous cheddar. Miss Pardoner had herself begun fidgeting, while Maccabi seemed a little calmer. Perhaps he had been in need of the bitters.

'Are you in want of some diversion, Miss Pardoner? Or do you wish to excuse yourself our dull male company?

She coloured a little, I was pleased to note:

'Dull indeed, sir. Might we not elevate ourselves with a little conversation?' she enquired.

'Elevate?' I echoed.

I turned my attention to Maccabi:

'I am sure Miss Pardoner does not think you in need of elevation, Maccabi.'

He seemed to stifle a reply.

'Well, Ellen, it seems you must make do with such conversation as the rest of us might provide, although I doubt anything I might say would prove of an elevatory nature.'

At this point, the Constable, having given up the unequal struggle with the cheese, asked of the company;

'The reporter? Allan. Is he yet indisposed?'

The other three gave silent answer by way of the affirmative nod.

'What of it?' I asked him.

'I wonder, has he mentioned a certain name?' Turner said.

'We have passed some hours in conversation, it would be strange indeed if none were mentioned.' I yawned, although it was yet early.

For once the policeman's detachment wavered:

'Dammit, sir. One name in particular, I mean to say a name of antiquity that is ....'

But I knew before he uttered the name; 'Cadwallader.'

To no great surprise, Maccabi gave a start, which the policeman appeared not to remark.

Miss Pardoner asked innocently,

'The last Welsh King of Britain?'

It took some effort not to laugh, as puzzlement seeped over the policeman's features. He seemed unsure whether he was being played for a gull.

'No, Miss. Heathfield Cadwallader.'

Both the Professor and Maccabi gave a firm 'No!'

'He mentioned him to me, in passing,' I said.

I might have died from the look Maccabi gave me, were such things possible. From the Professor's look I would have been a very long time doing so.