Gibbous House 36

On the house side of the hill, the grounds surrounding it had not had the benefit of a landscape gardener’s eye. It was a vista of spinney and copse interspersed with grassland which, though not overgrown, was home to numerous sheep. Of all the fates I had ever imagined might befall me, gentleman farmer was not among their number. The horse came gratefully to the halt in front of the vast threshold under the dome. We descended. Being Northumbria , the huge doors were flanked by the seemingly ubiquitous lions, tails extended, though any house by the name of Fitzgibbon could have little to do with the Percys, I imagined. Maccabi reached for the doorknocker, he moved it gingerly, although it was clearly of significant weight and unlikely to be damaged by his use of it. It was of iron, wrought in the shape of a monkey’s head. He let it fall to give a single knock on the heavy plate affixed to the oak door.

‘Am I so fortunate as to have a household full of retainers, Maccabi?’

He shifted from foot to foot momentarily, I thought I had never seen him so hesitant.

‘Not exactly, sir,’ He said. ‘You have a cook, Mrs Gonderthwaite, and well…’

But he did not finish, the door began to open inward, without the slightest trace of the creaks and groans I had been expecting. At first, it seemed the door had opened by some mysterious means, until I heard a voice emanating from about the height of my own waist. A deep and heroic baritone, it was emerging from a corporeal presence of a size with that of a five year old boy.

‘Mr Moffat, Miss Pardoner welcome, shabat shalom, Jedediah.’

I turned to Maccabi and enquired as to the identity of the mannekin.

‘My name Mr Moffat, is Enoch.’

‘Enoch. It is not customary to address one’s staff by their … first names, I believe.’

The dwarfish fellow stiffened his back, puffed out his not inconsiderable chest and informed me:

‘Well that I am not one such, Mr Moffat. I am Professor Enoch Rothschild, once of Vienna, Leyden and Siena Universities, late of Berlin. I am… curator of the collection.’

He hesitated for the briefest time, and added: ‘at your service.’

‘Collection?’ My eyebrows must have become entangled with my hair, had I raised them any further.

Miss Pardoner caught my eye and I saw the familiar upturn at the very corner of her mouth. Maccabi, at least, looked uncomfortable. The Professor embodied the most self-possession I had ever seen in such a miniscule container.

‘My great friend the late Septimus was an avid collector of certain… artefacts.’ The professor said. Then he nodded and repeated, ‘artefacts.’

Looking around I realised that the eccentric furnishing of Brown’s offices had been inspired by the entrance hallway of Gibbous House. Narrow passages between heaped piles of furnishings led off the hallway and to the staircase sweeping up into a gallery under the dome.

I felt the lunacy of the interior might possibly prove to be the equal of that of the exterior.