Gibbous House 42

It was not a jerez of the very highest quality; but it was more than palatable. In fact, it was a better libation than had passed my lips in some time. We were still standing, the Professor and I, and though it might be expected that the advantage in height that I held would have made him uncomfortable, indeed it did not. Perhaps it was the darkest brown tones of his voice, the biblical quality of his speech or the perfection of his English in contrast with his accent, but he seemed as prepossessed as any man I had ever met. I despised him for it; hated him for making so little of his disadvantage, and so much of his tiny self. His eyes were full of intelligence as befit a man of his learning, I searched in vain for something of the sly in them. He kept them on me, scarce blinking, as though quite content to look at me until I began a conversation or died of boredom.

‘Professor,’ I began. ‘You will forgive me, if in future my household does not comply with your quaint rituals. As a man unconvinced of the existence of any Divine Being, I should prefer that any religious observance of whatever marque not take place under my roof. You may do as you please within your own chamber. At least until I have considered the disposition of this household and your place within it.’

He lifted an eyebrow and, although I felt it had a somewhat comical effect, I was unable to laugh.

‘Mr Moffat, Jedediah has told me you have been foolish enough to sign unread papers. I see now that I should have believed him. Gibbous House and all its contents form part of a discretionary trust.’

‘Professor,’ I sneered. ‘I thought you were a man of science not a court room pettifogger.’

‘I have studied a modicum of law, Mr Moffat. Do you know what a discretionary trust signifies?’

‘I have no doubt that it signifies you will continue to be a parasite on the estate, sir.’

He gave a smile that quite transformed his face. From that of a sweet faced dwarf it transformed into the physiognomy of a corrupt and evil gnome:

‘Quite so, Mr Moffat, if you care to phrase it thus.’

The smile was gone ere he finished speaking and he assumed a pious look:

‘It is time for the shabbos meal, Mr Moffat. I think you will find it interesting, even though it be a religious observance.’

And his tiny boots beat their tattoo back through the hoards of miscellany to the dining room, and I must needs follow him.

The room was gloomy, barely four candles were lit in the few sconces visible in between the stockpiles of bizarrerie in evidence. However there were several bronze candelabrae at intervals along the the imposing table. In the murk, I could see Miss Pardoner already seated. Maccabi hovered as if caught betwixt taking a chair and moving to stand at the wall like a footman. There were three further places at table. I moved to the head of it, opposite Miss Pardoner. Discourse over dinner would be at some volume it seemed. I enjoined Maccabi to take a seat, if he was sure all was in readiness for the repast. He flinched at the imputation that I might expect him to fetch a cruet set or a bottle of port if not. On my waving the professor to the remaining seat, the fellow shook his head and began intoning in an alien tongue, while picking up a carafe containing wine. It was a prayer of some sort. Maccabi’s head was bowed, Miss Pardoner gave me a bold look for the duration of the incantation. Rothschild moved down the table until he stood next to a silver platter with two unusual loaves atop it. The bread had a look of a braid or plait and the dwarf had, as with the wine, a little difficulty in reaching the platter to bestow his blessing on the bread. His domed head appeared over the edge of the table. It was all I could do not to laugh. It seemed a very serious matter for Maccabi and the professor himself, if not for my ward, who appeared to be biting the inside of her cheek.

I smote the table with my palm:

‘For pity’s sake, when does a man eat !’

Maccabi shook his head while the professor fetched a lit taper from a tall thin piece of cabinetry that looked like it should be furniture but shared no features with any piece that I knew save that of being made of wood. The professor took only a few minutes to terminate the pantomime of lighting the candles in the holders: the taper being long enough to allow him the lighting of them whilst on tiptoe and balancing on one leg. He sat at last, breathing a little heavily. Looking from my face to a bell at my left hand, he nodded vigourously. I grasped the wooden handle and the bell gave out a sound of less than perfect pitch but of surprising volume.