Gibbous House 61

We left Maccabi's room in silence, but not before I had skewed a picture frame or two and dishevelled the immaculate bedclothes. I derived some satisfaction from this until I caught sight of Miss Pardoner's smile of customary superciliousness. The door rattled in its frame behind me. There were two more doors on the right hand wall; the corresponding doors on the opposite wall were not in themselves opposing doors. Again, the unknown architect's mania for the assymetrical was in evidence. The door furniture was unpolished as might be expected, but of no lesser quality than the best of that to be seen elsewhere in the house. I tried the door on the left hand wall nearest that of Maccabi's. It was locked, with a serviceable enough mechanism, since my furious boot did not render the room any more accessible.

'Perhaps I should summon Mrs. Gonderthwaite... or at least fetch a key from her?'

It was a most reasonable suggestion.

'It will wait for another day.'

I limped along the corridor, toward the kitchen.

It took all of my self-control not to laugh aloud at the flushed face of Mrs Gonderthwaite as she attempted to repair her coiffure. Cullis' reaction to his brother's timely reminder of his own mortality had obviously encouraged him to affirm his own vitality in the time-honoured way. For all the woman's ethereality, it seemed she retained a taste for carnal pursuits. More restraint still was required when I espied the colour the scene and its implications had brought to young Ellen Pardoner's face. Turning to Cullis, I enquired of him exactly what tasks he performed on the estate. After Miss Pardoner's interpretation, it was no great surprise that amongst other things he carried out the duties of ostler. This accounted in some degree for the parlous state of the two horses owned by the estate that I had thus far seen.

I instructed Cullis to show me the stables and as he made his way outside without too much delay, I inferred that his inability to communicate in any civilised language did not preclude his understanding of it. Miss Pardoner made as if to accompany us, but I waved her away, saying,

'I think we will come to some accommodation, Cullis and I, regarding communication, Miss Pardoner. There is nothing he might say which I might wish to understand, and - should he lose his facility to understand my wishes – well, I shall beat him, of course.'

Evidently the cook felt only passion for the fellow, and not love, as this declaration provoked not the slightest reaction from the ghostly presence. Not so Miss Pardoner, the high colour returned to her face and I fancied I detected a little shortness of breath. Perhaps I should have allowed her to accompany us, after all.

The stables were set away from the rear of west wing. The kindest thing to say would have been that they were in no worse repair than the gatehouse. The building itself housed a long row of 12 stalls, the half of which were not in possession of a door to close after long -bolted horses. Stone-built, the mortar in the walls had long turned to dust, so that the stables resembled a remarkable feat of dry-stone wallwork, but not one that might be trusted to hold up the roof for much longer. The roof consisted of more hole than slate: the feeble whinnies emerging from behind those stalls capable of being secured bore testimony to its permeability.

Cullis opened the door to the first occupied stall. Filthy straw covered little of the dirt floor. A roan bag of bones covered most of the straw. It appeared that the two horses put to work in recent days were the most fit to be so. This specimen looked a scant cough from the knacker's. The ostler carefully closed the stall door as if frightened that too vigourous treatment would cause it to crumble on the hinge. Moving to the next door, he was equally ginger in his handling of its opening, pausing only to say something which I took to be 'foal'.

The door swung wide to reveal a recently come-to-term mare and something which should by rights have earned the name abomination and not foal. The thing, to my eye, was no more than two hours old, still sticky-slick with birthing fluids. It lay next to its dam, which - from time to time -flailed with her hind legs to push the beast away. It managed to keep one of its heads out of harm's way, the other was bloodied and as dim of eye as the stuffed exhibits in the house.