Gibbous House 96

The crustaceans were cleared from our oyster plates with a minimum of fuss. The Professor in particular went at his portion with a will, which I found a little queasy, given his own crab-like attributes; I was only grateful that lobster, crayfish and the like had made no appearance at the table. Frustration, not surprise, was my lot on realising that our household staff would make no reappearance that evening: the prospect of despatching Maccabi to the kitchen with the crockery was once again tempting, but I scented better sport in having him in the room.

The duration of the meal seemed an inordinate time to be without something to slake the thirst, and I was surprised that no wine had been forthcoming, either from the cellar or the sideboard. I was about to offer a tincture to the assembly, when the Professor once again sprang to his feet and tap-tapped to the long sideboard. He picked up a heavy crystal decanter; thumb and forefinger pincered around the neck he eyed the contents through his eyeglasses as he held it up to the light.

'Red. Bordeaux, who knows how it will taste?' he said, as found glassware and proceeded to fill it. He did not do so in the manner of a refined oenophile, rather poured great gouts into the bowls as though the decanter were a pitcher and the crystal goblets the meanest pewter tankards. He drained his own glass and refilled it before approaching the table with our own.

'It is poor stuff,' he said.'Perhaps one day the damned French will categorize their produce to warn the unwary.'

He seemed awfully partial to such a poor exemplar of vintner's wares, as he took a great draught from his glass on taking his seat once more. Looking round at our dining companions, I noted that they were rapt in contemplation of the tiny figure. Perhaps he was the possessor of Mesmer's animal magnetism; if so, I found myself completely immune to it. He sported a shirt of once fine linen, whose collar was overlarge to the extent that no amount of starch could possibly have held it upright. Naturally, the shirt itself was too voluminous for his diminutive frame, although surely he might have diverted some of his income to the procurement of a tailor's services. The trews, jacket and waistcoat had seen the benefit of needlework subsequent to that of their manufacture, but this seemed inexpert enough to have been his own handiwork. His garb was indefinibly grimy in some way: there were no stains of the scholar's blotted ink, the gourmand's spilled morsels or the sweat of honest labour. And yet still, there was something not quite clean about him, as if below the ring of his collar lurked a dully squamous patina over the skin of his body.

The man was enervated to some degree, by what I did not know. He fidgeted and wriggled like a child with a secret and I asked him quite bluntly, with no regard for manners, what lay behind the fireplace.

'There will be timings for such later, Mr Moffat.' He said, and I fancied I caught a glimpse of scaly dirt as he slipped a finger into the collar of his not quite white shirt.

Miss Pardoner clapped her hands and cried :

'A game! A game!'

Maccabi stared stolidly to his front. Rothschild bared his teeth in a gruesome smile and I noted he was in possession of a solitary canine, though it was of tolerable length and it leant him the air of an aged wolf. He countered the proposal:

'But what to play, Ellen? What to play?'

'The cards, perhaps?' She simpered, and I confess I felt an urge to beat the woman to her former boldness or let her die in the attempt.

'I had rather die, myself, than ever play another hand of Whist.' I said.

Maccabi looked directly at me:

'I had rather thought so, since your strength might more likely lie in Speculation.'

'Ach, I am not for the cards,' said the Professor, although whether excited or under some stress, I was not sure. ' A parlour game, that is it!'

'With respect, Professor, are we not a little above the Minister's Cat?'

The prospect of such entertainments filled me with horror.

'What then?' asked Miss Pardoner, and her expression reminded me that she was not yet one and twenty.

'Oh, I don't doubt that the Professor might have some idea. Edify us, Rothschild, do.' I urged.

I hoped that he was vain of his capacity for mastering tongues not his own, if he were not I dreaded the thought of participation in some vile experiment in one of the other rooms.