THE NEW BUTLER
CALLS
I was lying on the
bottom of the swimming pool in the conservatory at the back of
Chateau Pookie, breathing alcohol-infused air through a hose and
feeling sorry for myself, when the new butler found me. At least, I
think that’s what I was doing. I was
pretty far gone, conflicted between the need to practice my
hypersonic p-waggling before the drop and the urge to drink Laura’s
absence out of my system. All I remember is a vague rippling blue
curtain of sunlight on scrolled ironwork—the ceiling—then a huge
stark shadow looming over me, talking in the voice of polite
authority.
“Good afternoon, sir.
According to the diary, Sir is supposed to be receiving his
sister’s mammoth in the front parlor in approximately twenty
minutes. Would Sir care to be sober for the occasion? And what suit
should Sir like to wear?”
This was about four
more sirs than I could take lying down. “Nnngk gurgle,” I said,
sitting up unsteadily. The breather tube wasn’t designed for
speech. Choking, I spat it out. “M’gosh and please excuse me, but
who the hell are you?”
“Alison Feng.” She
bowed stiffly, from the waist. “The agency sent me, to replace your
last, ah, man.” She was dressed in the stark black and white of a
butler, and she did indeed have the voice—some very expensive
training, not to mention top-notch laryngeal engineering, went into
producing that accent of polite condescension, the steering graces
that could direct even the richest and most uncontrollable employer
in directions less conducive to their social embarrassment.
But—
“You’re my new
butler?” I managed to choke out.
“I believe so.” One
chiseled eyebrow signaled her skepticism.
“Oh, oh jolly good,
then, that squishie.” A thought, marinating in my sozzled
subconscious, floated to the surface. “You, um, do you know why my
last butler quit?”
“No, sir.” Her
expression didn’t change. “In my experience it is best to approach
one’s prospective employers with an open mind.”
“It was my sister’s
mammoth’s fault,” I managed to say before a fit of coughing
overcame me. “Listen, just take the bloody thing and lock it in the
number two guest suite’s dungeon, the one that’s fitted out for
clankie doms. It can try’n destroy anything it bally likes in
there, it won’t get very far, an’ we can fix it later. Hic. Glue the door shut, or weld it or
something—one of her boyfriends trained the thing to pick locks
with its trunk. Got a sober-up?”
“Of course, sir.” She
snapped her fingers, and blow me if there wasn’t one of those
devilish red capsules balanced between her white-gloved
digits.
“Ugh.” I took it and
dry-swallowed, then hiccuped. “Fiona’s animal tamer’ll probably
drop the monster off in the porch, but I’d better get up’n’case Sis
shows.” I hiccuped again, acid indigestion clenching my stomach.
“Urgh. Wossa invitation list for tonight?”
“Everything is
perfectly under control,” my new butler said, a trifle
patronizingly. “Now if Sir would care to step inside the dryer
while I lay out his suit—”
I surrendered to the
inevitable. After all, I thought, once you’ve accepted delivery of
a dwarf mammoth on behalf of your sister, nothing worse can happen
to you all day, can it?
Unfortunately, I was
wrong. Fiona’s chauffeuse did indeed deposit Jeremy, but on a
schedule of her own choosing. She must have already been on the way
while Fi was nattering on the blower. While Miss Feng was
introducing herself, she was sneakily decanting the putrid
proboscidean into the ornamental porch via her limousine’s airlock.
She accomplished this with stealth and panache, and made a
successful retreat, but not before she completed my sister’s act of
domestic sabotage by removing the frilly pink restraining rope that
was all that kept Jeremy from venting his spleen on everything
within reach. Which he commenced to do all over Great-Uncle
Arnold’s snooker table, which I was only looking after while he was
out-system on business. It was his triumphant squeaking that
informed me that we had problems—normally Jeremy sneaks up on one
in preternatural silence when he’s got mischief in what passes for
his mind—as I headed toward the stairs to my dressing
room.
“Help me,” I said,
gesturing at the porch, from which a duet for Hell’s piccolo and
bull in a china shop was emanating.
The new butler
immediately rose in my estimation by producing a bola. “Would this
serve?” she asked.
“Yes. Only she’s a
bit short for a mammoth—”
Too late. Miss Feng’s
throw was targeted perfectly, and it would have succeeded if Jeremy
had been built to the scale of a typical pachyderm. Alas, the
whirling balls flew across the room and tangled in the chandelier
while Jeremy, trumpeting and honking angrily, raised his tusks and
charged at my kneecaps. “Oh dear,” said the new
butler.
I blinked and began
to move. I was too slow, the sober-up still fighting the residual
effects of the alcohol in my blood. Jeremy veered toward me, tusks
raised menacingly to threaten the old family jewels. I began to
turn, and was just raising my arms to fend off the monster (who
appeared dead set on editing the family tree to the benefit of
Fiona’s line) when Miss Feng leaned sideways and in one elegant
gesture ripped the ancient lace curtains right off the rail and
swiped them across my assailant’s tusks.
The next minute
remains, mercifully, a confused blur. Somehow my butler and I
mammoth-handled the kicking and struggling—not to mention squealing
and secreting—Jeremy up the rear staircase and into the second-best
guest suite’s dungeon. Miss Feng braced herself against the door
while I rushed dizzily to the parlor and returned with a tube of
InstaSteel Bulkhead Bond, with which we reinforced the stout oak
partition. Finally, my stomach rebelled, quite outraged by the
combination of sober-up and adrenaline, at which point Miss Feng
diffidently suggested I proceed to the master bathroom and freshen
up while she dealt with the porch, the pachyderm, and my suit in
descending order of priorities.
By the time I’d
cleaned up, Miss Feng had laid a freshly manufactured suit for me
on the dresser. “I took the liberty of arranging for a limousine to
your club, sir,” she said, almost apologetically. “It is
approaching eighteen o’clock: one wouldn’t want to be
late.”
“Eighteen—” I
blinked. “Oh dear, that’s dashed awkward.”
“Indeed.” She watched
me cautiously. “Ah, about the agency—”
I waved my hand
dismissively. “If you can handle Jeremy, I see no reason why you
couldn’t also handle Great-Uncle Arnold when he gets back from
Proxima Tau Herpes or wherever he’s gone. Not to mention the Dread
Aunts, bless ’em. Assuming, that is, you want the
job—”
Miss Feng inclined
her head. “Certainly one is prepared to assume the role for the
duration of the probationary period.” Sotto voce she added, almost
too quietly for me to catch, “Although continuing thereafter
presupposes that one or both of us survives the experience . .
.”
“Well, I’m glad
that’s sorted.” I sniffed. “I’d better trot! If you could see the
snooker table goes for repair and look to the curtains, I’ll be
off, what-what?”
“Indeed, sir.” She
nodded as if about to say something else, thought better of it,
then held the door open for me. “Good night, sir.”