Start at Part One.
Part Three: cum grano salis
Mr. Flutterbom, my gardener, is an odd man, a walking paradox of sorts. It is whispered by the people in the village that he is a direct descendant of pirates and reputed to be the only man in five generations of his family that did not meet his end in the Royal Navy’s gallows by the age of 40. But what makes him truly bizarre is that, as a man, he thoroughly enjoys sneaking about, stalking, lurking, and covorting in a series of clandestine affairs. This in itself would not be too bizarre were it not for the fact that he could not sneak up on you if his life depended on it: he squeaks.
No matter what shoes, pants, or braces he chooses to wear, he always produces a squeak with every right step. Added to this conumdrum is the losing battle with flatulence he’s been waging since childhood. As a child, Master Flutterbom, was heckled by the local children who had named him “Mr. Fluter Bum.” The taunting never lasted long as Young Flutterbom would just tell the local urchins that the ghosts of his pirate ancestors would kill them in their sleep.
How he became a gardener is anybody’s guess. Some have posited that his flatulence works as a sort of natural defence against the insects that would normally ravage a garden. How he does it, I don’t know. My only concern is that my roses stay beautiful and he always sees that they do.
Part Four: varium et mutabile semper femina
This morning the Abbey is choked with a terrible fog, spreading its caress around every leaf, every post, and every corner of the manor. After relieving myself of Mr. Flutterbom’s presence, I opted to walk the grounds in search of an ideal spot to practice my aim. I put on my heavy coat, packed my pistol case under my arm, and headed out into the mist. Some would consider shooting in the thick fog a dangerous folly but this is my land, my manor, my peasants.
I wouldn’t have thought that it really mattered at all until a young man arose out of the fog, directly in my line of fire.
“You are trespassing young man!” I shouted to him.
“Excuse, monsieur,” he replied. It was misty indeed if I could walk for an hour and find myself in France.
“Can be of assistance?” I asked, my pistol still levelled at his head. He stood uncomfortably.
“J’ai un message pour vous,” he stammered.
“Eh anglais, s’il vous plait,” I ordered. “Unless you want me to ruin that splendid jacket of yours.”
“Monsieur,” he said softly, eyeing the barrel of my pistol with anxiety. “I carry a letter from Madame Empetrer.”
Ah, Charlotte! Only she could convince some core sought to travel all the way from France to deliver a message. But she did it with a wink of her eye. This poor Bastard’s never even seen her petticoats, I’ll wager.
“Give it here son.” He approached silently, still watching might trigger finger intensely. He handed me the letter and took two steps backward.
“What is your name son?” I inquired, genuinely curious. He looked puzzled. “Votre nom?” I asked again, less serious.
“Jean,” he answered, finally.
“It is a cold day today, jean. Is it not?” I asked.
“Pardon?”
The smile fell from my face.
“C’est froid? Non?” I asked again.
“Ah, oui monsieur, c’est froid.” He began to smile.
“Give me your jacket,” I demanded. His smile disappeared. “Enlevez votre manteau!” I ordered, this time more forcefully.
He removed his jacket and handed it to me. It was beautiful, in a gaudy kind of way, it was definitely French. I dropped it into the mud of the pasture and grounded into the earth with the heel of my boot. Then I shot it.
I walked away, grinning. Yes, that ought to do quite nicely.
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