The Eyeball Collector (22 page)

‘Your butterflies,’ said Bovrik with a flourish, proffering the box. ‘It has been a fery successful hatching, if I say so myself.’

Lady Mandible folded down the flaps of the box and almost jumped with delight.

‘Oh, they are perfect,’ she said, and a wicked smile crossed her face. ‘So big, such beautiful colours.’ She looked pointedly at Hector. ‘What a marvellous job you have done.’

Hector smiled carefully. He would not be drawn in again. But the Baron frowned and stepped closer to Her Ladyship, smiling slightly desperately.

‘What
is
that smell?’ asked Lysandra.

Bovrik beamed. ‘My perfume,’ he said. ‘The essential oil of the plant
Lippia citriodora
. I have worn extra for tonight.’ Heartened by her interest in him he went on, ‘Will you not tell me now, Your Ladyship, what you plan to do with the butterflies at the Feast? Haf I mentioned I haf my own surprise, of which I dare to think you will approve . . . ?’

Lysandra was hardly listening. She was too distracted looking at the butterflies in her box and cooing softly.

All day long carriages had been arriving in convoy up the rocky hill to Withypitts Hall. They carried within them the self-styled elite of Urbs Umida, some rather higher up the social scale than others, but all with plenty of money or land.

Surprisingly – or unsurprisingly perhaps, dissatisfaction being the curse of the well off – emanating from these carriages were numerous complaints about the state of the road, the distance of the journey, the weather and suchlike. And, of course, there were the ever-present expressions of anxieties: that one might be seated at a disadvantage around the table, or that a particular person would or wouldn’t be there.

The gates to Withypitts Hall were manned by guards resplendent in full uniform, displaying the Mandible colours, a rather gaudy yellow and bright green. The gold-leaf-edged invitations were presented and, once carefully scrutinized (it was not unknown for forgeries to be made), the guests were waved through.

As they stepped down from their carriages the ladies stole sly glances from behind their fans at the attire of their companions in line, reassuring themselves that they were better dressed. They knew, however, that not one of them could hope to outshine Lady Mandible. Indeed, it would have been unforgivable to even try! As for the men, they were no less vain and had perfected the art of instantly assessing each other’s outfit in a single rapid upward sweep of the eyes (one always started with the shoes).
They
had for competition Baron Bovrik de Vandolin.

By the stroke of seven everyone was seated at the huge dining table but there was no sign of the hosts. What matter! The honeyed wine was already flowing freely, and when the half-hour struck tongues were loose, eyes were bright, laughter was high-pitched and table manners were hardly in evidence. There were ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ as the guests admired the Hall and each other. The table, which was dangerously overladen, groaned with food and an excess of cutlery and silver. An excess because the more that was consumed by glass, the less was consumed by tine and blade, fingers being the preferred choice.

The revellers, each and every one, ate as if there was no tomorrow. What a feast it was! What a fellow this Trimalchio must have been! As fast as a pitcher of wine or a plate of food was brought out, it was emptied and another was demanded. Up and down the length of the table gaping mouths and drooling dribbling chins were the order of the day, and the beleaguered servers were grabbed by one fellow and tugged by another until their tunics were practically torn asunder.

Hector, keeping a low profile, observed it all from the sidelines. How could he resist seeing the denouement of so much preparation before he left the Hall forever? And of course there was the small matter of his butterflies. He watched the guests feed, hand to plate to mouth, hand to plate to mouth, in a ceaseless repetition. Dormouse tails (apparently particularly delicious) dangled from their lips; entire sparrows dropped into their gaping maws; fat plums and cherries ready to burst were forced into their mouths until the juices squirted in all directions. This was not hunger, this was sheer unadulterated gluttony.

Seeking respite from it all, Hector turned away to see Bovrik hovering around the end of the table looking decidedly ill at ease. As was expected, the Baron was eyecatching in his apparel of midnight blue and apricot with hints of violet, but Hector was somewhat surprised to see that he was wearing an eyepatch. On a night such as this he thought he would be showing off one of his garish eyeballs. Watching Bovrik wringing his hands and shooting his cuffs repeatedly made Hector himself anxious, so he chose the lesser of two evils and looked again to the table.

Down in the kitchen, by now a steaming hellish place, Mrs Malherbe and her minions were labouring away. Every minute a servant would rush in and demand more food, more drink, more everything! There was hardly enough room to move what with the piles of food, both dead and alive, stacked up in every available space and the extra people running about. And the noise! Orders, often conflicting, were barked out, pots and pans were slammed down, food slopped over the sides, and the air was blue with the language.

‘Nobles, they call themselves,’ muttered Mrs Malherbe as she abused the pastry for another pudding. ‘They are like animals up there. And what have they provided towards tonight? Nowt! All the ordinary people, the farmers and hunters and shepherds, the real providers of food, where are they, I ask you? Not here, not on your life!’

Back upstairs, as the guests took a breather after what had proved to be only the first course, the doors to the great hall were at last flung open to the sound of a trumpet fanfare. Hector looked up.

‘Please be upstanding for His Lordship Lord Burleigh Mandible and his beautiful wife, Lady Lysandra Mandible,’ came the cry and all stumbled to their feet, belching and with buttons straining, clutching their glasses and goblets.

Lysandra entered the hall first and there was an immediate muted gasp of surprise. She was radiant, there was no doubt about that, in a cream dress that sparkled with diamonds and glowed with pearls. But it was remarkably understated. This was not what the ladies had anticipated at all and there was a palpable feeling of disappointment. All had been led to believe that her outfit would be unrivalled in its splendour. After all that fuss, could this really be it?

Seemingly unconcerned by the reaction, Lady Mandible acknowledged her guests with a nod and the slightest of smiles, then took her place at the centre of the table on one of the bespoke thrones that she had ordered solely for this occasion. Now all eyes turned back to the doors in readiness for her husband. And for once he didn’t disappoint. In fact, tonight Lord Mandible actually upstaged his wife.

And how did he do that? What was so marvellous about his entrance? Was it that he came into the dining hall on horseback? Certainly that caught the guests’ attention. Or maybe it was his attire, for he had chosen to ape a primitive hunter with a huge bearskin over his shoulders and a horned helmet on his head.

In fact, it was neither of these, but that which came in his wake: a Hairy-Backed Forest Hog – the biggest ever – carried aloft on a silver platter by six serving men. At the sight of it Lord Mandible received a standing ovation. It was certainly deserving of this reaction. The hog, its crackling still hissing and spitting from the roasting and shining with honey glaze, sat on a bed of golden ivy leaves. It wore a rather surprised expression on its elongated face, as if even in death it did not expect to be here. On the tip of each lower curved canine there was a large golden apple (Lord Mandible’s idea) and on its head a sort of glittering tiara (also Mandible’s idea). Arranged along its sides were roasted piglets with live thrushes stuffed in their mouths which kept escaping to the hall ceiling and roosting up there. Several guests looked a bit flummoxed by this, particularly when they had to dodge droppings, but it seemed best not to say anything out loud.

The men carrying the platter placed it carefully on a prepared raised stand at the end of the table where it could be seen by all. Lord Mandible dismounted, in his usual (perhaps better described as ‘unusual’ on account of his leg) fashion, and joined his wife on his matching throne. There was more cheering and applause and general uproar until he held up his hand for attention. In the past it was well known that Lord Mandible had found the Midwinter Feast a bit of a chore but his Hairy-Back triumph had evidently changed that, and he was about to make a speech.

Hector couldn’t help noticing, however, that Lady Mandible was watching everything in uncharacteristic silence. He was immediately suspicious. Where were the butterflies? His frayed nerves could hardly stand the suspense. It was time for her to reveal all.

‘My dear guests,’ Lord Mandible declared, ‘it is my great pleasure to welcome you all to this, the Withypitts Hall Annual Midwinter Feast. Tonight, however, it is my even greater pleasure to present to you the finest specimen of Hairy-Backed Hog ever seen, felled this day by my own hand.’ A great hurrah went up, everyone clashed their goblets and clinked their glasses, and it was some minutes before there was quiet enough for Mandible to continue.

‘Now,’ he shouted at last, his eyes shining, ‘let the Midwinter Feast begin!’

And they set to as if they had suffered months of famine. The hog was carved and before long the room was filled with the sound of flesh being torn apart, teeth gnawing on bone and the chewing of sticky juicy meat. The meat from the middle wasn’t even properly cooked, the hog having arrived so late in the day, but the guests were oblivious to this. Other plates kept coming; from strange fish dishes to piles of tarts and honey cakes so high that they threatened to topple and subject all those in the vicinity to a vicious pastry assault. By the time Lord Mandible stood up and rapped on a goblet to get his guests’ attention, it was no longer the table that groaned but those who sat at it. His overstuffed audience sat back with shining faces and greasy chins, trying to focus their bloodshot eyes, sucking and picking at their teeth with silver toothpicks. Lady Lysandra seemed to manage a brief smile that could have been interpreted as gracious, but then again could merely have been a twitch. Hector was sickened to his stomach by it all.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a couple of servants pull aside a panelled screen at the end of the room to reveal Mandible’s harpsichord. But what was that on the floor by the pedals? The servants, too close to notice it at their feet, were busy arranging the music. Hector walked slowly, unobtrusively, over to the instrument. There was something familiar about that shape and colour. ‘Oh no!’ he muttered with a sinking feeling, for the odd-looking bundle on the floor was none other than Percy, Mandible’s remaining cat!

And he was as dead as the Hairy-Backed Hog.

‘
Tartri flammis!
’ hissed Hector, and quickly he bent and scooped the cat up as Mandible’s words came to him on the hot and heavy air.

‘Now in Lady Lysandra’s honour I am going to play a tune I composed myself for the harpsichord, the very instrument my poor father used to play to me. The words I composed only today, so you will forgive me if the verses are not as polished as they could be.’

Hector froze. He could hardly let Mandible see that his one remaining cat was dead. There was a time and place for such a revelation. This was neither. In the blink of an eye Hector stuffed the still warm cat down the front of his waistcoat and tightened his belt so it wouldn’t fall out. He would have to find an opportunity later to dispose of the animal. He drew back against the drapes as Mandible came limping and rustling over to take his seat. He cut a strange figure in his bearskin cloak and horned hat, now slightly askew, but the guests were past caring. He began to play and sing, sort of: