Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.
Title: Elementary, My Dear Hiei (C3: Dinner Is Served)
Author: JaganshiKenshin
Genre: General, Mystery
Rating: K+/PG-13 (for anime-style fight scenes/language)
Summary: The reader needn't be Sherlock Holmes to deduce the identities of Hero and Delamont.
A/N: Idiot Beloved takes place shortly after the Dark Tournament; Firebird Sweet directly follows that timeline. This story occurs a few months after the events in Are You Loathsome Tonight?
Thanks for your reviews and Likes!
Will the ghosts appear during dinner?
Elementary, My Dear Hiei (C3: Dinner Is Served)
by
Kenshin
Arriving downstairs unmolested by ghosts, Pudge went to the drawing room, making what she hoped was a grand entrance.
Only the strangers glanced up at her. Monsieur Delamont sat by the fire; Monsieur Hero stood silent and sullen by the mantelpiece. Delamont rose when Pudge entered the room.
Of course Smarm hadn't bothered changing for dinner, nor Twitchy, and poor dear Mopey never paid attention to clothes.
Still, Pudge told herself, it was correct for them to entertain the guests whilst the hostess was changing.
"Did you know," drawled Smarmy, "that Monseuir Delamont is a botanist?"
Bypassing the fact that M. Delamont had indeed already introduced himself as such, Pudge turned her face up to his.
"A botanist, how fascinating! Are you fond of roses?"
"Indeed." Delamont's eyes gleamed emerald-ish, reminding Pudge of the main jewel in the missing Tredmonton Tiara. "I hear they grow outstanding roses in England."
"We were never able to establish a garden in our former residence," said Pudge, hoping her words carried the right sort of tone. "But I would very much like to take it up now."
Delamont nodded in a courtly manner. "Perhaps we can discuss varieties suited to this climate."
Hero said nothing by way of small talk, but stared intently at the walls. How peculiar, thought Pudge. Is he perhaps an architect or dealer in antiquities? For the furnishings in the drawing room were old, and of fine make and could well interest an antiquarian. Yet she could not bring herself to ask.
Besides, at that moment Thrustlewood arrived to announce dinner. They filed into the candle-lit dining room and settled about the long mahogany table.
"Oh dear," said Pudge, "we seem to be an odd number."
Dumpy sat at the head of the table, Pudge at its foot, Smarm and Twitch to her left. But Mopey was sandwiched between the two Frenchmen. It was all very assymetrical and probably incorrect.
"Well, we can hardly ask Thrustlewood to sit with us, can we?" said Smarmy, tucking the napkin under his chin.
Twitchy giggled. "Who'd serve the meal after all?"
"He's right here, you know," hissed Pudge, as Thrustlewood began serving the soup course.
Any last-minute, makeshift meal was bound to be catch-as-catch-can, but the meat course would be good; even before they knew guests were coming, Pudge had ordered a nice roast of beef, and she'd left the rest up to Thrustlewood's ingenuity.
As for the butler, he cut such a distinguished figure! A tall old man with gray moustaches, he was spare of frame and movement, his speech every bit as refined as that of Anthony Hopkins in Remains of the Day, one of her favorite films.
The soup course proved to be that salty brine they called miso, which was thin and had a suspiciously foreign taste.
Smarmy slurped it, Dumpling held his spoon wrong, Twitchy took one sip and pulled a face. Mopey did not eat at all.
As for the guests-
M. Delamont was splendidly turned out in an understated gray jacket, and an old-school tie highlighted his gleaming linen. The effect was rather spoiled by a missing cuff-link that allowed one cuff to gape open in a sloppy manner that belied the rest of his attire. What was its meaning? Some new fashion on the Continent? A secret code among botanists? Yet he proved charming, as befitted a person of his fame.
Dumpy dear wondered aloud whether the famed botanist had written any books, while Twitchy asked whether he had a floral shop, and Smarmy all but pointed at the missing cuff link and asked how much money he made, which M. Delamont sensibly declined to answer. Really, the family's behavior-!
Just like at home, thought Pudge, then scolded herself for failing to remember that this spooky old manor was home.
M. Delamont did not appear to have been offended. Rather, he appeared to be studying them all, as though they were particularly interesting plant specimens. "And what do you do, Mr. er, Smarmy?" M. Delamont turned his thoughtful gaze on Pudge's brother.
"I ponder the meaning of life," Smarmy replied.
"Where?"
"Wherever I happen to be."
"Lazy he is," muttered Dumpy.
"Dear Smarm always says he is too sensitive for mere labor," Pudge put in, cringing a bit, because what Dumpy said was true.
"I see," mused Delamont. "And you, Mr. -Twitch?"
"Me?" Twitchy paused, a buttered roll jammed in his mouth. "I'm only 17, aren't I? What would I be doing with a job?"
"Heaven knows," said M. Delamont, nibbling at a breadstick.
Monsieur Hero proved to be a man of few words but prodigious appetite, munching placidly away at everything placed before him. Up close, he was younger-looking than Pudge had originally thought, with great serious eyes gleaming in a rather elfin face. He wore a Rosary round his neck; the shifting candle-light caused the figure on its Crucifix to seemingly writhe in agony.
The effect made Pudge more nervous than before.
"One of those Roman fish-eaters, I see," stage-whispered Twitchy, and to cover up his rudeness, Pudge blared, "More wine?"
M. Hero did not reply, but instead regarded her steadily until she found her face getting warm. The way he stared, unblinking, at each of them in turn-especially dear defenseless Mope-Don't tell me he has designs on her! She's an heiress now, of course, but that's the French for you.
Who was this Hero? The charming M. Delamont's assistant? But then why was he not digging in the dirt rather than his employer? Odd that Twitchy or Smarmy hadn't flat-out asked him, but there was something about Hero's demeanor that quelled any potential inquiries. It was one mystery atop another, and too much for Pudge's liking.
Once the soup had been cleared off, Thrustlewood brought the fish course. Too bad it was that dreadful stuff they called sushi, which seemed to consist of bits of bait wrapped round seaweed and day-old rice. Pudge would never get used to it.
"Sometimes," blurted Dumpy, "I'd just as leave make do with some nice baked beans on toast."
"Hear, hear," said Twitchy.
"And none of this loathsome raw fish," put in Smarmy.
"I like raw fish." Monseiur Hero made a rare comment. "You going to finish yours?"
As one, the Puffingtons slid their plates over to M. Hero-except Mopey, whose white hands clutched the tablecloth.
M. Hero made lavish use of the green paste they served alongside the fish. Its bite was fiercer than the worst mustard, making one feel like one's very ears were afire (as Pudge had discovered to her dismay), yet Hero was gobbing it on his raw fish with no apparent ill effects.
They all stared in shock, except M. Delamont, who must be used to his companion's peculiar ways. "He's inhuman," whispered Twitchy.
"You don't know the half of it," said Hero.
Monseiur Delamont turned to Mopey and inquired, "Which do you prefer, Miss Merope-sushi or sashimi?"
Mopey gave no reply, toying with her wingelass instead.
Noticing Mopey's full plate, M. Hero murmured, "I'll relieve you of that as well." As he reached for it, his Rosary brushed her hand.
Mopey gave a squeak and shied away.
They're both after her! thought Pudge-they both have designs on her! But she's showing a clear preference for M. Delamont. That's the spirit!
"A servant really should have passed the plate," Pudge apologized. "But we seem to be a bit short-handed tonight."
"Such a bother," said Dumpy. "Man's home should be his castle; instead it's a cave, without proper staff-"
"Yes," said Delamont. "I was wondering at the lack."
"Oh be honest," Smarmy snapped. "They ditched us."
"Except Thrustlewood," amended Twitchy, as the butler rolled in the meat course on a silver cart.
As Thrustlewood served the beef, M. Delamont inquired of Dumpling, "Am I to understand the help ran out?"
"One by one," replied Dumpy, digging into his roast.
"In the night, mind you!" added Twitchy, around a mouthful of Yorkshire pudding.
"Every morning we'd awaken to one less staff member," Smarmy said, tucking into his beef.
M. Hero put in another rare word. "It's a long way to the bus stop. Especially on foot."
"They must have been desperate." M. Delamont shot Hero a sharp glance.
Hero nodded. "Good jobs don't grow on trees."
"I wonder-" M. Delamont rotated his wineglass, observing the liquid, then turned his attention to Pudge. "That's a lovely outfit you're wearing."
Pudge blushed. "Thank you kindly." She really was more comfortable in tweeds and such, and now felt like a sausage stuffed into a too-small casing. Still, it was nice of him to say something.
"But where is the tiara to go with it?" he continued.
Twitchy choked on his wine. Smarmy spilt the gravy.
"In Smarmy's pocket, most like," muttered Dumpling.
The table being as vast as a playing field, Pudge was unable to reach Dumpy to deliver a corrective kick.
"How did you know about the tiara?" she whispered. Have they designs on all of us, and not of a romantic nature? Are they thieves in the night? She caught at her throat.
"Excellent beef," said M. Delamont, taking a few bites, then setting down his knife and fork.
M. Hero noticed. "You going to finish that?"
Wordlessly M. Delamont slid his plate across to M. Hero.
They completed the meat course with only the rumble of thunder and the clink of cutlery for accompaniment. But Pudge was thinking furiously: Strange, them showing up just like that, with no stated purpose. Well, after dinner, I shall find out!
When the plates were cleared away Pudge rose and announced they would take coffee in the drawing room.
Merope hung back, but Pudge gently steered her along.
The drawing room was less sheltered than the dining room, facing into the teeth of the weather as it were, and the great tall windows revealed that the storm had, if anything, doubled in intensity, shaking the house with thunder and clawing the walls with lightning.
But there was hot tea on the sideboard, and brandy, and all manner of cakes and fancies and hard sauce for cheer.
As for the fire, it was weak and smoking no matter how many logs they piled on, leaving them with little illumination. Dumply dear went to the grand piano, on which rested a silver candelabra. He lit its tapers, then moved the makeshift lighting to the coffee table.
Thrustlewood brought the silver coffee service, and Pudge helped everyone to a bit of this and a dab of that. M. Hero proved as much a fan of pudding as he was of raw fish.
"Did you know," said M. Delamont, balancing a plate of petits fours on his knee, "that the word 'drawing' room was originally shortened from 'withdrawing' room? Here the guests would withdraw from dinner for coffee, brandy, a smoke."
"How very interesting," yawned Smarmy, helping himself to a second slab of fruitcake.
"Is everyone comfy?" said Pudge loudly.
"As comfy as we can get with the cold, the damp, the dark, the storm, and no staff," muttered Twitchy.
"Indeed," said M. Delamont. "There's more going on in this house than meets the eye."
Pudge felt the cake stick in her throat.
"More than merely the cold," he went on, "more than the damp, the missing staff, the missing tiara-"
"-Don't forget the dead phone lines," put in Twitchy.
"-and the no power," said Dumpy.
Monseiur Hero spoke. "They all add up to one thing and one thing only."
Delamont added, "One of you-" here he paused to allow the crash of thunder and the crack of lightning-"one of you has been possessed!"
A great gust of wind blasted the room. The candles blew out, plunging them into darkness. Someone screamed. Pudge fainted straight away.
-30-
(To be continued: Who harbors the otherworldy entity?)