Canine Christmas (15 page)

“My dear Hilda Mae,” I responded, “I couldn't leave you to spend Christmas all by yourself in my cottage.”
Because
, I added silently,
I certainly didn't want you snooping through my things while I was away.
Hilda Mae Herlihy was nosiness personified.

A former colleague of mine from Houston days, Hilda Mae had been in England on sabbatical since the beginning of the fall semester. I had been rather surprised to hear her voice on the phone just before Thanksgiving. “Glad I tracked you down, Sammy boy,” her voice trilled over the wires.

I winced at the relic of my former—and human— existence. “Simon, if you please, my dear Hilda Mae,” I said in my most prim tone.

She giggled. “Whatever! Though I can't imagine what you're trying to live down. Unless it's man trouble, as usual.”

“Your point in calling?” I prodded her, none too gently.

“Why, to say a big ol'
howdy
! What'd you think?” She giggled into the phone again, reminding me why small doses of her girlish charm usually sufficed. The woman had a first-class mind and was a linguist of no mean ability, but she had the appearance and the manner of a runway bimbo.

“Well, howdy back at you!” I sighed and settled down for a long one. Conversations with Hilda Mae were never short.

Somehow, during the ensuing hour, I had persuaded myself that I couldn't let poor Hilda Mae spend Christmas in England by herself. Or maybe I didn't want to be alone myself at that time of year. For whatever reason, I heard myself inviting her to spend a week at Christmas at my cottage in the quiet Bedfordshire village of Snupperton Mumsley.

A week later I received an answer to a letter I had posted two months earlier. The letter was postmarked somewhere in Zimbabwe, which might explain the delay in response time. From the expensive, beautifully engraved paper and nearly illegible crabbed handwriting, I learned that Lady Antonia Pinchley-Fyggis would be delighted to let me examine her family's copy of a medieval chronicle I had been hoping to consult. Moreover, I would be more than welcome to come the week of Christmas, when Lady Antonia would again be in residence at Wiggleton Priory.

Lady Antonia graciously assented to the inclusion of Hilda Mae in her invitation, once I had carefully explained that Hilda Mae was also a scholar of some repute and would be of great assistance to me. I was a bit surprised, frankly, that Lady Antonia, daughter of the seventeenth earl of Wiggleton, had been so willing to open her home to strangers at this time of year. Far be it from me to look a gift aristocrat in the mouth, however.

From the Land Rover, I stared up at the impressive facade of Wiggleton Priory. Once the site of a Benedictine nunnery, the priory had been transformed, thanks to the Dissolution and countless pounds of Pinchley-Fyggis money over the ensuing centuries, into a vast pile of a stately home of no discernible, single architectural style. How anyone—besides Bill Gates, that is—could possibly maintain a house this large in this day and age astonished me.

Hilda Mae had already hopped out of the car, and I followed her up the steps to the front door, where she rang the bell. Scant moments later, the huge door opened, and the butler cast an inquiring gaze over us. “Dr. Simon Kirby-Jones and Dr. Hilda Mae Herlihy to see Lady Antonia Pinchley-Fyggis,” she announced in her breezy fashion, stepping forward over the threshold and forcing the butler to step backward. The cavernous hall inside was, if anything, several degrees colder than the winter chill outside.

“This way, please, madam, sir,” the butler intoned, after introducing himself as Foxwell. He moved surprisingly well for someone who looked ready to totter into the grave at any moment.

We followed him down an overly ornate hallway to a large door on the south side of the house. From what I could see, there was no attempt to decorate for the holidays. No swathes of greenery, no bright bunting, nothing even faintly reminiscent of the season. Rather disappointed, I tramped on behind Foxwell and Hilda Mae.

Sweeping open the door, the butler marched through, announcing us as he went. Hilda Mae paused to hand the keys to the car to him, and I continued forward to present myself to our hostess.

Ensconced in a large armchair before a crackling fire sat a broomstick with pouting red lips and a fright wig. I blinked. The broomstick changed into an excessively thin old woman with skin the texture of dry leather, wearing makeup and hair appropriate to a woman less than half her age. Not to mention one used to earning her living on her back. How frail she appeared. Impossible to tell her age—she might be anywhere from sixty to ninety. I leaned forward to offer her my hand, sensed a blur of movement, and snatched it back just in time.

Normally, dogs are afraid of vampires. Few of them would dare try to bite me. But there are exceptions, like the pugnacious little Yorkie now standing to attention in Lady Antonia's lap.

“Do be quiet, Percival,” Lady Antonia cawed, fondly stroking her miniature defender. “These are our guests, and you must behave, pweshus.” Percival subsided, but the glare he offered promised that I hadn't seen the last of his sharp little teeth.

“Dr. Kirby-Jones,” Lady Antonia continued in her peculiar voice, “we are delighted you could join us during this festive time of year.” She extended a languid claw, which I grasped carefully in my hand.

“May I introduce my colleague, Dr. Hilda Mae Herlihy.” Hilda Mae stepped forward, attempted a curtsy, changed her mind at the last moment, and dipped her head instead. Her teeth flashed in a smugly satisfied smile as she surveyed the richly appointed room.

Lady Antonia suddenly chortled with glee. “Looks like I should have had Foxwell prepare only one bedroom, eh? Not two. Save a bit of tripping to and fro during the night, what? Tasty bit of crumpet you've got there, Kirby-Jones. Some assistant, eh?”

“Mother!” came the outraged cry from a woman sitting in a nearby chair.

“Oh, do hush, Rosamond,” Lady Antonia said, waving a claw airily. “Dr. Kirby-Jones is a man of the world and
far
more sophisticated than a lump like you could ever be.” She sniffed. “May I present my daughter, Rosamond Anniston, and her husband, Piers.”

Lump
was rather an unfortunate, if accurate, word to describe Rosamond. Whatever avoirdupois shed by her mother, Rosamond seemed to have gained or at least shared with her husband Piers. Two round faces glared accusingly at Lady Antonia, and the male half of the duo struggled to shift his massive bottom out of his chair in order to shake hands with Hilda and me. Tweedledum and Tweedledee to the life. And playing attendance upon Jackleen Sprat, no less.

“Two bedrooms are quite sufficient,” I informed Lady Antonia with a hint of frost in my voice. Now was hardly the time to announce that I was of an entirely different persuasion. I could feel the wave of embarrassment around the room beginning to subside. Vampires are sensitive to strong emotion, you see, and Lady Antonia and Percival were the only two living creatures in the room who hadn't been awash in it moments before.

“Whatever you say.” Lady Antonia dismissed my polite rebuff. Then her attention centered upon someone behind us, and an unpleasantly calculating expression settled on her face. “Algernon, do come in and meet
your
guests properly.”

Hilda Mae and I turned. Approaching us was one of the most homely young men I had ever seen. None of his facial features were quite in proportion. His nose was small, his chin jutted commandingly, and his ears might catch a stray tailwind at any moment and send him flying out the window. His hair, an exceedingly odd shade of red, zigged and zagged all over his head. For all that, however, he did have a pleasant smile and a striking physique.

“At last,” Lady Antonia chirped, “my nephew, Algernon Pinchley-Fyggis, the eighteenth Earl of Wiggleton.” She finished the introductions, and we shook hands with the earl, who had a strong, firm grip. He seemed reluctant to release Hilda Mae's hand. She is rather attractive, if you like petite, dark women with beautiful smiles, that is. I'd have to tease her later about her new conquest.

“Welcome to Wiggleton Priory,” the earl said warmly. “And do call me Algernon. No need to muck about with the title and all that.” His voice was deep and well modulated.

He really was rather short—but he was still a couple of inches taller than Hilda Mae.

“I am most grateful for your hospitality, and for your allowing me access to your copy of the Selsey chronicle.”

“Not at all, Simon,” Algernon replied smoothly, casting his aunt a pointed glance. “I'm quite delighted to be of assistance to scholars such as yourselves. Now,” he said briskly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his expensively tailored suit, “let me show you to your rooms. No doubt you would like to see where you'll be staying for the coming week.”

Hilda Mae and I inclined our heads in the direction of Lady Antonia, Rosamond, and Piers. Before we could get out of the room, Lady Antonia announced to Piers that it was his turn to take Percival out for his “walkies.”

As we followed the earl upstairs, I heard Piers whispering to Percival on their way out the front door, “You just try to bite me again, you little shit, and I'll kick your arse to next Sunday. No matter what my sainted mother-in-law says!” I looked back down in time to see Piers jerk the leash and drag the resistant dog out the front door. Neither Hilda Mae nor the earl seemed to have noticed, so wrapped up in their vigorous flirtation were they. A vampire's hearing, you see, is much more acute than that of a human, even when they aren't billing and cooing.

Putting aside for the moment Piers's dislike of the poor Yorkie, I speculated instead on something else. Why did the earl so dislike his aunt?

While dressing for dinner that first evening at Wiggleton Priory, I reconsidered the events of the afternoon. After showing us to our second-floor rooms, two very well-appointed apartments with a connecting door, the earl had given us a tour of his home. I trailed along behind the earl and Hilda Mae, and it became obvious to me that the earl had little concern for my presence. Hilda Mae fluttered her eyelashes, gushed in her best Southern-belle voice, and pressed his arm at regular intervals. If I had to speculate, I'd say that Hilda Mae had her sights set on being the next Countess of Wiggleton. I shuddered.

The only real item of interest to me during the tour was the priory's library, where the family kept its copy of the Selsey chronicle. The earl pointed out the case where it was kept, handed me a key, and offered a few brief instructions for the chronicle's use. After that, he went back to forgetting I was there.

There was a knock at the connecting door, ending my recollections, and I called for Hilda Mae to enter. “Have you finished ordering the wedding invitations yet?” I asked her acidly.

She giggled. “Now, Simon, don't be jealous!” Her lips pouted at me. She knows better, but with her it's completely automatic.

“I must say, my dear,” I told her honestly as I took stock of her appearance, “you do look stunning. The earl will ravish you right there on the dining table, if you're not careful.” Hilda Mae's impressively compact figure had been squeezed into some sort of emerald green satin confection that lit up her eyes and showed off her dark hair and complexion to great advantage. Though Hilda Mae is a mere associate professor, Daddy Herlihy owns some huge conglomeration of chicken farms. Thus his little girl wants for nothing expensive.

She giggled again. “Not until after dessert, Simon, at the very least! Then we'll see.”

I fussed with the alignment of my jacket, and Hilda Mae made herself comfortable in a nearby chair, watching with a critical eye.

“Rather an interesting family, don't you think?” I said, continuing to fiddle.

“Fraught with all sorts of undercurrents, that's for sure.” Hilda Mae turned off the dithery act. “I looked them up, you know, after you told me I could come along on this little jaunt.”

“What little tidbits did you dig up?” I prompted her, leaning back against a desk, abandoning my fussiness with my clothes.

“The earldom goes back nearly to the Conquest—a notion that impresses the heck out of my little Southern heart, let me tell you!” She showed me her dimple, and I waved for her to continue.

“The seventeenth earl died in a hunting accident about five years ago, having been predeceased by his son, the present earl's father, who died in a plane crash ten years ago. Lady Antonia is the elder sister of the seventeenth earl, and thus the great-aunt of the present earl. Her late husband, one Robert Dinglebury, father of Rosamond, was persuaded to take Lady Antonia's name, it being so much more august than his own.”

“I had wondered about that,” I said, stroking my beard. “Does Lady Antonia control the purse strings, by any chance? There doesn't seem to be much love lost between her and the present earl.”

“I believe so,” Hilda Mae said. “Rumor has it that the male line is pretty profligate with money, so the old earl, Lady Antonia's father, tied up the estate leaving her in control of most everything. At least until the present earl reaches the tender age of forty, or Lady Antonia dies before that day.”

“Wher
ever
did you get all this?” I asked, astonished.

She smiled enigmatically. “I have my sources.”

“You and your feminine wiles.” I laughed.

“Let's go down to dinner, Simon,” she said, standing up and grinning mischievously. “Let's see what the earl is going to have for dinner.”

Said meal, presided over by the lugubrious Foxwell and his minions, was an odd affair. Lady Antonia, garish in crimson velvet with a superabundance of lace and furbelows, dominated the conversation. With a fervor worthy of Mrs. Jellyby herself, she explained to me her interest in various good works, many of them having to do with unfortunates in Africa. I wondered wildly if, on our way downstairs, we had wandered by mistake into Bleak House. At first, I was laboring under the mistaken notion that these “unfortunates” were human, but, no, Lady Antonia expended her energies and her monies in the service of the starving animals of Africa. That explained the letter from Zimbabwe.