like a syllabub. Yes, a syllabub." Gracey looked accusingly at Butler. "And none of that nonsense about syllabub being too difficult, either. People in England just can't cook the way they used to. Why, syllabub used to be one of the glories of the English table."
His voice dropped an octave into the reverential range. "And the hare—in a fine brown stock, with lots of onions and carrots and just a hint of curry powder—just a hint, mind you."
He swung towards Polly. "How many guns has your father got locked in that cupboard of his? He's got two or three 12-bores, hasn't he?"
Polly nodded. "He's got a matched pair of Ferguson 12-bores, and there's an old 410."
"Good, very good!" Gracey rubbed his hands. "Well tomorrow, my girl, you will take a shooting party up on the Wall—you can start from the Gap up there and go westward towards Aesica."
"Are there really hares there, sir?"
"My dear Mike, it is hare stew, not wild goose, that I intend to serve—of course there are hares there. I have it on good authority that there are. Just stay south of the Wall—along the Vallum is as good a line as any—and you should be able to bag something there, Colonel. And if you can get 'em back to me before lunch, there'll just be time to have it all ready for a late dinner."
Dr Gracey's eyes glinted again. "We shall drink the Chateau Pape Clement with it. And at the end you and I will drink a bottle of Cockburn '45, which we will not waste on these young people, beyond one small glass anyway."
Butler did his best to look enthusiastic. He had encountered this terrifying enthusiasm for food and wine before, and he knew better than to trifle with it. It was certainly no time to explain that it would all be wasted on him, that a couple of decent whiskeys and one good plateful of meat and vegetables was enough for him, and that rich concoctions and sweet kickshaws—and of all things port—only made him liverish next day.
"Hah! Well—ah—I'll do my best," he growled. "I'm most honoured to be your guest."
"Not at all man, not at. all! I'm glad of the opportunity of preparing dinner for someone who's used to something better than—" Gracey waved towards his god-daughter and the American "—than cardboard slimming biscuits and predigested hamburgers. But tell me, Butler, how long have you been a friend of Mike's?"
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Butler looked at Klobucki for support.
"About five minutes, sir," Klobucki said without the least hesitation.
"Five minutes?"
"Well—" A refreshing note of diffidence crept into Klobucki's voice "—to be strictly accurate we first met about ten minutes ago, and we haven't actually been introduced to one another."
"Mike was making amends," said Polly mischievously.
"Amends? Amends for what?"
"We gave Colonel Butler a rather rough welcome, I guess." Klobucki turned apologetically to Butler.
"We aren't usually as argumentative, at least not so quickly, sir. You'll just have to put it down to the natives being a bit restless tonight—the air's a bit thundery, you might say."
"Thundery?" Gracey frowned.
"Grendel's loose," Polly murmured mischievously.
"Now that's right! But how—?" The American stared at the girl in surprise. "Have you been talking to Dan McLachlan?"
"It was Dan, actually." Polly nodded.
"What do you mean 'Grendel's loose'?" snapped Gracey, looking from Polly to Klobucki quickly.
"Search me, Uncle John," said Polly. "It was Dan at his most mysterious—he never got round to telling us who this character Grendel is, did he, Colonel? Or should I know him?"
Gracey raised an eyebrow. "Hardly, my dear. But what the devil is this all about, Mike?"
"Well—" Klobucki began awkwardly "—it's kind of difficult to explain . . ."
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Polly interrupted him hotly. "Will someone kindly tell me who Grendel is?"
"Beowulf" Butler rasped. "He comes in Beowulf."
"And who's B—?" Polly turned accusingly on the American. "Darn it, isn't that one of those hairy Anglo-dummy2.htm
Saxon poems you're always complaining about?"
"My dear girl," said Gracey, "so far from being a hairy Anglo-Saxon poem, Beowulf happens to be the only surviving Old English epic and one of the greatest pieces of early medieval literature. Now, Michael Klobucki, what is all this nonsense about Grendel?"
"Sir—it's like this—"
"Explain so that my ignorant god-daughter can understand, if you don't mind."
"Mind? Why, surely, sir! You see, Polly-Anna, your ancestors had this thing about trolls—sort of half-men, half-monsters. The trolls had it in for the humans, on account of their being descended from Cain, and they lived out on the moors or in the fens and lakes . . . like the one under the crag out there. .. and if a troll moved in on the humans he'd first come at night and sit on the roof and drum his heels on it. And if they didn't take the hint, then he'd wait until they were all dead asleep—and probably dead-drunk too-
—and he'd creep in and kill a few and drink their blood. And there wasn't a thing they could do about it except pack up and go and live somewhere else."
"Unless they had a really great warrior among them," said Gracey softly. "A Hero."
"Sure—if they had a genuine Hero, preferably with a magic sword and a miraculous chain mail vest,"
Klobucki nodded. "A sort of John Wayne and Wyatt Earp—or like maybe Shane."
"And Grendel was a troll?"
"That's it, honey—a Troll First Class who moved in on King Hrothgar's great hall of Heorot, so no one dared live in it for twelve years, until young Beowulf showed up for the show-down."
"You make it sound more like a cowboy film."
"Hell, that's what it is! All good epics are the same, just the costumes are different—it don't matter whether they're set in Camelot or Dodge City—and the O.K. Corral's no different from Heorot Great Hall, see."
No different, thought Butler. No different the same way as Agincourt and Waterloo and Mons and Alamein had been no different: take away the legend and the common factors were dirt and death.
"So exactly where does Castleshields House figure in this interesting theory?" asked Gracey. "Because if you intended to cast it as Heorot, with Charles or myself as the unfortunate King Hrothgar, I should be obliged if you'd explain your reasons."
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"Well, sir—" Klobucki's ugly face flushed. "The way Dan's got it doped out, there's something goddamn queer going on— the way the Master of King's told us to watch our step . . . but you'd better ask him than me, the Master, I mean."
McLachlan had been indiscreet to a degree, but not completely loose-mouthed, for Klobucki did not appear able to extrapolate from Grendel to Neil Smith's death. That at least was something.
"I see." Gracey looked at the American narrowly now. Unlike Klobucki, he might well guess that there was more to that tragic accident at Petts Pond than was generally known, but he could know nothing for certain unless Audley had primed him. "And just what is this goddamn queer something, eh?"
"Oh, no—don't you ask me!" Klobucki shook his head warily. "I've seen enough trouble and strife of my own to want any of yours just now. I don't want any part of it. Back home I'd guess you call me a two-time loser already, but here I'm just a foreigner who wants to keep his snotty nose clean— and I don't want to be sent home just yet."
"You said the natives are restless, though."
"So I did, sure." Klobucki's eyes flashed behind the thick lenses. "That's just a feeling down in my gut.
Maybe it's imagination—or indigestion. Or maybe I just fancied I'd heard those heels drumming on the roof beam."
Gracey looked round the room meditatively. Following his gaze, Butler noticed that they had been left high and dry in their own corner by a tide of interest which seemed to have drawn everyone else to the windows overlooking the croquet lawn.