Further Adventures of Mirabella; The story so far—
Mirabella decided that a timely visit to Sampson in the stable would save her from listening to young Braycock read his newest poetry, as he promised the party after supper. Sampson, the handsome Bactrian, was in his stall being curried and combed by Peter, his valet. When Mirabella and Sampson were finally alone, they were joined by Athene noctua, who shared similar opinions on bad verse, but who also alluded to rising tensions in a party of convivial literati at Edward Morgan Forster’s country house.
Part 2, An Unusual Manuscript
Mirabella cocked her head toward Athene while her ears reflexively turned in the direction of the great house across the field. She was dismayed that Edward Morgan’s friends should squabble among themselves. He had looked forward to their arrival, which meant long afternoons riding out with them through the countryside and even longer evenings of merriment and discussion of the doings of the close-knit group.
“Tell us more about what happened after I left the library,” asked Mirabella, “Etoile Caruthers is a hot-head as are the family, but she is no fool.”
Etoile was an artist and a poet of some skill, and she could not abide the careless work of Braycock. She detested it with all the passion of her mingled Celtic and Gallic blood, and she let him know.
Mirabella liked Etoile, a proud girl who presumed to wear the Bruce tartan when she visited the Forster’s house in the country. Her mother’s great-grandfathers were bold Border reivers, but the family had since settled down in the village of Mouswald, a name that amused Mirabella, although she knew that the village anciently was named for the forest near the great marsh of Lochar Moss. Etoile’s ancestors had lived in the village when workmen in 1840 dug up in the local peat a brass bowl with a beautiful bronze torc broken and placed within it for safekeeping against the ages in the marsh. It had been Etoile’s dream as a young girl to wrest the beautiful torc from the confines of the British Museum and bear it home in triumph to the village that had opened its arms to her as a child.
Etoile had been born in Paris, where her mother had lived for a while as a young woman and had befriended the poets and artists who lived in her neighborhood near La Sorbonne. It is not known why, but after a few years she abruptly returned to Mouswald, with only a leather satchel in one hand and a tiny, dark-eyed daughter by the other.
Playing in her mother’s bedroom alone one afternoon, Etoile found the old satchel under the bed and discovered inside some fine charcoal and sanguine drawings of a young woman lazing on the grass. When Etoile asked about them, her mother only locked them away out of the girl’s reach in the tall dresser, where they remained unremarked until her mother died. She carried the name of Etoile’s father to her grave.
Mirabella had heard Etoile’s story from Edward Morgan who, although he would promise every friend in turn that anything whispered to him in the agony of confidence would go with him to the grave, told his little cat everything, usually over salmon on buttered toast, and cups of piping hot tea the very next morning. Athene noctua would listen, settled comfortably on the porch post, and Mirabella felt that she and Athene could privately discuss any of these matters with Sampson in the stable. The three friends had now forgathered in Sampson’s stall.
Sampson snorted and said, “Young Braycock was here earlier, and I saw him carrying a packet in his two hands, close to his chest. He tripped and fell over there in the corner against the hay rack before scuttling out like a thief in the night. He was up to no good, that one.”
Braycock had been surprised to see Peter in the camel’s stall, and he uttered an oath and tripped over the alley rake. He fell to the floor and his packet burst open with strings snapping and papers flying. He was angry at poor Peter, but Sampson stood by the lad and leveled Braycock with a look. The young man fled.
Mirabella noticed a scrap of paper at the corner of the stall. She crossed the floor in an instant and pulled an entire begrimed page free from where it jammed when Braycock fell in his haste to escape the indignant camel. She brought the page back to Sampson and Athene, and the little owl took particular interest in the contents, what she could read between the smears. Let it dry a bit, suggested Mirabella, and Athene delicately grasped the paper in her beak and fluttered with it to the stall rail, where she carefully draped it.
While what she hoped was incriminating evidence dried, Athene related how she had perched at the library window to preen her plumage. She moved close to the open window to hear accurately the alarming discord within.
“Etoile has taken a dislike to Braycock’s poetry,” observed Athene. “I believe that Braycock possesses an occluded soul, which stops up the well spring that waters the fountain of his intellect,” she said evenly. Sampson looked kindly at the little owl and thought that she must be reading the Russian spiritualists again.
Athene had a good point, though. Braycock was a likable young man but his mind lacked vigor and purpose, and it showed in whatever he turned his hand to, whether riding a horse, or conversation and verse. He was simply a dull fellow in a bright and clever crowd.
Athene saw that the paper had dried sufficiently and she plucked it from the rail and laid it out on the hay. “What is this now,” she said, beginning to read.
“Against night’s umber cloak the pale moon casts a single mote
The light lost in gloomy shroud bound close to wild Octavio’s throat
Against the wind that cut so sear across the midnight moor so drear …”
“Please,” choked Mirabella, “Enough!”
“Athene, read on,” commanded Sampson. “Mirabella, we must know his mind and discern what he was doing with this manuscript here tonight. Perhaps he was not the author.”
“Yes,” said Athene brightly. “Perhaps he murdered the true author and hid the body in the high field and made off with verse that he assumes will improve his fortunes with Etoile.”
“The verse will win him no friends,” said Mirabella, “but if it is not his, where did he find it?”
A cliffhanger, yes?
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