Miss Charlotte's Specialty

A purple book upon her lap, Charlotte was nodding off in the winged armchair by the open French doors when Alys Jones, the generally put-upon cook, cleaner and nursemaid of Brynderwen Hall came into the library, prodded her on the upper arm, alerting her to the presence of a young man. “Visitor for Mister Koenig, a Mister Nigel Brandford”, she said loudly into Charlotte’s good ear. 

Alys turned to the pasty-faced young man with the thinning hair in the ill-fitting, rumpled, and shiny gray suit who stood on the threshold of the library, over heating in the summer warmth, and looking very much out of place, “Mister Koenig won’t be long, Mister Brandford. Such good news!”, she placed her hand solicitously on his arm. “They had it coming to them, that’s for sure!” she said quietly, in a conspiratorial tone. He acknowledged this with a nod and smiled at her as she bustled out of the library, on her way to the kitchen to prepare tea.

Miss Charlotte examined the visitor with a blank, unoccupied face.  The light of an early June afternoon flooded in from the gardens and fell upon her papery-thin skin, its warmth doing nothing to lessen her ghoulish appearance.

Brandford raised his hand unsurely, “Hi, I’m Nigel”. She did not respond, so he stood awkwardly by the door evaluating the options of a visitor when entrusted to the company of what seemed to be a living corpse.

 The library, though almost as large as his bachelor flat in Chester, was crammed full of expensive-looking old stuff, and offered neither refuge nor repose. Books, mostly leather-bound, lined the walls, a grand piano, partially buried beneath piles of newspapers and magazines stood in one corner of the library. One usable chair was occupied by an antique birdcage, another by a broken gramophone. The mantle over the grand fireplace was crammed with vases and marble busts, glass baubles, and a large brass clock, all gathering dust. 

Most disconcerting of all, in the middle of the room, a stuffed hyena leapt at Brandford, caught mid-leap with its fangs bared in a vicious rictus snarl, and made more fearsome by time and abuse: a torn ear, a vacant eye-socket, and a broken foreleg that twisted out unnaturally to the side. 

There was nowhere to sit.   

He was startled when the corpse came alive and spoke to him.

“What brings you to Brynderwen, Mister Brandford?” said Charlotte, pointing at a jumble of children’s toys, “just push that stuff aside and sit down on the sofa, if you like”. With her other hand, she removed the purple book from her lap and placed it precariously on the unoccupied corner of a side-table, next to a primitive looking wooden duck decoy. 

“I’m sorry, I thought you were…”, Brandford wasn’t entirely sure what to say next.

“Deaf?” suggested Charlotte, “…or dead, I suppose?”. She put on a pair of black and gold cat eye spectacles and examined him carefully. 

Brandford looked embarrassed. He made space for himself on the sofa, opposite Charlotte, put his briefcase between his feet, and attended to this strange old woman. Dressed in a vintage of clothing once found on Carnaby Street in the 1960s; he sensed that she must be very rich or very famous. “I work for Muckler and Sons, the Debt Collectors in Chester”, he said, attempting to give her his full attention, but the Hyena, frozen in eternal pain, seemed to be scrutinizing him with its one good eye.

“Oh, don’t mind that old thing. Unlike me, it is very dead!” said Charlotte, cheerfully. “It was one of my father’s most treasured possessions, a striped Hyena, very rare. The beast escaped from Chichester Zoo back in the summer of 1974. My late father, alert to the danger it posed to the fair folks of Sussex, lured the beast into a remote area of the South Downs, where, just as it leapt at his throat, he shot it with a .416 Rigby elephant rifle! And the rifle, would you believe, was once owned by the Archbishop of Urgell, Prince of Andorra, a known mid-20^th-century philanderer, who sired five children out of wedlock, one of whom….” Charlotte ran out of breath and out of contiguous plot. “I’m sorry, what did you say was the purpose of your visit?”, she asked, breathless.

The question relieved Brandford of the effort of following Charlotte on her epic journey, “Sorry, but I’m not at liberty to say”, he said, self-importantly, “private matter for the attention of the Koenig’s, you understand. It concerns money”.

“Intrigue and subterfuge!” exclaimed Charlotte, “Tell me more, dear boy!”, she lowered her voice, as if sharing a secret, “The Koenigs have a dark past”, she said grimly, “artists, writers, pharmacists, and travelers. Lacking the moral compass of the Carringtons”, she concluded smugly.

Brandford, thoroughly confused, looked around the room, trying to escape her unyielding gaze. His eye leapt from one inexplicable object to another, but there was no escaping the scrutiny of this ancient crone, nor the one-eyed Hyena to which his attention was constantly drawn.

Brandford lowered his voice, leant in towards her, “Let me be frank with you Miss…”,

“Carrington. Charlotte Carrington, but they call me Aunt Lottie”.

“It concerns the collection of a debt”, he sat back in the sofa, and held his hands out to either side of him, a gesture that invited her to consider the room, the grand old house, and the estate that encompassed every acre of garden, farmland, woodland and lake, everything visible through the windows, even the pine-covered hill in the distance. “In short, it concerns the very future of Brynderwen Hall itself!”

Charlotte’s expression was unchanged, but her lively and sometimes scatterbrained mind was running headlong to a dark place of Dickensian squalor. At eighty-three years of age, an ancient spinster could not ask for a more comfortable sinecure in her dotage. To be forewarned is to be forearmed, she thought.

She leaned in towards him, “You are aware of course that today is the anniversary of the tragedy, I suppose? “, she paused for maximum dramatic effect, “I must say that it is bold of you to confront Koenig on this day, of all days”.

Brandford, a little alarmed, denied knowledge of the tragedy and urged her to continue. He edged closer to her.

“You may have noticed that the French doors are open?”, she said, which Brandford acknowledged with a nod, “And for that matter, you can see atop that bookstand the rare edition of Wesley’s Greek Mythology, opened at the story of Echo and Narcissus, marked by the dried flowers?”, she said, pointing. 

Brandford nodded again. 

“Well, it was on this very day - the Feast of Saint Adjutor, by the way - three years ago that the tragedy occurred. Artists, such as the Koenigs, can be consumed by passion, you understand, the muse can strike at any time, and their actions can be impetuous.”

With the pretense of understanding, Brandford uttered an affirmation.

She continued, “Alexa and little Charlie, loving wife and only son of Koenig, apparently inspired by this story of Narcissus, draped themselves in the lace antimacassar doilies that once adorned these chairs” Charlotte pointed at their absence, “and proceeded to the lake so that lovely Charlie, Lor’ Bless His Soul, could gaze upon his own quite perfect countenance, reflected in the waters thereof”. 

“Well, we can only guess at what then happened, and perhaps it is best that no one bore direct witness to the terrible turn of events? We only know, owing to careful forensic examination of the footprints and scratch marks in the treacherous mud at the edge of the lake, that the beautiful child slipped, dove – or was pushed - into the water, whereupon the weight of his clothing dragged him into the watery depths. The mother, most likely driven by maternal instinct, is thought to have plunged into the water to save poor Charlie, only to be overcome by cold or exhaustion”. Charlotte paused, breathless, studying Brandford for the effect that the story had upon him. Too much was not enough.

“Their bodies were never recovered, despite an extensive search. Mother and child, in silent repose for eternity“, Charlotte sighed, “ I am sure you must have read about it in the newspapers or seen it on the television. Even Teledu Cymru followed the story, in Welsh no less!”. 

Brandford, spellbound and aghast, was not aware of the story, whether in English or Welsh, “What of the father?”, he asked with deep concern.

“Well, of course, Koenig was devastated by the loss! Anger followed disbelief, as it invariably does, but instead of a graceful descent into the healing morass of grief and reconciliation, the poor man, a shadow of his former self, taciturn and emotionally unreachable, found solace in the horrifying fallacy that his wife and child were still alive! Daily he makes his sorry way to this very room, after lunch, stands forlorn on this corner of this rug and gazes upon the lake, patiently expecting beautiful Alexa and lovely Charlie to emerge from the lake, come walking up the lawn, wearing lace shrouds, flowers in hand”.

Brandford’s gaze turned to the gardens, the lush green lawn that sloped down the hill to the copse by the lake, shrouded in a chilling mist despite the warmth. 

The library door opened, Brandford snapped out of his reverie.  Koenig ambled into the room, disheveled, unshaven, mumbling to himself, dark rings beneath his eyes. Nigel stood and nervously greeted him with an outstretched hand, which Koenig ignored in a desultory way, as if too weary to go through the motions of a courtesy. 

“Where is Alexa. She should be back by now”, Koenig said, peering through the open doors down at the lake, “She and Charlie are thick as thieves these days, I scarcely see them around here during the day, and look at this place!”, Koenig gave the Hyena a light kick.

Charlotte gave Brandford a quick “told-you-so” look, which Brandford reciprocated with a “I see what you mean” nod.

“Mister Koenig, I am Nigel Brandford, of Muckler and Sons!”

“Mr. Muckler, I do apologize!”, said Koenig returned to his senses. “Miles Koenig”, he tapped his chest in the locale of what Brandford perceived to be a broken heart, “Alys mentioned that you and a Mr. Brandford were visiting. I do hope that Charlotte has kept you both suitably entertained?”, said Koenig bowing slightly in the direction of the ancient crone.

“It’s Brandford actually, just me”, said Brandford. Looking to steer conversation away from the tragedy, “she just told me the tale of the Hyena”, he said.

“Oh, that old thing!” said Koenig, “We bought it at a flea market in Oswestry. Strange old fellow claimed that he killed the beast with a spoon while on glamping trip in Tanzania. Frankly, we have our doubts”, Koenig seemed to chuckle. “I hope you don’t mind the open doors on a day like this”. 

Brandford looked at Charlotte, grimly assessing a man in his prime but also in the grip of a manic delusion.

“Alexa, my wife is exploring the lake with my young son, Charlie, both dressed as ancient Greeks. A nonsensical but romantic reenactment of the moment when Narcissus falls in love with his own reflection! They’ve been reading the Wesley version of the tale, a bit macabre, I’m afraid… Narcissus falls into the water and drowns! Perish the thought, eh?”, Koenig seemed pensive.

Brandford was appalled, it was pure horror, to be here on this day, in presence of this damaged man, a bereaved father, sent insane by loss. He gamely tried to change the subject again, “Mr. Koenig, I am here to discuss a matter of some importance. It concerns money, a large amount of money”. Koenig seemed distracted still. “I realize the timing is not good…”, Brandford trailed off into silence, unsure of how to proceed.

“Money? Money you say. “Well, you will probably want to take that subject up with my wife, when she returns”, said Koenig absently, “She is the brains of the operation, so to speak”, he stifled a yawn.

Charlotte shared a knowing look with Brandford, the tilt of her head seemed to question the proprietary of engaging in commerce at this time, in these circumstances, which he acknowledged by preparing to rise from the seat.

“Here they are now!”, Koenig exclaimed, excitedly, pointing down towards the lake! “My god they look soaking wet!”.

Brandford shuddered, and turned towards Charlotte with a look that was intended to convey the impression of sympathetic comprehension, but Charlotte was staring out of the window, her mouth agape, horror-struck. Brandford felt the icy grip of fear seize him, he scrambled to his feet and followed her gaze. 

At the end of the garden, emerging out of the mist and from under the trees, a waif-like woman draped in a lacy shawl, wet and clinging to her narrow frame, was walking with a very pale boy in a dripping lacey toga, carrying a bunch of broken daffodils in his hand. Water seemed to be dripping from their ethereal forms onto the grassy lawn as they made their ghostly way up to the house and toward the patio and the open French doors. 

“Christ almighty!” said Brandford, grabbing his briefcase and making hastily for the door, ignored by Charlotte and Koenig, but not by the beady-eye Hyena. “I am so sorry… maybe”, he tripped over the Hyena. “Mister Muckler… the lake… “, incoherent, he slammed the library door behind him, ran down the corridor, through the hall, and out of the front door, unescorted.

“We’re back!” said Alexa Koenig, smiling broadly,” and I must say, we’ve had quite the adventure, haven’t we darling?” she turned to her son who was brandishing a faded daffodil like a sword and was making an annoying squealing noise. “Was that Brandford, just rushed out of here?”, she quizzed.

“Oh Brandford!” said Charlotte, “the debt collector. A nasty piece of work”, she smiled smugly.

“Nasty piece of work”, mimicked Charlie, thrashing at his great aunt’s stockinged leg with a floppy daffodil.

“Brandford? Our Muckler agent?”, Alexa looked a bit perplexed, even upset, which removed the smile from Charlotte’s face. “It’s taken weeks to get the poor man to visit”, she turned to Koenig, “Did he at least leave the documentation behind? Or explain how the settlement will be credited to our accounts?”

Koenig professed ignorance. Unseen, Charlotte re-oriented the blue book so that its title was not legible to the casual observer. She also gave little Charlie a sharp kick in the shin.

Alys Jones burst into the room, “What on earth happened with that nice young Mister Brandford?”, she said, “I just watched him run out of the house through the hedgerow, and directly into the fence! Gareth is tending to a nasty gash on his forehead!”. 

Koenig turned to Charlotte, “Aunt Lottie… care to shed some light on this matter?”

Charlotte, seldom at a loss for words, was confounded by the unanticipated change in the narrative. Of the few options available to her, feinting seemed like the best. She slumped to one side and her glasses fell from her nose onto her lap. Drama, if indeed that is what she had authored, should dissipate with time and ambiguity.

+++

Brandford, though banged up, bandaged, and still somewhat incoherent, had happily debriefed Koenig and Alexa on the purpose of this visit, less happily, he related the brief and confusing time he’d spent in the company of Charlotte. He was dispatched to Chester in a taxi.

Later that evening, dinner took on the look and feel of a court martial. Charlotte picked away at the gristly mutton and overdone peas in a desultory manner, reflecting on Alys’s limitations as a cook, and her own limitations as a storyteller, and the exculpatory possibility that the one feeds the other. 

“Well, the Hyena story, was just convoluted drivel”, said Koenig, stabbing at the lamb chop.

“And we can forgive the silly trick you played on well-meaning Brandford”, said Alexa as she poked at some peas on her plate, “It did at least show strong appreciation of your audience, in my opinion”.

“But surely Saki’s classic was over-reach?” asked Koenig sternly. The extended index finger of his right hand traced an arc and landed portentously on the cover of the purple book, “Beasts and Super Beasts” embossed in faded gold on the cloth cover. “Couldn’t you have come up with something a bit more original, or stolen your ideas from a less lofty source, at least?” He opened the purple tome at a marked page, “The Open Window, for heaven’s sake!”.

Charlie was unhappily shunting a nasty knot of overcooked offal under the mashed potatoes, but otherwise appeared to be reveling in the public shaming of his great Aunt, “Do you think we should send her back to London, to stay with Aunt Muriel?” he suggested.

Lottie gave the beastly child a chilling stare, “I was reading in the paper about a local boy that got mauled to death by wild dingoes down at a sheep farm, just west of the village of Pant. The details are quite gruesome”. 

Plagiarism at short notice was Charlotte’s specialty.