The Unquiet House

Christian placed Mr. Bell in his early thirties, somewhat younger than the Huxleys. There was little or no family resemblance to the fair and even-featured Mrs. Huxley. The man was dark haired and had a strong craggy face. He seemed completely at ease, conversing easily as though taking his cue from his hosts.

As the meal commenced, Mrs. Huxley was monopolised by the gentleman on her other side, allowing Christian to absorb the surrounding ambience. The candlelight flattered the diners and the ready supply of wine increased the merry flow of conversation.

The food is excellent, Christian thought, nibbling on a chicken leg. The dishes were removed by a small number of well-trained staff. The Huxleys clearly hadn’t stinted on the domestic sphere of their enterprise.

“Have you come far?”

A gruff male voice broke into Christian’s preoccupations.

“Not at all. Only the other side of the county,” he replied.

“We hail from Suffolk.”

Unprompted, the gentleman leaned over the lady sitting between them and launched into a treatise on the historic sights of that region. Thankfully, he required little in the way of a response. Without having to pay much attention, Christian simply interjected the occasional, “Oh really? How interesting.”

In such congenial surroundings, Christian almost forgot that he and Sam weren’t invited to enjoy the convivial atmosphere.

When the hair rose on the back of Christian’s neck, at first, he assumed it was due to a stray draught, understandable in such an ancient and large space. Rather than easing, the sensation continued to intensify. Christian felt his shoulders tense, as if braced for attack.

He felt a sudden burst of malice like a silent cackle of mocking laughter.

Again, he couldn’t place the source of ill-intent until a footman leaned between Christian and Mrs. Huxley to place a covered salver on the table.

As the servant reached across to lift the lid, Christian hissed, “Don’t!”

His voice was low, but his urgency transmitted to his hostess and the footman, who hesitated in mid-action.

Mrs. Huxley threw a startled glance towards Christian. However, her voice was calm as she said, “Take it away, please, Simon.”

The young server obeyed without question. Mrs. Huxley murmured, “Excuse me.” She accompanied the footman from the room without attracting any attention.

Christian’s collar felt constricting and the candlelight too bright for his strained nerves. He took a sip of wine to steady himself before he glanced around the table.

There was no discernible change in the level of chatter and general merriment. Christian attempted to focus in vain. He could no longer sense the slightest whiff of the ill-feeling that had vanished like a puff of smoke in a strong breeze.

He jumped at the light touch on his shoulder.

“May I borrow you for a moment?” Mrs. Huxley asked.

Christian turned to see that his hostess was pale, her eyes wide with alarm.

“Yes, of course.”

He rose to follow her, unnoticed except by Mr. Huxley, briefly hesitating in mid-comment, and Sam, who quickly looked up before resuming his discourse.

Christian followed the lady into the service region of the house. In a pantry, the silver salver sat alone on a shelf, guarded by the footman.

“I thought you ought to see this for yourself.”

Mrs. Huxley nodded to the footman, who lifted the lid without ceremony. Instead of the expected delicacy, on the gleaming silver platter lay a dead rat with a candied cherry in its mouth.