Lady Ophelia Barque thought the small stranger in the large floppy hat must be one of those disagreeable-types from
a nearby farm who occasionally trespass onto her estate in order to perform the scurrilous act of poaching.
Peering out of the front-window of the summer house, Ophelia placed her cup of chamomile tea on the window ledge
and watched the bare-footed interloper casually amble through the line of boxwood that bordered the long gravelled
track that led to her home and continue towards a large collection of laurel bushes.
This was outrageous -the lady of Barque manor thought, it was only the other evening that one of these scruffy churls
had sneaked across her lawn during a quiet soiree with retired-Major Jasper Craythorn and his good wife. If it hadn't
been for Ophelia's ever-vigilant husband -Sir Reginald Barque, the scoundrel would've probably waited until midnight
and then made-off with her Jewellery.
The opulent residence stood on a hundred acres of re-worked moorland with its own out-buildings for stables, a tract
of land used as a kitchen garden and the obligatory kennels for three wolfhounds that were supposed to keep these
unenlightened guttersnipes from abusing the Barque household.
Leaving her expensive hand-made teacup on the berm of the window, Ophelia decided to copy her husband's actions
from that night's disturbance and have Carstairs set the dogs on the intruder. This sort of brazen behaviour should be
nipped at the bud -she thought as she hurried to where her servant was currently kneeling in a row of storm-damaged
lettuces.
"Carstairs, there's another ruffian on the property..." the flustered blueblood barked at her steward. "... Have Firebrand
tear the bottom out of his britches at once" she added and stepped back off the grass to retain the spruceness of her
flat-soled shoes. It wouldn't do to have soiled footwear when Sir Reginald returned from his meeting with the Bankers.
The fifty-year-old Butler grunted softly to himself as he slowly got to his feet, since the Gardener had left a last night,
the balding servant had taken on tasks that were quite inappropriate for his position and now he was required to be a
dog-handler. "Yes Ma'am" he answered subserviently and walked quickly towards the squat structures surrounded by
a mesh cage.
With a glance over his shoulder to make sure her ladyship wasn't monitoring his task, Carstairs shook his head and
wondered if Burt the Gardener and Grounds-man had taken the better option and left. Even though the amiable chap
carried a rural accent in his voice, he was still more tolerable than the Miss La-Di-Da giving the orders.
Still, whatever it was he said he saw when he was patrolling the grounds, must've been scary enough for him to go
without bothering to pick up his owed-wages.
Reaching the red-bricked kennel where Firebrand, Vidor and Mitch resided, the long-suffering valet's features changed
from a cheerless mask of resignation to nervous curiosity as he looked into the shadowed area that kept the dog from
any bad weather.
Usually, the always-ravenous canines would be on their hind-legs, offering faces of loyalty and yelps of frustration.
But now here were two wolfhounds sitting quietly together, whilst the third -Firebrand, stared blankly at the rear wall
of his straw-strewn home.
Even to the weary tenderfoot of dog-handling, Carstairs could see that something was very wrong.
...................................................
Peggy Powler knew her detour wouldn't really be a time-saver, but she needed a change in the scenery and also a
secluded place to make water. Hitching her satchel further onto her shoulder, the tea-filled sorceress guessed that
somewhere on the fancy estate to her left, there would be a location to have breakfast and to take a piss.
Dawn was a long time behind her and the little Witch had picked-up her pace to get off the moor just as daylight had
arrived. The weather-beaten signpost told her that Little Compton was only two miles away and now she felt that some
sustenance was required. Stepping off Calder's Way once more, Peggy trudged up a well-raked gravel driveway of
a large country home surrounded by a line of yew trees.
From what the little groin-clutching Witch could see, the rabbit-track she spied touched the boundary of some affluent
folks' property and not feeling the need to hinder their doubtless important daily schedule, she weighed the temporary
encroachment onto someone's dominion against the urgency to find a bush to relieve herself of Brape's beverage and
found the former wanting.
Reinforced with the concern of being witnessed by a passing Governess and gaily-dressed cherub-cheeked children
from their horse-drawn shay as she squatted near a line of boxwood beside the estate's entrance, Peggy made her
way towards a cluster of laurel bushes and wondered if her exit from Brape Faraday's home had been polite enough.
Explaining her need to be on her way and get to Salterhead as soon as possible -a lame excuse she ceded to herself
as she stepped out from the hollowed-out willow tree, Brape had accepted the reason without countering it with rational
reasons like it was still dark outside. It wasn't that she was ungrateful for the hospitality that the little Elf had provided,
nor Brape's unpretentious manner of speaking, it was just sometimes a wandering Witch needed to be doing just that,
wandering.
Granting a filling of his lovely brew into a flask that Peggy found in the corner of her magical satchel, the foot-itchy
Witch was glad to be on her way once more and again, was confident it nothing to do with the plain-talking Grim-Figg.
"Aye-well, Yer' be wary of what 'Ah said to thee, lass... " Brape had warned from the burrow's entrance, "...yon moor
isn't a place te' be dawdlin' when the sun isn't oot".
Peggy had nodded without looking into the Elf's eyes and rummaging in her bag again, produced a small lantern that
avoided any onlooker from perceiving its source of light with an ornate lattice around the protective glass. "Aye, 'Ah'll
keep a weather-eye out fur' any weird buggers" the necromancer responded and checking her confirmation to his
warning had been heard, she saw that the little tunnel was gone. And so had Brape Faraday.
"Hard-boiled" the last Witch of Underhill murmured waggishly and holding the glowing beacon before her, set out to
find Little Compton and what terror was causing its ruination.
...................................................
After dealing with her ablution, Peggy looked around for a quiet place to have her morning meal. The shrubbery mainly
kept to the shade of the yew trees and within a few feet away, the stomach-growling Seer noticed that the remains of the
moor made sure no tall foliage would survive if it left to be untended.
Pruned Rhododendrons and Arborvitae gave the impression of the assumed required barrier to the stately home and with
a resigned shrug of her shoulders, Peggy donned her hat and decided that breakfast would have to wait.
That was when she heard a twig snap.
"Excuse me Miss..." Carstairs said meekly, "you wouldn't happen to know anything about dogs, would you?"
a nearby farm who occasionally trespass onto her estate in order to perform the scurrilous act of poaching.
Peering out of the front-window of the summer house, Ophelia placed her cup of chamomile tea on the window ledge
and watched the bare-footed interloper casually amble through the line of boxwood that bordered the long gravelled
track that led to her home and continue towards a large collection of laurel bushes.
This was outrageous -the lady of Barque manor thought, it was only the other evening that one of these scruffy churls
had sneaked across her lawn during a quiet soiree with retired-Major Jasper Craythorn and his good wife. If it hadn't
been for Ophelia's ever-vigilant husband -Sir Reginald Barque, the scoundrel would've probably waited until midnight
and then made-off with her Jewellery.
The opulent residence stood on a hundred acres of re-worked moorland with its own out-buildings for stables, a tract
of land used as a kitchen garden and the obligatory kennels for three wolfhounds that were supposed to keep these
unenlightened guttersnipes from abusing the Barque household.
Leaving her expensive hand-made teacup on the berm of the window, Ophelia decided to copy her husband's actions
from that night's disturbance and have Carstairs set the dogs on the intruder. This sort of brazen behaviour should be
nipped at the bud -she thought as she hurried to where her servant was currently kneeling in a row of storm-damaged
lettuces.
"Carstairs, there's another ruffian on the property..." the flustered blueblood barked at her steward. "... Have Firebrand
tear the bottom out of his britches at once" she added and stepped back off the grass to retain the spruceness of her
flat-soled shoes. It wouldn't do to have soiled footwear when Sir Reginald returned from his meeting with the Bankers.
The fifty-year-old Butler grunted softly to himself as he slowly got to his feet, since the Gardener had left a last night,
the balding servant had taken on tasks that were quite inappropriate for his position and now he was required to be a
dog-handler. "Yes Ma'am" he answered subserviently and walked quickly towards the squat structures surrounded by
a mesh cage.
With a glance over his shoulder to make sure her ladyship wasn't monitoring his task, Carstairs shook his head and
wondered if Burt the Gardener and Grounds-man had taken the better option and left. Even though the amiable chap
carried a rural accent in his voice, he was still more tolerable than the Miss La-Di-Da giving the orders.
Still, whatever it was he said he saw when he was patrolling the grounds, must've been scary enough for him to go
without bothering to pick up his owed-wages.
Reaching the red-bricked kennel where Firebrand, Vidor and Mitch resided, the long-suffering valet's features changed
from a cheerless mask of resignation to nervous curiosity as he looked into the shadowed area that kept the dog from
any bad weather.
Usually, the always-ravenous canines would be on their hind-legs, offering faces of loyalty and yelps of frustration.
But now here were two wolfhounds sitting quietly together, whilst the third -Firebrand, stared blankly at the rear wall
of his straw-strewn home.
Even to the weary tenderfoot of dog-handling, Carstairs could see that something was very wrong.
...................................................
Peggy Powler knew her detour wouldn't really be a time-saver, but she needed a change in the scenery and also a
secluded place to make water. Hitching her satchel further onto her shoulder, the tea-filled sorceress guessed that
somewhere on the fancy estate to her left, there would be a location to have breakfast and to take a piss.
Dawn was a long time behind her and the little Witch had picked-up her pace to get off the moor just as daylight had
arrived. The weather-beaten signpost told her that Little Compton was only two miles away and now she felt that some
sustenance was required. Stepping off Calder's Way once more, Peggy trudged up a well-raked gravel driveway of
a large country home surrounded by a line of yew trees.
From what the little groin-clutching Witch could see, the rabbit-track she spied touched the boundary of some affluent
folks' property and not feeling the need to hinder their doubtless important daily schedule, she weighed the temporary
encroachment onto someone's dominion against the urgency to find a bush to relieve herself of Brape's beverage and
found the former wanting.
Reinforced with the concern of being witnessed by a passing Governess and gaily-dressed cherub-cheeked children
from their horse-drawn shay as she squatted near a line of boxwood beside the estate's entrance, Peggy made her
way towards a cluster of laurel bushes and wondered if her exit from Brape Faraday's home had been polite enough.
Explaining her need to be on her way and get to Salterhead as soon as possible -a lame excuse she ceded to herself
as she stepped out from the hollowed-out willow tree, Brape had accepted the reason without countering it with rational
reasons like it was still dark outside. It wasn't that she was ungrateful for the hospitality that the little Elf had provided,
nor Brape's unpretentious manner of speaking, it was just sometimes a wandering Witch needed to be doing just that,
wandering.
Granting a filling of his lovely brew into a flask that Peggy found in the corner of her magical satchel, the foot-itchy
Witch was glad to be on her way once more and again, was confident it nothing to do with the plain-talking Grim-Figg.
"Aye-well, Yer' be wary of what 'Ah said to thee, lass... " Brape had warned from the burrow's entrance, "...yon moor
isn't a place te' be dawdlin' when the sun isn't oot".
Peggy had nodded without looking into the Elf's eyes and rummaging in her bag again, produced a small lantern that
avoided any onlooker from perceiving its source of light with an ornate lattice around the protective glass. "Aye, 'Ah'll
keep a weather-eye out fur' any weird buggers" the necromancer responded and checking her confirmation to his
warning had been heard, she saw that the little tunnel was gone. And so had Brape Faraday.
"Hard-boiled" the last Witch of Underhill murmured waggishly and holding the glowing beacon before her, set out to
find Little Compton and what terror was causing its ruination.
...................................................
After dealing with her ablution, Peggy looked around for a quiet place to have her morning meal. The shrubbery mainly
kept to the shade of the yew trees and within a few feet away, the stomach-growling Seer noticed that the remains of the
moor made sure no tall foliage would survive if it left to be untended.
Pruned Rhododendrons and Arborvitae gave the impression of the assumed required barrier to the stately home and with
a resigned shrug of her shoulders, Peggy donned her hat and decided that breakfast would have to wait.
That was when she heard a twig snap.
"Excuse me Miss..." Carstairs said meekly, "you wouldn't happen to know anything about dogs, would you?"
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.