white toothbrush mustache, and horn-rimmed spectacles ornamented a beaky
face as wrinkled as a washday bundle. “Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Matuchek!” His
voice was high, almost squeaky. “No, I beg your pardon. Dr. and Mr.
Matuchek, eh? How good to meet you.” He shook my hand briefly–his felt
bird-like–but clung to Ginny’s. “I well remember your father, that
great scholar, and your dear mother. Our acquaintance was before they
were blessed with offspring. We lost touch, as one does. One intends to
resume a relationship, but somehow time slips past until suddenly it is
too late. Fugaces labuntur anni.”
“They do indeed,” Giny murmured while I, fumbling with the remnants of
my Latin, decided this was probably not obscene.
“Mrs. Turner, bring in the tea, if you please,” Frogmorton said. “A bit
early for tea, perhaps, but we should fortify ourselves for the work
ahead, don’t you agree? Do please be seated. Smoke if you wish. Until we
are positioned for action, will you permit me a few inquiries as to how
you have fared over the years? I have been aware of your past exploits,
of course, and have examined the detailed record of them since you first
called. However, I shall be grateful if you eare to bring me up to date
on the Graylock family. And the, ah, Matuchek family, needless to say.”
Ginny talked for both of us. Frogmorton chattered and chattered. I
didn’t want to appear surly, but a word had to be honed mighty thin to
slip in edgewise, so I concentrated on the tea, cucumber sandwiches, and
seedcake, suppressing wistful thoughts about a pub.
It got more interesting after Ginny steered him onto his own subject.
Hey, I thought, if Ben does go into paleontology, he ought to hear about
these techniques. I’ll bet they can be adapted. Unfortunately, however,
Frogmorton tried to spice the conversation with jokes. They ran to
stories like that of a medieval monk who had a pot of wine at his side
as he copied a chronicle. The penmanship got wobblier and wobblier. At
the end he wrote “Male scripsi, bene bipsi.” Frogmorton laughed and
laughed. Ginny and I did our best.
The housekeeper cleared away the clutter. “We shall be in my closet,
Mrs. Turner,” he informed her. Huh? I thought. “Do not allow us to be
disturbed by anyone on any account. If perchance the Last Trump sounds,
I daresay we shall hear it ourselves. Otherwise dinner for three will be
at eight o’clock.”
“Have no fears,” he added as he led us off through a series of rooms.
“For evening meals I rely on my cook. He does an excellent leg of
mutton, if I may say so. Your father, Dr. Matuchek, used to complain to
me about the difficulty of obtaining mutton in America. And we shall
have something a little choice in the way of claret.”
To my relief, “closet” turned out to mean a large chamber at the back of
the house. He unlocked the door and bowed us in. Floorboards creaked
underfoot; wormholes peppered murky oak wainscot. Three windows had been
left unchanged: small, leaded, with glass like the bottoms of beer
bottles. We were in dusk till Frogmorton barred the door and touched an
object. It was a bronze statue, Greek or Roman, of a torchbearer whose
branch flared with sudden cold corposant fire. More light streamed from
the eyes of a grinning Mayan jaguar or feathered serpent or whatever it
was. More books lined the walls. Papers filled pigeonholes above a desk
long enough to double as a workbench. A few pieces of goetic equipment
rested on it. Otherwise a cabinet, a couch, and three Victorian office
chairs were the only furniture. A fine layer of dust grayed everything
and a spider had set up shop under the ceiling.
“Pray pardon the untidiness,” said Frogmorton. He found a feather duster
and scuttled about making random motions. “I am seldom here, now in my
otium, and cannot entrust its maintenance to anyone else, not even Mrs.
Turner. An honest, conscientious woman, granted, but if, for example,
she took volumes off the shelves for cleaning, she might refile them
alphabetically!” Horror shook his voice. “And, to be sure, certain