Read Online Undermajordomo Minor by Patrick deWitt - Free Book Online

of a fond memory.
    â€œAre you all right, sir?” asked Lucy.
    Mr. Olderglough opened his eyes. “There once were twenty souls in our employ here, boy. Can you imagine it? Coachmen, waiting maids, porters, a cook, a nurse. All gone now, alas.”
    â€œI thought you’d said Agnes was the cook, sir?”
    â€œOriginally she was the chambermaid. When the cook left us, then did Agnes step forward, claiming a deft hand.”
    â€œBut it seems you take issue with her cooking, is that correct?”
    â€œNot so far as she knows. But in my private mind, yes, I am unenthusiastic.”
    â€œAnd why do you not speak with her about it, may I ask?”
    â€œBecause I dislike unpleasantness. Also there is the fact of my being somewhat afraid of her. And then, too, I’m not much interested in eating.” He looked at Lucy. “Are you?”
    â€œI like to eat,” Lucy said.
    â€œIs that right?” Mr. Olderglough shook his head, as if to accommodate an eccentricity. “Personally, it never held much sway for me.”
    Lucy said, “May I ask what became of the others?”
    â€œWell, they’ve gone away, haven’t they?”
    â€œBut why have they, sir?”
    â€œI suppose they thought it the wisest course of action, is all.” Mr. Olderglough looked wistfully about the room. “Twenty souls,” he said, “and here, what’s become of us? Well, we’ve got you in our company now, boy, and this heartens me, I can tell you that much.”
    Lucy was not so heartened. He followed Mr. Olderglough to the larder; the shelves were all but bare. There came from the corner the scratching of rodents, and now began a thumping, squabbling battle, a lengthy affair concluding with the agonized squeal of the defeated: high and sharp at its commencement, distantly windy at its resolution. Mr. Olderglough wore a satisfied expression, as though the outcome were favorable to him. Drawing back his cascading forelock, he said, “I find the constant upkeep of the body woefully fatiguing, don’t you?”

5
    M r. Olderglough led Lucy up a tight spiral stairwell, impressive in its dizzying, seemingly endless redundancy, in addition to its airlessness and general gloominess. They passed a landing outfitted with a stubby-legged bench of hardwood which Mr. Olderglough addressed with a tap of the toe of his boot. At the top of this stairwell was Lucy’s room, a cramped space with a slanted ceiling and a small window located in the center of the lone exterior wall. The furnishings consisted of a two-drawer dresser, a rocking chair, a modest bed, and a potbellied stove pushed into the corner. Lucy laid his valise on the bed and opened it. Mr. Olderglough, standing at his back, said, “I suppose you must be tired after your journey.”
    â€œI suppose I must be,” Lucy replied. He was considering his possessions. Here was every single thing he owned, and it didn’t seem like much to him, because it wasn’t.
    Mr. Olderglough said, “Then you may rest, or not rest, as per your desire. At any rate, the afternoon is yours. Tomorrow you will begin your appointment proper, does that agree with you? Well, then, good day to you, boy.”
    â€œThank you, sir. Good day to you as well.”
    Mr. Olderglough left the room and closed the door, and Lucy sat down upon the bed. Mr. Olderglough opened the door and re-entered the room, and Lucy stood.
    â€œI forgot about the letters.”
    â€œLetters, sir?”
    â€œThe letters, yes. The Baron maintains a robust correspondence with the Baroness, living currently, apparently, or so he believes I should say, in the far eastern province. Every morning you will find a sealed envelope on the side table in the entryway. This will be taken by yourself to the station, where you will meet the nine o’clock train. The train will not stop. The letter will be passed off to the train engineer himself, and