Chapter 6

I wandered into the kitchen where Dagmar was making tea for herself.

“They’re in Stan’s office, last door on your right.”

“Thank you, Dagmar.”

I walked down the corridor to an open door. Inside were Johnny and Stanley, along with Robert the Bruce. Johnny and Stanley were drinking and chatting amiably. Straight whiskey, from where I stood, and they must have had more than one, because Stanley’s Scottish roots were much in evidence and Johnny had a grin on his face that seemed to be more or less permanent. Robert was lying down with his head on his paws with a peaceful expression.

“Ah, there you are,” Johnny said. “Join us. I was going to get you, but I couldn’t seem to make it out of the chair.”

“Yes, please,” said Stanley and offered me a seat. He whirled around with his back to me as he splashed two inches of amber liquid into a cut-crystal glass. “Try this on for size,” he said, handing me the glass.

I took the glass and sniffed. The smell was heavenly, if heaven had a slightly smoky aroma.

“Ninety-proof from his family’s brewery,” chirped Johnny. “Bloody marvelous.”

I sat down and took a swallow. My discovery and my questions evaporated in blissful satisfaction.

I raised my glass. “Marvelous indeed, Stanley.”

I had another swig, and as if by magic, I was grinning too.

“We’re celebrating?”

“Oh yes, we are,” said Johnny. “Stanley has saved our backsides once again. In fact, he saved them years ago; only we never knew it. Tell him, Stanley.”

“Well, you see, you left the bottles on the table in the cellar. I was telling Johnny here how I discovered you both had managed to drink the two ’59s. Naughty boys,” he said shaking his finger at us, “although I had to admire your taste.

“I also told your partner-in-crime that I had not fallen off the turnip cart yesterday. We in service know how things stand. Some young idiots grab an expensive bottle, and then the head butler has to replace it somehow, some way.”

He looked significantly in our direction.

“I saw the state of affairs and figured I would do everyone a good turn. To my mind, the ’61 Lafite is by far the better choice, better than the ’59, although some would tend to disagree, and more power to ’em, I say. Few have had the opportunity to choose between the two like I have.

“To steam the labels off the empties and apply them to two ’61s, which we happened to have at the time, was but the work of a moment.

“You see, the ’59 was what everyone drank, waiting for the 1961 to come into its own. That is why they became so rare. They were very good but definitely a runner-up when compared to the ’61. The ’61 has aged delightfully well and can probably improve more, but I digress.”

“He samples them. Can you believe it?” bubbled Johnny. “Every now and again he has a go to see how the wine is getting on. No wonder he loves this place. He’s sitting on a wine lover’s treasure trove.”

“Well, ’tis true. I could not forgive myself if a spectacular wine was needed to impress a guest, and the reality wasn’t that spectacular. The only way to know is to taste occasionally. Dagmar, bless her, pulls out all the stops on a roast beef Sunday dinner, and we have a taste of an Haut Brion or a Latour. Some vintages we’ve had to consume in full because they passed their peak. Most people nowadays have not had the chance to drink an aged Bordeaux of the quality found in this cellar. Such precious moments are rare. The dinner will be a great success, I’m sure.”

“Well, Stanley, we thank you. You’re a saint,” said Johnny.

“It’s my pleasure. Now, you mentioned you wanted some boxes moved.”

“No need,” I said. “I wanted some exercise, so I moved them up to our floor. Johnny, perhaps you should explain.”

Stanley looked at Johnny expectantly.

“Ah yes. We thought we’d go through some of the boxes of correspondence and magazines and either chuck what does not seem worth keeping or archive it.”

“I see, and you are doing this because…?”

Johnny paused. “I think curiosity is as good a reason as any. We didn’t know Aunt Alice that well. We were too young. After she passed, her life and the circumstances of her death became subjects the parents didn’t want to talk about. We knew her, of course, but not really. We weren’t old enough to understand her life, particularly its context and complexity. Now that we’re older, we would like to know more. We want to hear her story.”

“I see. Allow me to think on this for a few moments, if you please.”

“Of course,” Johnny answered.

Stanley swiveled his chair away from us and looked out the window. We waited. The window overlooked the lawn that stretched down to the woods, hidden from view by the fog. He seemed to be making up his mind about something, and after a minute he turned back.

“I apologize, but I had to make a decision that took some time. I have worked for this house for many years. Your aunt originally employed me. During that time, I’ve been privy to many things, not all of them savory. We all have acted in ways that question our good opinions of ourselves. That being said, she was a marvelous woman, who led an extraordinary life. I saw some of it but not all.

“I asked myself, what would she have me do? Would she want me to tell you her story or not?

“The truth is she never really cared what people thought of her. She marched to the beat of her own drum and tended to shun convention. That being said, my decision is difficult. I must reveal much that is dark in order for you both to appreciate how truly dazzling and rare an individual she was. Nobody, other than me, knows her story, and that is a shame.”

“So, you agree?” Johnny asked.

“Yes. What I would like, with your permission, is to sit down after dinner and tell you what I know. In addition, I would rather this remain between ourselves for reasons that will become obvious.”

Johnny stood up and put down his glass. “Stanley, that sounds excellent. In the meantime, we’ll leave you to get on, with our thanks.”

I said my thanks as well and accompanied Johnny up the back stairs to the bedroom hallway rather than passing through the kitchen and bothering Dagmar. We arrived at the top of the house, where I had laid out all the boxes.

Johnny eyed them. “Just like old times.”

“Yes, I was thinking much the same thing.”

“Percy, I didn’t mean to remind you…”

“Have no fear. I’m certainly not broken, and I can talk about my leaving and all that, so feel free to say whatever is on your mind. Fragile, I’m not, in spite of any appearances to the contrary.”

“I’m so glad to hear it,” said Johnny, looking at me closely. “For my part, I would like to say that you and I working together was the happiest of times. You have no idea how glad I am to see you and how much I’ve missed it. I mean, who am I really going to talk to? There’s been no one.”

Johnny turned away. I could see him make an effort to quell his emotions. He then asked, “So, what do you have going on here?”

“I’ll show you, but first, thanks for saying that. I feel the same, but let’s pick that topic up later, when we have more time. Perhaps you will also give me your other reason for my being here?”

“We’ll get to that, but for now I’d rather forget my troubles until tomorrow.”

“Fair enough; back to the boxes,” I said, changing the subject. “I carried them up here and went through them on a cursory basis, pulling out the correspondence and seeing what was there.”

I picked up my legal pad and consulted it.

“After her death, there were several requests from colleagues to look over research papers, a few invites, with the rest being printed stuff such as catalogues, periodicals, and the like. There were no bills or financial information. I assumed these were pulled by Mr. Dodge. The two things of interest were the figurine, which Robert keyed on, and this.”

I handed him the envelope.

“You see it’s postmarked just before her death and returned unable to forward. It’s handwritten. I thought you might be the one to open it.”

“Interesting,” said Johnny, examining the envelope. “I’ve never heard of an M. Thoreau. Shall we read it? I’ll pass you each page as I finish, and then we’ll see where we are.”

Johnny sat on the couch and opened the letter. I waited for him to finish the first page. He handed it to me.