Very Fawnedly Yours

© 2013 by Walter Reimer

(All characters courtesy of  EOCostello,  MercMarten and  Major Matt Mason. Any resemblance between characters depicted herein and any real person, living or dead, is too bad for them.)

The setting is Spontoon Island, in the story section Let's Doe It (Let's Fall In Love).

Art by  turnbolt

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Part 21.


Reggie:

My tail started flagging when he said this.

“Come on, Lodge, we’ve been together for years, and now isn’t the time to be turning in your notice.”

My beaver chum and boon companion gave a polite smile. “No, Sir, I was not thinking of turning in my notice.”

“Well, what then?”

“I would like to ask for a day off.”

Now this was a surprise. “Lodge, you haven’t had a day off in . . . Good Lord, I don’t know when.”

“Not since I entered your employ, Sir.”

“Well, dash it all, you deserve a break, then! Take a month off, if you feel like it.”

“I will only ask for one day, Sir.”

“A week, then.”

“Just a day, Sir.”

I eventually convinced him to take the upcoming weekend off. That picture wasn’t going to grow legs and walk off any time soon.

With that settled, Lodge shimmered off to his rooms and we called in the two martens who had started the ruckus.

I stayed quiet and looked appropriately stern as Willow said, “We – Mister Buckhorn and I – are very displeased. In both of you.”

This had the desired effect, with much wailing and broken scraps of Hungarian as they pleaded with us to not throw them out.

Once they had quieted down, Willow told them that Lodge wasn’t interested in them, that they were to treat him with proper respect, and that any personal differences they might have would be restricted to their apartment. Still clutching pawkerchiefs, they tearfully agreed and expressed their gratitude to us both for allowing them to stay employed.

And that, it seemed, was that.


***


Lodge:

Having a day off would be necessary in order to properly arrange for the disposition of the painting and the contents of the trunks. I trusted to Mrs. Buckhorn’s expertise to maintain the household and attend to Mr. Buckhorn.

I think I am correct in saying that she seemed to relish the task, as she gave the rest of the staff the weekend off.

The painting was carefully removed from its frame, folded, and placed in a box that I considered properly nondescript. After taking my leave of the Buckhorns I hailed a taxicab and gave direction to the driver.

“Del Furrio’s Barber Shop, please,” and the driver set off at a far slower pace than Mr. Barker would have used.

And without the extraneous comments about his brother.

Upon reaching the aforementioned barber shop I paid the cab driver and walked in. After waiting a small amount of time I took my seat on the shoeshine stand.

“’Morning, sir,” said the bootblack, who was a beaver like myself. Apart from the barber there was no one else in the shop.

“Good morning.”

I placed my right foot on the stand and the man reached for his box. “Any particular brand of polish, Sir?”

“I only use Club Brand,” I replied, making sure he could see my whiskers.

“Oh, well then. Not many furs use that brand. Come on into the back and I’ll see what I can find for you, Sir.”

I followed him into the back room, where he reached into a small hole with a thin, stiff piece of steel wire. There was a click and a section of wall swung open. A light came on, and there were steps leading down. “Watch your step, Sir.”

“Thank you,” and I tipped him before making my descent.

The tunnel leads to my club when I am in London, another building usually described as #222 Baker Street. I am told that another tunnel leads to the Windmill Theatre, but I have not enquired about that.

When I reached the tunnel terminus I was met by the door warden. “Good morning, Lodge.”

“Good morning, Isaac.” Isaac has been the club’s door warden for some considerable amount of time. Some of the younger or less informed members whisper that his actual name is Ahasuerus and that he is, in fact, the Wandering Jew of legend.

He took my hat and coat and allowed me to enter.

In order to determine my exact course of action with the painting I needed to consult the library and the records filed away therein.

After a bracing cup of tea and a small blueberry scone I began my search, starting with records of the house’s previous owners.

Not entirely to my surprise, the house had been used as a sort of Hellfire Club until the mid-1800s. How it managed to be placed on the market this year was not in the records, but I surmise it had to do with the straitened means of the last owner.

With all due respect to the aristocrats who frequented Medmenham Abbey, this was a rather less wholesome type of organization.

However, further research confirmed what I suspected. The dossiers left no doubt in my mind that the painting was both authentic and chillingly accurate. In point of fact, in one entry for the Marquess of ___________, I found a reference to the very painting Mrs. Buckhorn found. It cost 1,000 pounds, an enormous sum for the era. I also saw that there were numerous sittings for posing.

Of course, in this context, "sittings" may not be the most accurate term, but it shall have to do.

There was also in the archives a page taken from the diary of one Miss Annie Fanny, who states that she was, er, involved in the composition of the painting.

I resolved to consult with the Oldest Member as to possible courses of action.

“Oh! Hullo, Mister Lodge.”

I gave a polite nod to the beaveress who had entered the library. “Miss Castor. May I help you?”

“I just stepped in to add a page or two to my journal,” and the young woman – who is employed at Number Ten – selected a leather-bound tome and took a fountain pen from her purse. “Doing some research?”

“Yes, of a rather sensitive nature. I shall have to speak with the Oldest Member.”

It may be worth mentioning at this juncture that my club does, in fact, count women as part of its membership. This may appear scandalously progressive, but the club’s organizers have always been cognizant of the civilizing effect of women on men throughout history.

Whether that civilizing effect is more by night than by day is a matter for the consciences of the interested parties.

“I’m afraid your luck is not in today, Mr. Lodge,” Miss Castor said as she wrote. “I heard him say he was stepping out, but would be back after lunch.” She finished, and closed the journal. “I wondered if you might be interested in assisting me with a certain problem I have.”

I noted her whiskers and considered.

“I would be happy to be at your service, Miss Castor.”


***


Reggie:

It was very nice to have the house to ourselves, and no one under hoof to fetch us tea or whatnot.

Willow and I were perfectly capable of shifting for ourselves.

“Reggie?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“I’ve been reading some of the letters from the attic.” She looked a tad hot and bothered. “Very steamy stuff to put in a steamer trunk. It could topple a few governments.”

“I imagine they could, if the Habsburgs, Romanovs or Bourbons were still running things.” I winked. “You know what they say: Small principality, big . . . “

Willow laughed and shook her head. “Try adding the Netherlands, Belgium, Denmark, Norway, Sweden – and oh yes, Jolly Old England.” She glanced at the letter in her paws. “Extremely jolly, at that.”

My ears went straight up. I could feel them brushing my antlers. “Surely you’re exaggerating, my dear.”

“Here, read this.” As I took it she added, “And try not to imagine what created that stain.”

I almost dropped the letter, then carefully held it by the corners and read it.

Good Lord.

“One grasps the point, Willow.”

She giggled. “According to one letter, there was a lot of grasping of points, Reggie. At least one of the writers was a deer.”

“A fellow cervine? Good grief. Imagine if the Beavers of Baden-Baden got a hold of these letters.”


***


Lodge:

Luncheon had been served precisely on time, with the club’s logotype, three capital letter Bs arranged in a triskelion design, stamped indelibly on the silverware and displayed in gold on the china. I occasionally think that it is presumptuous of the membership to insist on its own service for meals, but I suppose it is all part of keeping up appearances.

I saw that the Oldest Member had returned from his foray, and presented myself.

“Lodge! It’s very good to see you,” the Oldest Member said. “Ever since you went to the Spontoons we’ve been worried that you might run afoul of your employer’s sense of humor.”

I allowed that Mr. Buckhorn was doing well, and gently steered the conversation to my reason for being at the club.

“Hmm. You’ll excuse me for not being here when you needed me, Lodge. Sabrina wasn’t on until after the interval, you know. Ha-ha! Ha-ha! Ummm.” He rubbed the side of his nose with his pipe-stem, and considered my quandary. “Perhaps you should show me the painting, as I perceive you have brought it with you.”

“Indeed, Sir.” I removed the canvas from its box and displayed it.

The Oldest Member studied it with the air of a connoisseur. After refilling the bowl of his pipe and taking a number of slow pulls, he slapped his tail against the chair.

The sound echoed, and was joined by several other slaps.

A few other members came into the room, including one I knew who held a senior position with the Duke of York's staff. I had thought he was still in Canada.

“Suppose you relate how you came by this, Lodge,” the Oldest Member said.

I proceeded to do so, adding the fact that the attic seemed to have been sealed sometime before 1910, based on some of the newspapers in one trunk and the library’s records concerning the death of the last member.

One of the other members snorted. “Heavens, the old rascal lasted that long? Goes to show you that alcohol is a preservative after all.”

As the other members began to debate on possible courses of action, another member examined the work. I was mildly surprised to see that it was an out-of-town member, Monsignor Branch, who normally lives in Rome.

I indicated the nature of some of the . . . ahem, objets d'art found in the attic. He nodded, observing that finds like that happen all the time, and that there is a standard procedure for dealing with such donations, if it so happened that Mrs. Buckhorn wanted to pursue that avenue.

The Oldest Member looked up from the conversation he was having, and gestured at Monsignor Branch with his pipe. "Monsignor Branch is the person you need to talk to about this, young Lodge. He works with that fellow Costello in Rome, you know.”

“Owen Cardinal Costello, the Deputy Assistant Librarian at the Vatican for Restricted Studies,” the monsignor told me.

I recalled then that I had heard of this prelate. Despite his rank and position as a Prince of the Church, he was alleged to be the greatest expert in Europe on pornography, and the author of a fifteen-volume critical history of pornographic incunabula.

The Monsignor recommended that I carefully package the materials, and that he would personally convey them to Rome, utilizing certain privileges he had.

I judged that his course of action was indeed a sound and statesfurlike one, and gave him the painting for safekeeping. I thanked the Oldest Member for his intervention. He gently waved me off with his paw, indicating that it was merely his duty. The conversation among the members turned to certain actions directed toward the current leaders of South Africa.

It was carried on at a level that, I am sorry to say, greatly outclassed what one would have heard at the Reform or the Carlton.


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