Dear Diary,
I'm afraid I've made a little mistake in the accommodations. Mr. Trout is not pleased. Still, I keep telling him, the Soho Youth Hostel is not that bad. It's all how you look at things! And I'm afraid he's not quite over the mal de mer yet, poor thing. So I was reading to him from the only books in the entire hostel, the Jenny Jonquil series. I do adore Jenny Jonquil. She's got spunk!
"Back to Jenny in her Spanish Bungalow!" I said to Mr. Trout. "Chapter Twelve: A Telegram From Father Dear!" Mr. Trout groaned and held his hands to his ears while I read aloud to him. A bit of disorientation probably, poor thing.
"What's it say, what's it say?" cried everyone, crowding around Jenny so closely that her hand instinctively flew up to protect her daringly madcap closely-cropped copper curls. Jenny opened the envelope and read for a moment, until a pretty pout crossed her teen-aged lips. "It says 'UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES INVESTIGATE THE HAUNTED SEWERS STOP THEY ARE MILES LONG AND DANGEROUS STOP EAT YOUR VEGETABLES STOP LOVE FATHER DEAR STOP'" she said in disappointed tones. "Silly Father Dear! He may be the smartest bank president in Senaca Falls, N.Y., U.S.A. who also investigates crimes against decency and the American Way, but he obviously doesn't know I always eat my vegetables. They are good for you, and make young American girls and boys grow up strong and tall so that they too can fight evil all around the world, just like me!" A manic gleam crept into her famed lavender eyes. "But if Father Dear thinks I'm going to stay out of those sewers, well golly, he's got another think coming! Let's go, gang!"
Do you believe in coincidence, diary? Because as I was reading, a telegram came! It was delivered by that deliciously slim boy who works down at the front desk, Liam. He winked at me and offered to bring more vanilla salts with just a splash of orange blossom. But then Mr. Trout threw a chamberpot at him and he ran away.
The telegram was from someone named Mr. Blumenfelt. Apparently before we left, Mr. Trout made an appointment for us to meet. Wasn't that thoughtful! I left Mr. Trout in the capable hands of Liam and visited Mr. Blumenfelt in his elegantly appointed home. Oh, it was lovely! There was a beautiful ebony piano in the parlor where we had tea, and as I took in the exquisite details of Mr. Blumenfelt's quarters I just knew . . . I just knew we had a kinship.
He looked
at me over his cup of tea and smiled. Oh, what a smile! I could
tell at once he was a sensitive man. "Is that heliotrope
you're wearing? Lovely. I think you know why Mr. Trout wanted
us to meet," he said. I couldn't help it. I erupted in girlish
giggles, and Mr. Blumenfelt kindly waited until I stopped. "I
think we both know what has to be done," he said meaningfully.
I slowly stroked the ivory letter opener sitting atop his coffee table. "Oh yes," I murmured, eyeing him slyly. "I think we should take care of it directly, don't you?"
He leaned forward and put a hand on my knee, and didn't seem to mind when the letter opener went flying across the room and disappeared inside a spittoon. "But Mr. Briceland," he said. "There must be no violence. No bloodshed. Don't you agree?"
I stopped removing my scarf, I was so startled. "Bloodshed? Of course not!"
He sat back in relief. "I knew we'd see eye to eye about this duel. Good man."
Duel? Duel? I had no idea what he was talking about. Perhaps he wasn't that sensitive, after all, I decided. I tied my scarf back on, cleared my throat, and sat up. "I think we see eye to eye. About most things, anyway, Mr. Blumenfelt," I said primly.
"Cecco, the Count, Mr. Trout's sworn opponent," he explained, "is most keen on a swordfight. Or a duel by pistols."
I thought of all the guns and swords I'd stuffed under Mavis' bedclothes, and choked on my tea. "Whatever is the matter?" Mr. Blumenfelt asked in alarm, wiping the spew from his stunning peacock blue jacket and matching taupe vest. I daubed at him as well and explained my situation, starting with how I met Mr. Trout and ending with the little surprise in Mavis' bed. He turned pale. "We can't let Mr. Trout know," he whispered. "He'd kill you. He's a violent, violent man."
"Mr. Trout?" I exclaimed, regaining my good humor. "He's a lamb."
Mr. Blumenfelt leaned in low. "There's a reason he has all those guns, you know. And he's a terrible temper. I think it would be best if we thought of . . . perhaps some alternate sorts of duels. We've plenty of time on the train to talk about it."
I returned to the hostel and found Liam cowering outside our door, surrounded by some German youths on a walking tour. The poor boy was terribly upset, and pointed to a cut on his forehead. "That brute called me names and hit me with the lamp when I tried to turn him onto his stomach and take his temperature!" Liam moaned. He thrust into my hand another telegram that came while I was out, and went back down to his rooms to recuperate. The poor boy. I should make him one of my floral arrangements later, to cheer him up.
I forgot to open the telegram. Let's see.
Oh dear. "SHERIDAN ARMS APARTMENT BURGLED STOP PAPERS TAKEN STOP INFORM IMMEDIATELY AS TO ACTION STOP"
Perhaps I'd better not show it to Mr. Trout.