Three mornings later,there was yet another crash from the kitchen, and Peter pressed his hands to his temples as he waited for Mrs. Barwick to appear.
“I cannot take much more of this, Lord Peter,” she intoned from the doorway of his study. The door pushed further open and three furry bodies somersaulted through, wrestling andsquealing, so closely entwined they could almost have been three-headed Cerberus, on a very small scale.
He blew a breath out as he lowered his hands and tried to smile at her. “I understand, Mrs. Barwick.”
“You keep saying that, but nothing changes, my lord.”
“I am still trying to determine who the proper owner is so they can be returned.”
Peter looked down at his feet, which the otters were using to play a game of hide-and-seek under his desk. Fortunately, he had not taken off his boots. He would need to re-polish them to remove the claw marks.
“And thesmell, my lord.”
“I know.” The otters had located an unused cupboard to do their… business in, and no amount of airing-out was helping. The entire cottage was beginning to reek.
“They must go into the coop today, Lord Peter.”
“I’m afraid you are right, Mrs. Barwick.” Wearily, he rose to his feet. “I believe I have managed to seal off any holes they might be able to wiggle through to escape the coop. Do you have the fish scraps?”
Mrs. Barwick trailed him back to the kitchen, wringing her hands in her apron. “I’m not saying I’m not grateful to them for getting that rat t’other day,” she said. “But they didn’t have to devour it on my clean floor.”
“Of course.” Peter took the covered pail that held the fish scraps from its high shelf in the pantry, and was immediately swarmed by otters. They held their tiny paws up beseechingly, their squeaks urgent, and he felt a little guilty knowing he was about to shut them away by themselves.
He hardened his heart. It was for everyone’s good, including the otters.
Feeling like a fish-scented Pied Piper, he led them out the back door and through the kitchen garden to the abandonedchicken coop as they loped after him. It had a small, mesh-fenced yard of its own that ought to keep the otters safe from larger predators and Mrs. Barwick’s kitchen safe from the otters. Clean hay in the coop itself and in the fenced yard should suffice for their bedding, and a large, low tin saucer would keep them watered.
After much contemplation, he had written not only to Mr. Sloane, but also to Sir Anthony Hoult, the keeper of the Royal Menagerie, to see if he had any insight as to whom the otters might belong. If nothing else, perhaps Sir Anthony could take them into his own care.
Removing the lid from the bucket, he watched as the otters dove in, wrestling over the fish scraps. He had to admit they were endearing little creatures. Hopefully, he would be able to find them a good home.
Shortly after midday,Peter stood at the small library table placed near the bookshelves in his study as he paged through yet another book of sermons, hoping inspiration would strike for the upcoming week. It was easier to concentrate without the otters wreaking havoc on the household. Perhaps things would return to their normal, easy routine.
There was a tap on the study door, and it opened to reveal Mrs. Barwick, looking uncharacteristically formal.
“There’s a young gentleman here to see you, Lord Peter.”
“Oh? What does he want?”
“He says they’re his otters.”
Mrs. Barwick vanished from the doorway before Peter could ask another question, and a young man took her place. He doffed his hat and bowed awkwardly as Peter returned the bow.
“Good afternoon, sir. I’m looking for the Reverend Mr. Sloane.”
“Mr. Sloane has retired for his health. To Brighton, I believe. I am Lord Peter Avondale. I am the acting rector in his place.”
“You?” The young man looked Peter over from his polished Hessians to his superfine wool jacket, clearly puzzled. “But you…”
“Should be in a bishop’s palace and not a country vicarage?”
“Well, yes.” A warm flush darkened the other man’s face, turning it a rosy shade of brown. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“It is a complicated story and one for another time. Please, sit down.”
Peter moved to sit behind his desk as the younger man perched on the edge of a chair on the other side. He still clutched his hat—he must have refused to give it to Mrs. Barwick. The light brown tone of his skin and delicacy of his features added to his thick but oddly cut black hair made Peter think he perhaps had a close relative from India.
They sat in silence for a long moment as the young man continued to toy with the hat in his hands.
