The Curse of Braeburn Castle by Karen Baugh Menuhin

Author:Karen Baugh Menuhin [Menuhin, Karen Baugh]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little Dog Publishing
Published: 2019-08-21T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

‘Wit ye doin’ in ’ere, ye lanky malinky longlegs?’ came a screech from somewhere beyond the table. ‘Ye’ve nae right tae be keeking aroond me kitchin.’

‘Erm … Greetings,’ I called out.

A spatula now flew in my direction. I side-stepped smartly and it bounced off a roof beam and clattered to the floor. I assumed I was in the company of the cook and could just make out the top of a starched white mob cap on the other side of the table, partially obscured by a large pudding bowl.

‘I’m from the house. I mean castle. I’m a guest!’ I shouted. Good Lord, this was ridiculous. A pastry brush caught me full square on the forehead. ‘Ow!’

An undersized termagant in white frock and apron appeared from behind the table brandishing a frying pan. I backed toward the door. ‘Madam, will you please desist,’ I shouted.

She didn’t: she advanced, yelling her incomprehensible battle-cry, and raised the pan above her head. I dug into my pocket and withdrew the only form of defence I had. I held Mr Tubbs to my chest and cried, ‘Milk!’

‘Eh?’ She halted, peered closely at the little black cat in my hands, and then lowered her weapon a couple of inches.

‘I’d like some milk for my kitten. Please,’ I added.

‘Eeee, ’tis a wee kitty ye be havin’ there,’ she muttered.

‘Indeed,’ I replied. ‘And he’s rather hungry.’ Which wasn’t strictly true as Tubbs was far too well fed to ever be hungry, but I thought it might appeal to her softer emotions.

‘Weel, I might be havin’ some milk fur ’im.’ She put the frying pan on the table and came closer. I handed Mr Tubbs over. Fogg, never one for bravery, peered out from behind my legs.

‘Ooh, an’ a wee doggie, too,’ the pint-sized Tartar almost cooed. She was a very small woman, barely reaching my elbow, but had the spirit of an avenging Valkyrie. Her wizened face suddenly broke into a smile and she gently took Tubbs from my grasp with gnarled hands and held him to her sparse bosom, muttering under her breath.

Turning, she carried him off to a large pantry at the far end of the room and went inside. Fogg followed, so I went too. The walls were white, as was usual, the shelves made of thick stone slabs and ranged up both sides of the narrow room. It was extremely cold in there, remarkably so, given the warmth of the kitchen itself. Rondels of cheese wrapped in cloth were stacked high; other shelves held jugs of cream and milk. I realised that the few ewes kept in the adjoining byre were the source of much of the dairy. There were pots of jams, jellies, pickles and preserves, with lids made from scraps of bright cloth and tartan fabric. And clutches of fresh brown eggs in baskets filled with straw.

Still crooning to the little cat, Cook placed a saucer on a shelf and poured cream onto it. Tubbs lapped it up and Foggy crept closer to watch, his black nose sniffing the air in the hope of something falling his way.

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