Mortal Spoils by D M Greenwood

Author:D M Greenwood [Greenwood, D M]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Ostara Publishing
Published: 2012-10-10T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Dinner

Canon Truegrave was a hairy man, not in the sense that he had a lot of hair on his head – there, indeed, the growth was sparse. But what there was of it, widely dispersed across his cranium, had great presence, due perhaps to its quality which was that of strong grey wire. On other areas of his person, in the ears and nostrils, for example, hair sprouted out in greater and softer abundance. Over the back of his hands, curly black bristles disappeared up his cuffs leading, as it were, the eye of imagination upwards to speculate about whither the growth extended and finished. Was he hirsute all over? He wore a wide clerical collar which stood out at some distance from his raddled and none too clean neck. In one ear, Theodora noticed, there nestled a hearing aid.

‘How’s the old high Slavonic coming along, Bernhardt?’ Gilbert leaned across the table and addressed the hearing aid. Old friends or old enemies? Theodora wondered as she helped Geoffrey to carve and then hand a plate of pheasant while Oenone saw about the wine.

Truegrave gazed at the plate in wonder. Were they really offering him food? ‘Thank you, thank you, yes, yes, certainly a little more. A leg would be most acceptable. Old high Slavonic is not an easy language,’ he said severely to Gilbert, who nodded in sympathy as though beating time to a tune he knew well. Canon Truegrave chewed rapidly along the leg, which he held in one hand over the plate and brought his jaws to engage with by leaning forward.

‘But it’s very necessary, isn’t it, Bernhardt, to be able to communicate with the Azbarnahis?’ Teape tried the other, the nonhearing- aid ear. ‘Their liturgy is in it, isn’t it?’

‘Thank you, potatoes would be very welcome,’ responded Truegrave.

Theodora glanced across at Oenone in sympathy. Would she lose her nerve?

But Oenone was made of sterner stuff. If Canon Truegrave was an eater, and he was clearly that, she’d make sure his needs were catered for. Gravy, beans, carrots, redcurrant jelly, all were marshalled in the canon’s part of the table. He did not, Theodora noticed, bother with a napkin in its normal prophylactic function, using it rather at the conclusion of operations in the manner of a bath towel to scrub his lips, the front of his jacket and the surrounding table. There was a palpable sigh of relief from the rest of the diners as he concluded his course.

‘Cheese?’ Oenone inquired.

Canon Clutch took the precaution of cutting more of the Brie before releasing it in Truegrave’s direction. Possibly Clutch had dined with Truegrave before. The table abandoned any attempt at conversation and gave itself up to the spectator sport of gazing fascinated as Truegrave worked through the Brie, looked round for Stilton, was passed Stilton and looked round for biscuits. Finally, running his index finger round the back of his teeth, he leaned back in his chair, tapped the hearing aid back into place (perhaps it had worked loose in the course of his exertions) and appeared to change gear for conversation.

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