Of Lakes, Mysteries and the Odd Lunatic

Chapter II: In which Pierre abuses some crockery

Chapter II         

In which Pierre abuses some crockery

The group of people that arrived at the dock early the next morning were damp, bedraggled and rather tired-looking. Except for Sarah, of course, who thought that whole thing was “rather fun”, although she was disappointed there wasn’t a murderer or serial killer who had stowed away and strangled them all one by one.

As Lawrence and company trudged through the town of Little Vale, wet boots squelching on the perfectly swept footpath as shiny cars drove past at exactly fifteen miles per hour, they gathered disdainful looks from the various people on the footpaths and in the shops around them. One woman selling bright yellow and blue flowers from a cart set into a small area between shops narrowed her eyes as Lawrence passed, shielding her goods in case they were somehow soiled.

They soon passed beyond the clean, soothing buildings of Little Vale and began up the hill that looked over the small tourist town. Their destination was partway up the hill, nestled between two humps that protected it from the wind that sometimes whistled along that part. It was a large mansion, built many decades before in the style that mansions were back then. It was quite large, even for a mansion, being three storeys high, and that not including the tall, pointed roof which housed the two attic levels. The original structure had been built in a simple square shape, but over the years a total of three large wings had been added on, one on the left and right sides, and the third set back into the hill itself, taking advantage of a natural cave system there. There had also been many smaller sub-wings of both the main house and the three Cardinal Wings as they were called.

As the party neared the house, a small, yapping, white ball of fur and legs bounded up to Lawrence, making loud, high-pitched barks at a rate of nearly three per second.

“Down, Abby! Down! I know you’re happy to see me, but please constrain yourself!” Lawrence gave the dog in question a stern look, and she subsided some, but soon caught whiff of a rabbit or some animal of that sort and took off on a tangent into the field, her master completely gone from her tiny mind.

The door of the house was always left open as the days during the summer were often quite stifling inside, and the small breeze which almost always blew across the hill was a welcome guest to clear the air.

The mansion was in fact several hundred years old, and had been built at a time when Little Vale was a newly-born mining town, extracting the copper and iron found in the hillside. It was first built by the owner of the mine and current mayor of Little Vale, and served as a Mayor’s house for almost one and a half centuries after that. It was then sold at a high price to a hotel chain, who remodelled the interior at great expense, and opened two summers afterwards. The chain soon discovered that Little Vale did not attract the flow of customers it needed to be sustainable, thus proving the value of market research in the commercial world. The hotel closed down just two months after opening. No one touched the mansion after that as the chain, wanting to recoup some of its spending had priced the building at far too high a price. It was eventually taken by the government when the hotel chain went into liquidation, and sold at a much more reasonable price to an unknown investor. The mansion then changed hands numerous times until it came into the ownership of Lawrence Alan Baker.

He saw an opportunity for a place of rest and rehabilitation for those with diseases and problems of the mind. And so the Funny Oaks Institute for the Mentally Worried, Criminally Insane and Hopelessly Lost was born.

Lawrence lead his followers inside and got them all towels and food. Pierre, the chef, had made some tomato soup, and this was served at the kitchen table to as not to drip too much on the more expensive flooring of the main dining room.

The sound of china being smashed upon a workbench and a muffled barrage of French swear words announced the presence of Pierre himself. Lawrence, having already finished his meal, left the others eating and walked through to the scullery. He found himself in a small room with a countertop, sink, and storage cupboards. There was also a three inch layer of broken china on the floor. In the midst of this white mass was a tiny man wearing a chef’s uniform and a white, puffy taupe which raised his height quite considerably. He had a small, black, carefully manicured moustache and looked like he was about to explode.

“Hello, Pierre. Is there a problem?”

“No, zere is note a problem, I simply enjoy smashing plates and bowls around in my free time.”

“Yes, well, I had realised that several month ago, shortly after I hired you.”

“No, you fool! Zat was sarcasm!”

“Oh, dear, well, sarcasm isn’t exactly my strong point.”

“Hmpf.”

“So there actually is a problem?”

“We, of course there is a problem!”

“Which is...?”

“I am out of garlic! Completely! All gone! Not a clove left.”

“Well, I shall get you some then when I go down next to the village.”

“But how am I supposed to manage till then? You cannot cook without garlic! It is impossible!”

“Can you not cook a salad or something? I intend to make my way down later this afternoon.” Pierre pursed his lips.

“Well, I suppose I will manage, but just this once! My blood pressure cannot take too much of zis kind of ting.”

“Right. Thank you very much Pierre. I must be off now, it is time for me to take my rounds.” Pierre muttered something under his breath and Lawrence exited the room.