Mortimer

Chapter 5

Not ten minutes later there was a knock on his door.

“Neville, you evasive reprobate!” Mortimer’s head snapped up. “Where have you been?”

The butler cringed from his position in the doorway, Mortimer’s dinner on a silver tray in his gloved hands. Since the lad was old enough to speak, he had demanded a very specific dinner with a very exact presentation. Neville carried it to him now.

“I have your sauerkraut, sausage, custard and mutton.”

“The sausage better be from Harry’s.”

Harry’s

“I assure you, it is, sir. It is also boiled, not grilled, baked or fried. And Mrs. Peabody was kind enough to cut off the tips.”

“Sausage tips are highly uncivilized!”

Neville set the tray down. “Mrs. Peabody’s homemade custard is in the small cream-colored saucer with the periwinkle dotted around the collar, exactly as you like it.”

Not looking away from his bottle boat project, Mortimer’s pudgy hand shot up and wrapped around the greasy sausage. He began to devour it noisily. Moments later, his hand slithered up to the tabletop and groped around the tray for the slab of mutton. He ignored Neville’s cringe and allowed all of his higher faculties to remain focused on the task at hand.

Neville backed away from Mortimer, who he knew to be quite touchy regarding his personal space and cringed as another chunk of mutton disappeared from the plate.

Mortimer’s mother, Mrs. Ascariot, had insisted that as soon as he had teeth to chew, that her son be served mutton—from kosher lambs only—every single day for ‘good strength and virility.’ Doing his best to divert his mind from the potential virility boosting qualities of the items on the tray, Neville continued to back up towards the door. Doing so, he nearly tripped over some of the many trinkets that made up the chaos of Mortimer’s quarters.

insisted

“You’ve a caller tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, the races at eleven. Shall I put out the mustard cravat?” Neville straightened his tie, attempting to conceal his misstep. As expected, Mortimer paid him no mind. Instead, he shoved another bite of gravy-soaked mutton into his gaping maw.

“Oh Lady, to behold your majesty upon completion shall demand an incandescent draping of awe. Why, even the president himself shall beg to board your deck!” Mortimer held his craftsmanship before his eyes while happily l*****g his greasy fingers.

Neville cringed. “Is there anything else that you require, sir?”

“Neville!” Mortimer jumped and whirled, his hazel eyes searching for the source of the intrusion. “What are you still doing in my study?”

still

“Of course, sir,” Neville lowered himself into a rigid bow. “I shall depart so that you may dine in peace.”

***

Back in the kitchen Neville leaned against the door, a weary expression across his handsome features.

“Is Mortimer in one of his moods?” Mrs. Peabody, the house cook, looked up as Neville entered the kitchen.

“I assure you he is particularly fixated on his project at the moment.” Neville settled himself at the counter and opened the paper to the business section.

“Some things never change,” Mrs. Peabody mussed. “Bereavement or not.”

Neville sighed, for Mrs. Peabody’s words were true. It had been two years since Mortimer’s father had been brutally murdered and from an outsider’s perspective the whole event seemed to go unnoticed by the young man. Mortimer was, as always, in his own paradise. Surrounded by his bottle boats, avoiding human society, and paying little attention to those around him.

Neville had known Mortimer since the young master’s infancy, for he had been fortuitously been hired by Mr. Ascariot over twenty years ago.

It was 1898 and Neville had just arrived in America by boat and then in Georgetown by train. He carried with him one small bag, the suit on his back and the bowler on the head of thick hair that he had inherited from his mother. He was young, eager, and in search of a better life.

Neville was getting his bearings at the pub on Market when Mr. Ascariot walked through the doors. Since that time, due to prohibition, the town’s pubs had been boarded up, but once upon a time they were quite popular. On this particular day there were at least half a dozen gentlemen lounging about, drinking tonics, and smoking cigars.

Neville had never been quite sure what it was about him that caught Mr. Ascariot’s attention, but immediately upon entering the pub, Mr. Ascariot had handed Neville his bowler and pistol and asked him to order a whiskey before going and settling himself in his designated corner booth.

“What’ll you have?” The bartender c****d an eyebrow as Neville approached.

“Uhh… Whiskey. Sir.”

“For Mr. Ascariot I presume?”

“Yes sir.”

“You the new butler?”

“Not that I am aware of, sir.”

The bartender poured a tumbler. “Watch your step, kid. Word is that Mr. Ascariot just ousted his last butler for making eyes at the missus.”

“K-killed?”

“Will you be putting this on his tab?”

Neville’s throat was dry. He nodded. “Won’t he be arrested, then?”

The bartender shot him a look. “What kind of stupid question is that?”

“Silly, of course. Forgive me.” Neville reached for the glass and was about to turn away, when the bartender grabbed his wrist.

“Seeing that you’re new in town.” He lowered his voice. “Let me give you a little perspective.”

And this is when Neville learned that Mr. Ascariot was a titan in the shipping business and a member of the city council. He was also one of the richest and most influential men in the country and had essentially revitalized the Georgetown economy by making it an international port of trade. As the savior to Georgetown, Mr. Ascariot carried perpetual amnesty.