There was no sign of a rodent. Neither fur, nor droppings, nor blood as far as Zachary could determine. Nothing but a large hole in the wall with cracks radiating outward and the plaster which had rained down on the floor.
“I believe that all you managed to slay was my wall, Potter,” he said.
Potter laughed.
Lord help him. Apparently, in addition to being hard of hearing, Potter was mad as a Bedlamite.
“That was not meant to be a sally,” he informed the butler sternly, extending his hand. “The shotgun, if you please.”
“You will have to ask the cook if you want peas, my lord,” Potter announced. “I haven’t any.”
“Christ,” he muttered.
“The shotgun,” Wycombe said loudly. “Give it over, if you please.”
He was going to have to replace Potter. Or at the very least, hide all the arms. What did one do in a circumstance such as this?
“How the devil am I to kill the mice if I haven’t my shotgun?” the butler asked.
“Have you often used this method of pest eradication in the past?” Zachary asked, feeling ill.
He was going to have to take a tour of the servant quarters, searching for bullet holes in the plaster. The thought made a ridiculous bubble of laughter rise in his throat. This was his life now. Gone were his carefree, reckless days as a bachelor. In their place was responsibility and burden and daft, elderly butlers armed with shotguns.
“Heh?” Potter cupped his ear again.
“Where is the ear trumpet Lord Leydon made for you?” Wycombe asked, sounding a bit exasperated.
“Crumpet?” Potter asked, looking befuddled.
“Trumpet,” Zachary and Wycombe said simultaneously.
Loudly.
The butler blinked. “You needn’t yell. I know I have the infernal device somewhere.”
Holding the shotgun tucked under one arm now, Potter began rummaging about on the shelves next to the damage he had inflicted upon the wall.
Wycombe took action, no doubt moved by his many years at Scotland Yard, stepping forward and disarming Potter while he was distracted.
“Thank you,” the butler said. “It was getting dreadfully heavy.”
“No doubt it was,” Wycombe returned in a gentler tone. “Lord Anglesey will make certain it is stored in a safe place for you.”
He handed the shotgun to Zachary, who silently vowed to see the gun locked far out of his butler’s reach.
“Instead of shooting any stray mice you see,” he began counseling his butler, “you might try traps in future. Or poison.”
Either of the two would be far safer for everyone involved.
At last, Potter held up two metal funnels with a wire connecting them. “Here is the contraption. Now if only I could recall how the earl told me I must wear it…”
Izzy’s father, who was something of an eccentric inventor in addition to being an earl, had generously created the device for Potter’s use, saying he had read about new and improved versions which were meant to be worn concealed in the ears themselves. For now, the rudimentary set Leydon had fashioned was far preferable to the alternative, which was yelling and hoping Potter could hear them.
“Over your ears,” Zachary suggested dryly.
Wycombe helped Potter to settle the contraption on his head, the narrow ends of the trumpets tucked into place.
“There now,” the butler said, grinning as if he had not just been shooting a century-old shotgun at a mouse in the pantry. “If I am not to use the shotgun for the mouse problem, what am I meant to be using, my lord?”
