“Perfectly,” he rasped.
I was content to let the matter rest, but Stoker’s expression was stern. “What have you done now?” he demanded of his brother.
“Stoker! What makes you think poor Merryweather has done something?”
“Experience,” he replied dryly. “Well, Merry?”
“I may,” his brother said in a small voice, “have burnt down the vicarage.”
“Good god,” Stoker said.
“Was anyone injured?” I enquired.
“Oh no, thank heaven,” Merry said fervently. “We were entirely blessed in that regard. My housekeeper, you see, had gone out. She went to have words with the fishmonger about the quality of his whitings. Putting him in hisplaice, as it were.”
He paused for us to appreciate his joke, and since Stoker continued to glower, it seemed only kind to smile. Merry threw me a grateful look and carried on.
“Anyway, I was terribly hungry—I had been gardening, you see, and digging in the herbaceous border always builds up an appetite, I find. And Mrs.Nettlethorpe left only a single cutlet, a verysmallcutlet, and some vegetables for my luncheon. I remembered a pork pie in the larder and decided it would be just the thing if I warmed it through. So, I banked up the oven—”
“Merry, you didn’t,” Stoker said. “You know better.”
Merry hung his head.
“Why are you not permitted the use of the oven, Merryweather?” I enquired.
He raised mournful eyes to mine. “I am afraid I have had one or two accidents in the past,” he said.
“One or two!” Stoker interjected. “You very nearly burnt down the house when you were seven.”
“I thoughtyouwere the one who burnt down part of Cherboys,” I said to Stoker.
“Oh no. That was just Tiberius’ bed I set alight. Merry managed to bring down an entire wing.”
“I was playing castle siege with my tin soldiers and I needed a flaming ball of pitch for my trebuchet,” Merry protested.
Stoker turned to me. “He took a live coal from the fire in Father’s study up to his bedroom and launched it with his toy siege machine. It landed in the curtains and kindled a fire that took forty men the better part of six hours to extinguish. And,” he added with a repressive look to his brother, “it cost me my eyebrows.”
“You were warned not to go in,” Merry said, lapsing into a sulky tone.
“I wasn’t going to let Pomona burn!” Stoker returned fiercely.
“Pomona?” I asked.
“His dog,” Merry said. “He insisted on going back for her and playing the hero.”
“Well, I quite understand not wanting one’s dog to be immolated,” I said reasonably.
“It wasstuffed,” Merry retorted.
“Mounted, damn your eyes,” Stoker roared. “And I never did get the stink of smoke out of her fur.”
“You mounted your pet?” I asked, only faintly disturbed.
“It was my first attempt at taxidermy,” Stoker muttered. “Father had an extensive natural history collection. I saw his specimens and I thought if I could—” He glanced at Merry and broke off. “Never mind. The point is, Merry is a walking calamity. And his misadventures arenot limited to fires. As soon as Father had plumbing installed in the house, Merry flooded the entire nursery wing.”
“I had built a model of theArgo,” Merry explained with solemnity. “I wanted to see if it would float in Mamma’s bathtub.”
Stoker continued, numbering the mishaps upon his fingers. “He knocked over a particularly valuable vase—Chinese, Fourth Dynasty—and shattered it. He fell into the River Dear, which flows from the village, past Cherboys, and down to the sea. He was only saved from drowning because his trousers snagged upon a branch. Then there was Father’s horse, Tinchebray—”
