It was about this time in our story that I realized something that shouldn't be was underfoot. Time travelling, as you are sure to have realized, is a considerably odd thing to be doing, even in such a year as ours. I was perturbed, to say the least, to have found myself rummaging about in the medieval era. Being as I am, hardly a fool, I endeavored to question my employer about his/her watch. I knew for certain he/she did not have an extraordinary powers, and that obtaining such an object as his/hers would prove to be a rather difficult thing without a dash of, to say the least, illegal activity.
I am a valet of extremely well to-do history, and in all my working life I have never once buttled for a criminal. I did not desire to start now. So it was either stop this confounded mess and put things right, or leave my master/mistress' company. As I have come to grow fairly fond of the young miss/mister McKale. With that in mind, I was left with little choice but to pry.
Miss/Mister McKale does not like valets who pry.
.:.:.::.:.:.
"I believe, Miss McKale,"said Jeffrey, brushing the dirt from his pants and jacket suit. His mouth was set in a grim line,"That we have just travelled through time."
"Quite right, Jeffrey! Isn't it remarkable." McKale had the watch out again, twirling the golden chain between her fingers as it spun about wonkily before her eyes,"Imagine what we can see with this, what we can do."
"I don't think it wise to use it again, Miss."
The watch struck the table with a thump. McKale jerked around, frowning,"Whyever not, Jeffrey?"
"I cannot be certain, Miss McKale-"
"Well then, there's simply nothing wrong with it!"
"Unless,"he took a deep breath and his eyes swung out to the side, avoiding his mistress' gaze,"Unless, of course, you were to explain how to came into possession of it. I will not, of course, think anything different of you, Miss. I am merely concerned-"
"Concerned!" McKale snapped, stuffing the watch down the front of her bodice,"I bet you are, you...It's nothing to be concerned about, Jeffrey. It's simply a watch with a few extra thingummies, and we'll leave it at that."
Jeffrey's brow furrowed. It was clear to him now that the watch was not gained through amiable means. Nothing good would come of such a thing, he thought.
"You said you'd do the wash, didn't you? Hop to then, old boy,"the endearment was said with a less than endearing tone,"I don't want to be a Miss any longer."
Jeffrey bowed elegantly. "As you wish, Sir,"he said, and turned away to do his task.
.:.:.::.:.:.
A considerable amount of time passed before McKale presented himself again, this time decked out in a suit with not a trace of bodice or feminine wiles about him. The pocket watch peeked out of the folds of his suit, winking like sunlight in against the bright bulbs. He wore a grim look about him, and flashed a glance at Jeffrey, who sat folding laundry in the living room, before sneaking out the door.
"I'm off to a party, Jeffrey, old chap. I shan't be back until late. Don't wait up for me."
"As you wish, Sir."
The door eased shut.
Jeffrey dropped the last of the laundry into the clothes basket an stood. Wordlessly, without even the slightest flicker of emotion over his narrow face, he strode out of the room, down the hall, and into his master's bedroom. The room was, of course, in a state of utter disarray from the morning's previous endeavors. His nose wrinkled at the sight (and smell) of the sheets. He added a mental note to wash them before the master returned home.
Now, for what he was here for.
Jeffrey shuffled through the room, wrenching open each and every drawer he could find. As much as master McKale hated to have his privacy disturbed, he rarely took the liberty of protecting his things from prying eyes.
Phone numbers, notes scribbled on scraps of paper, entire notebooks fluttered to the floor at Jeffrey's feet. Journals, diaries, phonebooks, to-do lists. Nothing out of the ordinary and nothing Jeffrey desired to look into.
He needed to find that note.
Something flashed in the corner of his eye. The pillowcases! Of course! If ever Sir McKale wanted to hide something of importance, he would stuff it under the pillow. Sleep on it. The corner of Jeffrey's lip tugged upward, and he threw both pillows to the floor. He breathed a sigh of relief.
There, nestled in a dip where the master's head was oft to lay, was a crumpled piece of old parchment. Perfect.
Jeffrey glanced over his shoulder. Seeing no one (as if he had really expected the master to come waltzing into his room minutes after suggesting he was off to a party) he slipped the paper up his sleeve and slapped the pillows back into place. He turned to leave, but his step faltered half-way through the door frame.
The room was an utter disaster, and Jeffrey's search had made it no better. Cinching his brow a bit, he turned back to the mess.
It took him no more than twenty minutes to tidy it properly and shuck the bedclothes into the wash. Errands finished, he could turn his attention to the note.
He meandered through the halls until he found the library, settling himself comfortably in the master's favorite armchair. He peeled the note out of his sleeve and unfolded it. His eyes ran quickly over the parchment, lower and lower....his hands began to tremble. With a sharp intake of air he surged to his feet, stuffing the horrid thing into his pocket.
"Bishop," Jeffrey breathed, voice barely audible. He ran his fingers through his graying hair, shoved the other hand into his pocket to grasp the letter, afraid it might somehow escape.
Bishop. Erich Emmanuel Bishop.
The slimy little weasel.
He had to call him.
.:.:.::.:.:.
Although I would prefer not to interrupt your tale with my ramblings, I believe I have little choice but to explain whom Erich Emmanuel Bishop is, before continuing, lest the reader become confused.
Bishop, as I have come to refer to him, is little more than a slimy, treacherous rapscallion, who has taken much too keen an interest in illicit businesses. Although I never worked for him (for that I thank the Lord mightily), I did indeed have...relations with the man, for some short time before discovering the true nature of his self. It was not at all a pleasant experience, and I regret to have gotten tangled up with him at all.
It is fortunate that I, at least, knew who the man was. I doubt I would have been able to help my employer if I had not known of his acts previously.
He's a dashed weasel of a man, my dear reader, and I abide you to stay clear of anyone who speaks his name in pleasant tones.
.:.:.::.:.:.
"Bishop Residence. How may we serve you?"
Jeffrey cringed at the greeting. Swallowing, he replied,"Good evening, is Mr. E. E. Bishop in?"
"Ah, let me see....yes, yes, I think he is. But if you need to make an appointment you can-"
"I believe I would like to speak to Mr.Bishop."
"Ah, alright. Sorry about that. I'll get him, just a moment."
There was a long, silent pause.
"Hallo?" a thick, German accent flowed through the phone and into Jeffrey's ear. He cringed at that too.
"Good Evening, Bishop,"he kept his voice steady, calm...serious.
"Mr.Eldon! It has been a long time seenze I have spoken to you. Vat brings you to call?"
"It is the matter of my employer, sir. He...she...Master McKale appears to be caught up in a rather nefarious plot."
"Is that so, Mr.Eldon, is that so. Vat can I do to help you? I do not think I have many resources, but for an old-"
"You would do well to take back your watch and leave Master McKale be."
"Take back vut? A vatch? I have no vatch. I do not know vat you are-"
"Mr.Bishop, I request that you do not play dumb. I have here a letter which is very clearly written in your hand, and if you do not accept your watch and leave my employer alone I will be forced to take such drastic measure as to inform the authorities of your business."
Silence hung heavily between them, before Mr.Bishop spoke again,"I see. I see very vell, Mr.Eldon." Another short pause. "But I do know of vat vatch you speak."
Jeffrey frowned,"I will resort to the authorities, make no doubt of that, Mr.Bishop."
"Jeffrey," the name came out as 'Gevry',"I know nothing of a vatch, and even less of your employer. If I can perhaps help you elsevere, then speak! Othervise I think this talk is done, or I shall be reporting you to the authorities."
"Very well, Mr.Bishop,"Jeffrey sighed,"Good day." He hung up the phone.
He produced the letter once more, scanning it with a harsh eye. It was written in Erich's script, Jeffrey had no doubts about that. The sharp strokes of his 't's, the elaborate curving of 'y's. Roman numerals, rather than numerical. Erich only ever wrote roman numerals. But... Wait. He drew the letter closer to his eyes.
It was signed! He hadn't noticed before, the print being so tiny. That was unusual for Erich. He wrote his name extravagantly large, never so tiny and easy to miss as this.
The letters were squashed together, puny and unbearably cursive.
Wilbur W. Winquist they read.
Jeffrey turned to the phonebook.
.:.:.::.:.:.
"Mr.Winquist! How good of you to come,"McKale grasped the pudgy man's hand and shook it vigorously,"Enjoying the evening's festivities, I hope?"
"Oh, very much so, Mr.McKale. You as well?"
McKale nodded, smiling,"Care for a drink, old chap? They've got some spectacular rum..."
"Perhaps later, Mr.McKale," Wilbur held up a hand, smiling still, but there was something about his eyes that made McKale nervous.
He clasped his hands in front of himself and cocked his head,"Oh?"
"Yes," Wilbur's eyes drifted downward, to McKale's pocket watch,"You've tried it, haven't you?"
"Oh my, yes. But only once. Nasty spot of trouble we got ourselves into, what. Can't do it again until I've got some proper costumes."
Wilbur's beady eyes became even beadier,"You haven't forgotten our deal, have you?"
"Oh! Certainly not, dear Wilbur, certainly not. I plan to start just as soon as I've got said costumes. No more pickles for me, haha."
The frown that forced itself on Wilbur's considerably piggy face looked very much out of place there. Like a cat in a mouse trap, really. McKale shivered at the sight,"What-ho, there, Wilbur. Are you quite alright?"
"There are some that...would not require costumes from you,"he glanced at the watch,"Or the use of that."
"Ah, so I've noted. But space travel is so-"
"You'll have to do it."
"Well, yes, I gathered that, but I thought, perhaps, I could start with one of the-"
Wilbur squared his shoulders,"I'd rather you start with that,"his brow furrowed,"I forbid you to use the watch until you do."
McKale gasped,"But Wilbur, old chap!"
"Just being careful, McKale. I don't want to end up with the short end of the stick, after all."
McKale chewed his lip,"All...right. I suppose a bit of interplanetary travel could do the old bean a bit of good. Jeffrey's probably dying to get out a bit too."
Wilbur nodded,"Thank-you, McKale." He clasped the young master on the shoulder, nodded shortly, and tottled off into the crowd.
McKale crossed his arms over his chest, frowning a lopsided frown. "Well,"he said,"How about that. The nerve of some chaps!"