The Bloody Herring. Phyllis Ann Karr

me ‘Chuck.’ I’m a stranger to these parts.”

      “Dr. Falcon.” Sir Ruthven bowed, then lifted his own snifter of brandy. “Your servant, sir. To a mutually profitable acquaintanceship.”

      Apparently, going by the half-emptied goblet of milk, Sir Ruthven was a social rather than a serious drinker. Now, after one (admittedly generous) swallow of brandy, he seemed to relax a little. “May I inquire, Doctor Falcon, what induces you to seek our peculiarly grim corner of the country?”

      Well, why not start with something obvious? “I’m hoping to look up a fellow named Bunthorne.”

      “Bunthorne? Not Reginald Bunthorne, the fleshly poet?”

      Remembering the skinny character in the costume design, Chuck smiled. “Well, I’d hardly have called him ‘fleshly,’ but I believe he is a poet.”

      “It refers to his style. Wait, I have his book here somewhere.”

      While Sir Ruthven was searching the crowded bookshelves, Chuck took the opportunity to re-examine the volume his host had been reading. Opening it to the place marked, he noticed in the margin of the right-hand page a small, elegant pointing hand drawn in ink. He followed the pointing finger and read the lines:

      “From too much love of living,

      From hope and fear set free,

      We thank with brief thanksgiving

      Whatever gods may be

      That no life lives for ever;

      That dead men rise up never;

      That even the weariest river

      Winds somewhere safe to sea.”

      “Ah, here it is!” came Sir Ruthven’s voice. Again Chuck replaced the volume of Swinburne and Morris on the table, as the baronet brought a slim leather-backed book to the fireplace. “Heart-Foam and Other Poems. Actually, he did not publish the title poem; but he inscribed it in holograph on the flyleaf of each and every copy:

      “Oh, to be wafted away

      From this black Aceldama of sorrow,

      Where the dust of an earthy to-day

      Is the earth of a dusty to-morrow!”

      Sir Ruthven’s taste in poetry—assuming Sir Ruthven was Bob Lozinski—disturbed Dr. Falcon. But all he said for the time being was, “Very nice.”

      “You really think so? Well, but you’re in the wrong part of the country entirely to find Mr. Bunthorne. He resides in Suffolk.”

      “I see. Maybe you could show me a map?”

      “A map? Nothing easier!” Crossing the library to an oakwood writing-desk, Sir Ruthven lowered its top and rummaged through the pigeonholes until he found a rolled piece of paper. Unrolling it on the desk, he weighted down one edge with a blown-glass paperweight, looked around for something to hold down the other edge, and chose the heavy-handled Florentine dagger that had been resting on the table with his book and milk.

      Chuck squinted down at the map, memorizing it. As nearly as he could remember from Chandra’s schooling, both the early part of it back on Old Earth and the advanced degrees earned in Papa’s Pride, it showed a fairly accurate representation of southern England, with Penzance, Portsmouth, and London clearly marked about where he thought they should be. But the size of southern England seemed to be exaggerated, and the size of the surrounding bodies of water and land shrunk, so that in the heart of a scaled-down eastern Europe Chuck quickly saw a bright gold area labeled “Pfenning Halbpfennig” in large letters, and above it to the northwest a tiny drawing of a fortress labeled “Castle Adamant.” More operettas he wasn’t familiar with. At the top of a miniaturized Italy he found Venice; and just off the coast of a squashed Spain he noticed an island named Barataria—that was for The Gondoliers, which Chandra had seen. Beyond Barataria was another island, named Utopia—that rang no bell—and beyond that, with no regard for the American continents or the Pacific Ocean, was Japan, its principal metropolis captioned Titipu.

      “Here is Ruddigore Castle, where I regret to say we are now.” Sir Ruthven pointed to an ill-starred location near the western tip of Cornwall. “And here,” he went on, moving his finger across the map past London to a site near the eastern coast, “is Castle Bunthorne.” Returning his finger to Ruddigore Castle, he traced a line along the southern Cornish coast. “Now, I think your best plan would be to travel overland to Penzance. If you tell the Pirates you’re an orphan, they’ll gladly smuggle you to Portsmouth. From there you can probably find passage on the Pinafore to Ploverleigh, here—and one of the villagers will be honored to drive you the ten miles further inland to Castle Bunthorne.”

      “Thanks. This is a great help.” Though Chuck preferred to stick near Sir Ruthven. Considering that the secondary sharer of this kind of virtual world ought to meet the primary sharer quite early, if the madwoman hadn’t been Lozinski, it logically almost had to be the baronet. “Of course, I don’t much feel like starting out in a storm.”

      “That’s understood.” Sir Ruthven lifted the dagger from the map’s edge and shifted his fingers nervously from handle to blade and back. “You’ll dine with me, of course, and—stay the night. I’ll…I’ll ring for my man to air out a room for you.”

      The baronet started toward the bell-pull, and Chuck bent over the map again, holding its unweighted edge down with his hand.

      The next instant he felt a sharp point at his back.

      “I…apologize for this with all my heart,” said Sir Ruthven. “I assure you, I bear you no personal ill-will whatsoever. Quite the contrary. But…”

      * * * *

      Chuck was not alarmed for himself; nor, with his assorted black belts, was his attacker in any particular danger. Suddenly ducking forward, he threw his left elbow around in a back hook that connected with the baronet’s hand and sent the dagger clattering across the floor. Continuing the movement, he straightened his arm, caught Sir Ruthven’s forearm near the wrist, and spun his own body around to face the pale and shaken baronet.

      Sir Ruthven dropped to his knees and buried his face in his free hand. Chuck released his other arm and said in a firm but quiet voice, “All right, now suppose you tell me why you tried it.”

      “I’m…awfully glad you did that.” Pulling himself together Sir Ruthven got to his feet again. “It was expected of me—I think you read my card?—but you can hardly imagine how grateful I am to be foiled. I trust this won’t prevent you from stopping to dine with me?”

      “Leaving now would be the farthest thing from my mind.” Chuck returned to the fireplace, pulled up a second armchair, and sat. The baronet followed his lead, sinking again into his own faded plush chair. Chuck warily relaxed.

      “I expect you’ll want a room with a lock?” asked Sir Ruthven.

      “No.” Chuck saw that his host would doubtless have his own complete set of keys. “I’ll want a room with an inside bolt and some heavy furniture I can move against the door.”

      “An excellent precaution. I congratulate you heartily and will see to it that your wishes are fulfilled.”

      Both sat silent for a few moments, the baronet staring into the fire, Chuck sneaking glances at his haunted profile. After a short time Sir Ruthven said diffidently, “You know, I…I’m a rather better poet than Mr. Bunthorne, myself.”

      “Oh?” Chuck tapped his fingers together meditatively. “I’d like to hear your stuff.”

      “It’s all in manuscript, of course. I haven’t published.” The baronet rose and pulled a bound notebook from the shelves. After some self-conscious riffling through the pages, he nodded and began to read, wandering around the room as he did so:

      “Oh, painful is the honeybee’s mistake,

      Who stings the careless hand that