Chapter 2 #2
After much contemplation, he had written not only to Mr. Sloane, but also to Sir Anthony Hoult, the keeper of the Royal Menagerie, to see if he had any insight as to whom the otters might belong. If nothing else, perhaps Sir Anthony could take them into his own care.
Removing the lid from the bucket, he watched as the otters dove in, wrestling over the fish scraps. He had to admit they were endearing little creatures. Hopefully, he would be able to find them a good home.
Shortly after midday, Peter stood at the small library table placed near the bookshelves in his study as he paged through yet another book of sermons, hoping inspiration would strike for the upcoming week.
It was easier to concentrate without the otters wreaking havoc on the household.
Perhaps things would return to their normal, easy routine.
There was a tap on the study door, and it opened to reveal Mrs. Barwick, looking uncharacteristically formal.
“There’s a young gentleman here to see you, Lord Peter.”
“Oh? What does he want?”
“He says they’re his otters.”
Mrs. Barwick vanished from the doorway before Peter could ask another question, and a young man took her place. He doffed his hat and bowed awkwardly as Peter returned the bow.
“Good afternoon, sir. I’m looking for the Reverend Mr. Sloane.”
“Mr. Sloane has retired for his health. To Brighton, I believe. I am Lord Peter Avondale. I am the acting rector in his place.”
“You?” The young man looked Peter over from his polished Hessians to his superfine wool jacket, clearly puzzled. “But you…”
“Should be in a bishop’s palace and not a country vicarage?”
“Well, yes.” A warm flush darkened the other man’s face, turning it a rosy shade of brown. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“It is a complicated story and one for another time. Please, sit down.”
Peter moved to sit behind his desk as the younger man perched on the edge of a chair on the other side.
He still clutched his hat—he must have refused to give it to Mrs. Barwick.
The light brown tone of his skin and delicacy of his features added to his thick but oddly cut black hair made Peter think he perhaps had a close relative from India.
They sat in silence for a long moment as the young man continued to toy with the hat in his hands.
“And you are…” Peter allowed his voice to trail off encouragingly.
“Oh! I am Georg… George Mor-Morley. Mr. George Morley.”
“How may I help you, Mr. Morley?”
“I think… I believe…” Mr. Morley wrung the brim of his hat again, looking almost frantic. He would ruin it at this rate. “I think you have my otters.”
“I am in possession of a set of otters, but I don’t know if they are yours.”
Mr. Morley sat up straight, his face suddenly aglow. “And they are… well?”
“They are currently in the chicken coop after making a mess of Mrs. Barwick’s kitchen. She is quite put out with them.”
“They can’t help themselves. They’re only animals, after all. But I have raised them from pups, ever since the Prince Regent himself gave them to my father.” Morley raised his chin and glared at Peter. “They are mine, and I must have them back. Immediately!”
Peter raised a hand, and the boy—he could be no more than a boy—sank back into his chair, mouth tight but dark eyes ablaze.
“I must be confident they really belong to you before I allow you to have them. Describe them.”
Morley brightened at once. “As far as I have been able to determine, they are Lutra cinerea, most likely from southern India, or possibly the Malay peninsula. I have corresponded with Herr Illiger in Berlin and sent him my drawings and he agreed with me that they are almost certainly Lutra cinerea and not ordinary English otters.”
Peter nodded as though he understood more than one word in three as Morley continued his lecture. Natural philosophy had never been his strong suit.
“They are certainly not ordinary otters,” Peter ventured when Morley paused to take a breath.
“My father and I nursed them back to health when he first received them from the Prince Regent. The rest of the litter died, sadly, but we were able to save three by providing them with a diet of ground oysters and salmon mixed with goat’s milk.
Bonny seems to be the matriarch—she is the one who guards Betsy and Buttercup when they play.
Most species of otters are solitary creatures, but my studies indicate a family grouping is common for otters from the Malay peninsula… ”
As the boy rambled on, Peter sat back in his chair. For his money, Mr. George Morley did seem to be who he claimed to be, and to be very familiar with the otters, so that much was ensured.
“And how do you plan to care for the animals, Mr. Morley?” Peter said as the flow of information slowed.
A flush warmed the young man’s cheeks. “That is no concern of yours, sir.”
“It certainly is my concern. You have already told me these otters were entrusted to your family by the Prince Regent himself. Do you have a safe place to care for them?”
“I… I…” Morley’s righteousness deflated. “No. No, at present time, I do not.” His hands clenched on his hat again, crumpling the brim. “To be perfectly honest, I am… I am somewhat between lodgings myself at the moment.”
Peter raised his eyebrows. “Between lodgings?”
Morley’s hands twisted again, and he swallowed hard. “I was… was forced to leave my previous situation. Quite abruptly. I came in pursuit of the otters, but I had not… I did not think…”
He trailed off, looking down at his abused hat, and then chuckled mordantly. “I suppose I never gave much thought to what I would do once I found the otters.”
Peter contemplated Morley for a long moment. The boy was clearly in some sort of trouble. And it was his duty as a gentleman and a clergyman to help those in trouble, was it not?
Once the thought came to him, he knew there was only one solution.
“I’m afraid I cannot allow you to take such valuable property with you when you have no way to care for them.” As the boy opened his mouth to protest, Peter raised a hand. “You will need to stay here until you are certain of your next move.”
“Here?” Morley glanced around the room. Peter had to admit it was quite small compared to the vast rooms he himself had grown up in, but it was handsomely appointed while still being a comfortable place for the villagers to approach him.
“The cottage is not large, I will admit—much of it is still closed off and there are only eight bedrooms—but Mrs. Barwick can air out one of the smaller ones for you. I promise, you will be perfectly comfortable.”
“And my otters will be safe? You are not planning to send them to Mr. Sloane?”