13
The great front door had scarcely opened before our host himself came hurrying down the broad stone steps to receive us.
If Stanley Goode had appeared enthusiastic upon our first meeting, he was positively radiant now.
"My dear Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson!" he cried. "You have come. Splendid! Splendid!"
He descended the remaining steps with both hands extended, his broad face glowing with pleasure.
"I cannot tell you how delighted I am."
Holmes returned his greeting warmly enough, but his eyes had already traveled over our host's extraordinary attire.
Mr. Goode had plainly determined that if he offered his guests a medieval banquet, he himself should appear equal to the occasion.
He wore a long robe of deep crimson velvet falling almost to the ankles, richly trimmed with fur about the collar and cuffs.
Across his shoulders hung a heavy chain of gilt links, while a broad leather girdle encircled his waist.
Even his ordinarily ruddy appearance seemed somehow enhanced by the richness of the costume, lending him, despite his naturally bluff features, something of the appearance of a prosperous feudal lord welcoming distinguished visitors beneath his own roof.
Holmes regarded him gravely for a moment.
"My dear Mr. Goode," said he, "I greatly fear that Watson and I have come sadly underdressed."
He glanced down at his own evening clothes.
"Our dinner jackets scarcely seem equal to the occasion."
For an instant Mr. Goode stared before bursting into a hearty laugh.
"Not at all, Mr. Holmes! Not at all!"
He dabbed instinctively at one corner of his mouth with his handkerchief.
"I assure you, I considered dressing everyone in period costume, but the expense would have been ruinous. No, no. I have indulged myself alone."
"I congratulate you upon the result."
"I am very much obliged."
Still smiling broadly, he ushered us through the great entrance hall.
"The others have already assembled."
As we approached the door of the dining room I confess to wondering whether we should find the assembled company similarly attired in medieval finery.
The thought had scarcely crossed my mind when the door was opened.
I experienced an immediate sensation of relief.
The dining room remained precisely as I remembered it, transformed into the banqueting chamber of another age.
Tall candles now burned in the great candelabra, their warm light dancing upon polished pewter and silver.
The heraldic banners hanging from the walls seemed almost alive in the flickering illumination, while the long linen-covered tables glowed invitingly beneath the countless flames.
The guests themselves, however, were dressed exactly as civilized gentlemen ought to be.
Black evening coats and white ties had thankfully prevailed over historical enthusiasm.
Mr. Goode conducted us forward with scarcely concealed pride.
"Gentlemen," said he, "may I present Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson."
The introductions which followed were made with commendable brevity.
"Sir Reginald Pell."
The elderly gentleman bowed gravely.
"Mr. Rupert Blaine."
A spare, keen-faced man acknowledged us with a courteous inclination of the head.
"Mr. Edmund Thane."
A heavily built gentleman with silver hair rose stiffly from his chair.
"Mr. Cedric Frobisher."
A broad-shouldered individual whose lively eyes suggested a naturally inquisitive disposition smiled pleasantly.
"Sir Oswald Drury."
The oldest gentleman present, white-haired and distinguished in appearance, actually rose and stepped forward to shake hands with each of us.
"And Mr. Algernon Preece."
The final member of the company, a thin, carefully dressed gentleman of quiet manner, greeted us with restrained courtesy.
Holmes and I acknowledged each introduction in turn before taking the places reserved for us at table.
"I trust," said Mr. Goode, looking happily around the assembled company, "that you are all ready to forgive me if the next few hours occasionally resemble the fourteenth century."
General laughter greeted the remark.
"I shall endeavor," he continued, "to ensure that only the food belongs to that period."
This happy assurance appeared to satisfy everyone.
The first course was carried in by the servants with admirable precision.
Although Mr. Goode himself had, as he had said already, undertaken the preparation of the dishes, he wisely left their service to his household staff, who performed their duties quietly and efficiently throughout the evening.
The opening dish consisted of a rich pottage of peas, leeks, and herbs, thickened until it possessed almost the consistency of a cream. It was delicately seasoned, hearty without heaviness, and met with immediate approval around the table.
"I should willingly dine upon this alone," observed Sir Reginald.
"So should I," agreed Cedric Frobisher.
There followed platters of roast capon accompanied by a fragrant green sauce composed chiefly of parsley and spices, together with river trout delicately cooked and served with almonds.
Freshly baked manchet bread appeared in generous quantity, while dishes of glazed carrots, onions slowly stewed in wine, and mushrooms prepared with herbs completed the courses.
Everything was executed with such evident care that even gentlemen who might ordinarily have regarded medieval cookery with suspicion soon abandoned any reservations.
"I confess," remarked Rupert Blaine, "that I expected worthy archaeology rather than excellent dining."
Mr. Goode, who happened to overhear the compliment while directing the servants, colored with unmistakable pleasure.
"You are exceedingly kind, sir."
Wine flowed generously throughout the meal.
Silver goblets were refilled almost as rapidly as they were emptied, and the conversation gradually assumed that pleasant ease which good food and good claret invariably encourage.
By happy chance I found myself seated beside Sir Oswald Drury, whose conversation proved among the most agreeable I had enjoyed for many months.
Learning that I had served for years in India, he displayed an unexpectedly detailed knowledge of that country, having himself traveled extensively through the subcontinent in younger days while attached to an official commission.
We compared recollections of Bombay and Calcutta, discussed the extraordinary variety of the Indian peoples, and exchanged opinions upon the effect which the climate invariably produced upon European constitutions.
Sir Oswald possessed that happy gift of listening no less attentively than he spoke, and I found his company singularly congenial.
Several times during the evening my attention wandered toward our host.
Mr. Goode seldom remained seated for long.
Now he spoke with one guest, now another, occasionally exchanging a few words with a servant before returning to the head of the table with some fresh explanation concerning the origin of a particular dish or the authority from which Professor Stratton had reconstructed it.
His broad features glowed in the candlelight.
Whether from excitement, the warmth of the crowded room, or perhaps one glass of wine more than was his custom, his cheeks had assumed an even deeper color than usual.
Yet there was nothing unbecoming in his animation.
Rather, he seemed like an artist watching his first exhibition succeed beyond expectation.
More than once I caught him surveying the company with quiet satisfaction.
It was easy enough to understand his thoughts.
Everything had thus far proceeded exactly as he could have wished.
The distinguished gentlemen assembled beneath his roof appeared genuinely delighted by the remarkable entertainment he had devised.
They praised the authenticity of the surroundings, the excellence of the food, and the originality of the entire conception.
If favorable opinion could indeed translate itself into influence, publicity, or investment, then Stanley Goode must surely have begun to believe that the future of Northleigh Manor looked brighter than it had for many years.
Looking around the table, I was struck by another circumstance.
With the exception of Holmes and myself, every gentleman present had already passed well into middle age, while a couple were considerably older still.
They represented experience, influence, and long-established position.
Should even a few of them become enthusiastic advocates of Mr. Goode's undertaking, I could readily imagine others of similar standing following their example.
Indeed, as the candles burned lower and the cheerful conversation continued to fill the dining room, I found myself sincerely hoping that our good-natured host's ambitious enterprise might at last receive the encouragement for which he had labored so diligently.
*
Mr. Goode waited until more wine had been poured before rising from his chair. The animated conversation gradually subsided as he stood smiling at the head of the table, one hand resting lightly upon the polished oak.
"Gentlemen," said he, "I hope you will forgive me if I venture to describe what follows as the pièce de résistance of this evening."
There was an immediate murmur of good-humored anticipation.
"I owe the conception entirely to poor Professor Stratton, who insisted that no medieval banquet worthy of the name could conclude without a magnificent raised pie."
He inclined his head toward the door.
"If you will indulge me."
The door swung open, and four servants entered bearing an immense oval dish between them. A murmur of admiration greeted its appearance.
The pie itself was unlike anything I had ever seen.
Its outer crust had not been fashioned merely to enclose the contents, but had been constructed as a substantial freestanding case of rich golden pastry, several inches thick and beautifully decorated with leaves, vines, shields, and tiny heraldic beasts worked into its surface.
Along the upper rim ran an elaborate braided border, while the lid itself bore an impressive representation of a crowned lion picked out with remarkable skill.
The pastry possessed almost the appearance of carved wood rather than baked dough.