The Case of the Wayward Fae ~ A Chronicle of Mister Marmee

By H.L. Stephens

At the Hanover country estate, as Mister Marmee and Sir Happy Heart take a much needed respite from the rigors of London life, they discover the wicked never go on holiday. As the bodies pile up in what the local authorities are calling "unfortunate accidents," the detective duo begins to suspect there is much more to these mishaps than meets the eye. When evidence of faerie mischief begins to intertwine among the deceased, Sir Happy strikes out on his own to dig up the truth. When Sir Happy is unjustly accused of attacking a well respected man and finds himself a fugitive, it is up to Mister Marmee and a menagerie of animal friends to come to his rescue and clear his name. The only direction Mister Marmee receives from Sir Happy before he disappears is to "follow the faeries." Could the answers to Mister Marmee's questions lie in the shadowy Banum's Wood with an Irish healer named Biddy Early, or is the mystery behind Sir Happy's plight and the murders he was investigating beyond even her all-seeing eye? Mister Marmee will have to use all of his wits to save his friend and solve the mystery of the wayward fae before Sir Happy becomes the next victim.

• Language: English
• Publisher: H.L. Stephens
• Release date: Dec 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310146114

H.L. Stephens

H.L. Stephens blossomed with the wild marshlands of Charleston, SC as the backdrop of her childhood adventures. Growing up in a military family, Stephens met people from all over the world. Such diverse experiences ignited her imagination and nurtured her desire to create new and fantastic realms for others to explore and enjoy. Stephens is proudly owned by a delightful Pomeranian named Sassy who is her constant companion and writing partner. Stephens is also married to the love of her life who hails from the ancient lands of Western Sahara. As her biggest fan and her strongest supporter, Stephens' husband adds the spicy flavor of his exotic homeland and intoxicating histories to her rich imagination.By day, Stephens works for a multi-national software company. In her spare time, she is dedicated to weaving wondrous stories for her readers. Writing in a variety of genres, she continues to uncover the possibilities of new and exciting places in the worlds she creates. She is also a prolific poet, sharing much of her work on her various social media sites. She is compiling a collection of her most popular work for release in both English and Arabic formats.Stephens has completed writing and is currently working on the releases of her third Chronicle of Mister Marmee novel and the first book in a new fantasy series. She is also working on a fictional romance set in the Sahara, as well as a second work of fantasy.

Book preview

Dedication

King David, with all of the manifest blessings in his life, had but one true friend - Jonathan. In the making of this book, I acknowledge and give thanks for the three I have been gifted with since the beginning of my beginning. To my precious mother, who inspired me through her own courageous efforts to cast her written words upon a sea of possibility and dared to believe they would not come back empty. To my beloved father, whose belief in me helped me to believe in myself enough to take those first few tenuous steps toward fulfilling my dreams. To my dear sister, who shared the dreams of childhood with me even after we were old enough to know better.

To them, I dedicate this book.

Chapter 1

Oh, to relive the errors of my youth would be such bliss;

To run amuck amid my early misconceptions divine.

~ Anonymous

I have often wondered whether the person who wrote this whimsical phrase spent a bit too much time in the catnip patch during the thoughtful moment which gave this prose life. It is a phrase which has gained much popularity in my time and is quoted more times than I care to count. I thought it interesting, even cheery, at first, but in the light of my experiences, I find its mention chilling.

If I have learned nothing else in the course of my life, I have come to the painful realization that the misconceptions you carry with you have a profound way of catching you unawares and teaching you lessons you wish you had learned some other way. There have been many times over the years when I have longed never to have learned the heartrending lessons my misconceptions have taught me. For the sake of perhaps sparing another the agony I lived through during that time, I shall share with you one of the most tormenting lessons of my younger years that led to one of the greatest trials I have ever faced.

There is a common misconception that country life is a placid and serene one; free from iniquities. I can assure you, this is far from the truth. The country has its own sordid tales to tell. Intrigue, corruption, and yes, evil exist in the country with as much abundance as they do in the great sprawl of the city. In the rural setting, the darker aspect of humanity hides its existence behind the remoteness of a bucolic community and masks itself beneath the beauty of its natural environment.

The shadowy qualities I mentioned are real, however, and just as malignant in the rural atmosphere as they are in the metropolis. The denizens of that shadowy realm feed on the misfortunes of others, and misfortune can strike anywhere - country or city. Nothing can lure the black hearted souls from their oily lairs faster than the scent of a new victim.

It was shortly after the celebration of the New Year when my eyes were opened to the true nature of the country criminal. I came to the country with my friend and colleague Sir Happy Heart and his family to spend the holidays away from the noise and distraction of London. We arrived at the Hanover estate, called Dawberry Manor, just before the Christmas holiday and were blessed enough to share the festivities with family and friends, both new and old.

It was a time of great reflection for us all, having so nearly lost Sir Happy’s precious owner, Doctor Stephen Hanover, just a few months before. We feasted and celebrated with great joy, but in those quiet moments between the laughter and frivolity were the memories of seeing Stephen’s shredded body lying in a pool of his own blood, barely holding onto life as Sir Happy gave him what comfort he could.

We all witnessed the agonizing recovery of Stephen's mind and body. He was a man who had never known fear but was now riddle with it; a man who now woke screaming in the night from nightmares which reflected what had been a reality to him. We all had been brutalized by the horrors we had witnessed, but poor Stephen had been the one to endure the full measure of what had happened. He carried scars on the outside as well as within. Those scars were a constant, inescapable reminder to him of what he had been through. The relocation to the country was a much needed distraction and rest from the arduous therapy he had undergone since his attack.

For my readers who are unfamiliar with the history, I shall take a moment to recount the events which brought Stephen to his current state. Just a few months prior to my current narrative, Stephen was attacked by a vicious dog named Brutus. Over a period of countless months, London was terrorized by a series of gory attacks. One unfortunate peddler was murdered because he had seen too much and had tried to profit from it.

The Yard was getting nowhere in their investigation, and so they began reaching out to experts within the community. One of those experts was Doctor Stephen Hanover. Hyrum Farley, an inspector of the Yard and a dear friend of the family, knew Stephen was an authority on forensic dentistry. He brought many of the attack victims to Stephen for evaluation. After molds of the bites were taken and compared, including ones taken from the murder victim, it was determined all of the attacks were committed by the same canine.

In the meantime, Sir Happy Heart and I began our own investigation. Using our standing within the animal community to find clues and follow leads undiscovered by our human counterparts our inquiries led us to the lair of the monster but not before Stephen became his next and final victim.

Through cooperative efforts between Inspector Farley, Sir Happy, and me, we were able to bring the perpetrators to justice, but the price we paid was a heavy one. My leg was shattered during our investigation and the lighthearted, carefree Stephen we all knew and loved was perhaps lost to us forever; replaced by a careful, less trusting, haunted soul. Only time would tell if he could recover. Much had been stolen from him. It was our hope the country setting and the holidays would replenish what had been lost.

My sweet Annie and our friend Hyrum, joined us at Dawberry, and for the first time in months, I saw a return of the sparkle of life which had always existed in Stephen’s eyes. The comfort of friends and family - especially the presence of his faithful dachshund, Sir Happy - did what no medicine or cutting edge therapy could; it battered down the wall of isolation that had formed as a result of his trauma. Each new day brought a sense of revitalization to him as we had hoped it would.

Nothing shone more brightly for me that Christmas than Stephen's smile. Not the candles on tree; not the brightly decorated packages beneath it; not the brilliant blanket of snow which lay fresh and new outside. It warmed my heart as no roaring fire could, and I reveled in the glow of it each moment it made its glorious appearance.

As we feasted and laughed and danced and celebrated, a ray of hope shone within the hearts of all of us that the New Year would see Stephen as a new man; free from the chains of fear which had bound him far too long. Unbeknownst to us, a new adventure was brewing; one that would test Stephen’s new-found strength and bring Sir Happy to the brink of his own destruction.

Chapter 2

Life was just beginning to make its transition from the high spirits of the holidays into the daily routine of winter life when the first glimmer of our adventure made its appearance on the horizon. Hyrum had returned to London to resume his duties at the Yard, and my Annie returned to school to once again resume the enrichment of her mind. Life was as droll and as unexciting as one could expect it to be after such celebration, and I welcomed in some small measure the time for quiet contemplation, though I missed my Annie the moment she stepped into the carriage that once again took her from me. We had just received our third blanket of snow for the New Year when news arrived of a terrible accident not far from our location.

A young lad who helped maintain the grounds at Dawberry raced in one morning after breakfast. His name was Jonathan Russell, and he was terribly distressed. He said two men had been trampled by their horses and were in desperate need of medical attention. Ordinarily, such a catastrophic event would have been attended to immediately by the local country physician, Doctor Mortimer Rutgers. However, Doctor Rutgers had developed a painful case of the gout and had prescribed for his own recovery a long holiday in the south of France. The next closest medical professional was over five miles away, and it was doubtful the two men could survive such an arduous journey in their current condition. The men needed to be treated by someone who understood trauma of this magnitude.

It was most advantageous that Stephen had spent time studying to become a surgeon before shifting his focus to veterinary medicine. Even with the shift in careers, he had taken great care in maintaining what knowledge he had gained during his time in medical school, making him well equipped to handle an accident like this. Charles Hurst, his faithful friend and veterinary assistant, would act as a second set of hands through whatever procedures were required.

Knowing we had two grievously injured men on their way to Dawberry, Mary Trilby, our housekeeper, was called for and asked to assist Charles in setting up one of the spare rooms as a make-shift triage ward. The men moved furniture around while Mrs. Trilby did her best to disinfect the surfaces. She ensured there were plenty of clean linens and hot water to clean and dress wounds. With the room readied, the two injured men were brought in with the help of some of the villagers who had come upon the scene of the accident and desired to be of service.

It was a gruesome mess of flesh that was brought into the spare room. Both men were covered in blood. It took several minutes to cut off clothes and wash exposed soft tissue just to determine where the injuries were. Stephen and Charles worked tirelessly trying to evaluate and stabilize each man in turn. The first man had a cracked sternum, a crushed arm, and several broken ribs. There was extensive bruising over his torso that was beginning to develop, and Stephen worried about the extent of internal injuries, especially uncontrolled internal bleeding.

To reduce the complications of it, Stephen had the servants soak towels in water and lay them out in the snow to get cold. He then had the icy towels laid across the bruised areas of the man's body. Stephen said it would help staunch the flow of bleeding and reduce further swelling of the tissue. The rest of the man's body was covered in blankets, warmed by the fireside.

The second man had similar injuries of broken and crushed bones, but his injuries had greater complications. One of his ribs had punctured his lung, and he had a bloody froth around his mouth when he was first brought to the manor. There were also lacerations on his hands and an odd perforation in his abdomen that was very deep. Stephens mentioned internal bleeding which could not be stopped. There was nothing Stephen or Charles could do to save him. He had already lost so much blood, and his breathing sounded rather curious when he was able to breathe at all. All they could do was staunch the bleeding and sedate him in the hope he would not suffer in his last moments on earth. The seriousness of the second man's injuries finally threw him into a feverish stupor, and he died not long after he was brought under our care. Stephen was very disheartened by the loss.

There was still hope the first man would survive his injuries. There was no froth around his mouth, and he seemed to be breathing well enough to indicate his lungs were intact. Stephen said the first few days would be the most critical. Regardless of the hopeful outcome, a man by the name of Samuel Mowbry, who happened to be the first person on scene, was sent to fetch the local parson just in case. After all, the first thing a medical student should learn in his studies is never take the human constitution for granted.

Charles’ wife, Amelia, was beside herself with grief for the two men who did not have the comfort of loved ones during their time of greatest suffering. Although she was none too fond of blood in any form, Amelia sat with the second man as he lay near death's door and held his hand, offering him the comfort of human touch as she recited the 23rd Psalm.

The Lord is my shepherd… Her voice was sweet and soft as she recited her favorite psalm. For her, there was no greater comfort she could give. As her voice drifted down upon the dying man, I swore I saw his tortured visage begin to relax.

It was a beautiful vision seeing our own sweet angel minister with such love to a stranger whose name she might never know. Her words of peace were a comfort to us all as we were once again reminded of what we had so recently experienced with Stephen. It was a hard series of events, wrapped in uncertainty. They had a profound effect on each of us for various reasons.

Amelia had always said judgment was God's work. To an extent, I would agree, for in the eternity, only the good Lord could determine the fate of a man's soul. Upon this earth, however, there was the law of man, and I had just begun to dip my paw into its murky waters. Though I have discovered it is by no means a perfect system, it has in many instances brought closure, if not comfort, in times when the victims of the earth’s despicable deeds await the Lord’s ultimate punishment for the crimes committed against the innocent.

Facing the hardness of the world as often as I have in the cases I have helped to investigate, it is a natural and common side effect to become as hard internally as the people I hunt. I have made it a point within myself to battle such a change in character and to protect others who are exposed to the darker sides of humanity from the same hardening of self. I therefore found it a great mercy later on that neither Amelia nor the rest of us knew at that time the true nature of the men we were ministering to.

When the parson finally arrived, a most curious series of events took place which quickly caught Sir Happy’s notice. Samuel Mowbry, who had first discovered the two unfortunate men, declared the surviving man should be moved to his cottage at the edge of the woods as soon as the man was well enough to make the journey. He said the surviving man was ultimately his responsibility to look after; that the Lord had seen fit to place both men in his path and he was not going to surrender the burden to another. When Stephen graciously declined, Mowbry acted as if finding the two men gave him some sort of precedence in overseeing the surviving man’s care. It did not take long for the discussion to become a bit heated as each side desired to bestow the best care upon the surviving man. Amelia would have none of it. She insisted that her hand would care for the stranger until such time as his family could be located in order to surrender him and his possessions to their care. She was unwavering on the matter, and Mowbry could find no reasonable argument to break through her fortress of resistance. The matter was settled. The man and his belongings stayed at Dawberry.

Since it was uncertain which of the two men owned the cart and the two horses, it was decided the animals, the cart, and all of its contents would be moved to the Dawberry stables until full ownership could be determined. This outcome was begrudgingly accepted by Mowbry who at first seemed inclined to lay claim on everything, as though he had found a hidden treasure and had entitlement to any possessions identified. The Dawberry household attributed Mowbry’s odd insistence on taking the stranger with him as a result of his deep desire to care for the man whose life he helped save. Sir Happy, however, took issue with this theory, stating there was more to Mowbry’s benevolence than met the eye.

There is something akin to avariciousness in Mowbry’s demeanor which sets my fur on end, Sir Happy said when we had a moment alone. I do not trust him or his good will toward our injured guest. Tell me again Marmee what this Mowbry claimed were the events of the morning.

I believe Mowbry reported to the constable that he came upon the two men not moments after the event occurred, I replied. He stated he found a few blankets in the cart, used them to protect the two men from the elements, and then went to find some help. That is when he ran into young Jonathan and old man Tobin and elicited their assistance for the two men.

Sir Happy’s brow wrinkled. Did he mention how he came to the spot?

My understanding was he was on foot gathering wood when he found the men, I answered.

That is most unusual, Marmee, would you not agree? he asked. Mowbry lives about a mile from where the two men were found, in a cottage with two levels. Yet he was only collecting enough wood for his two arms to carry and at such a distance from his home. It would hardly be worth the trip into the cold for so little. Besides, there would have been plenty of fallen wood around his dwelling, since his cottage is surrounded by trees. My guess is Mowbry was out and about for more than just firewood. He either had a cart full of something he wished to remain concealed, or he was out in these frigid temperatures to meet someone in secret. Whether it was a surreptitious rendezvous with these men or someone else matters little at this point. I have a feeling Mowbry has something to hide or at least protect, and I am going to find out what it is.

Over the years, I have grown to dread it when my friend declares ‘I am going to find out’ whatever it is he is going to find out. His declarations usually involve me sticking my nose into every sort of mess man can invent, trudging from one God forsaken location to another in the most dreadful of conditions. Since it was cold enough to freeze a man’s sweat before it had a chance to run down his face, I knew my friend’s declaration meant I would be out in unfriendly, arctic conditions, conducting whatever investigation he felt was necessary to answer the burning questions that plagued his mind. I have also learned to accept my fate in these instances and follow my friend into whatever mystery and misery he uncovers in the process; especially as argument and reason avail me nothing when I try to use them to combat his singular pursuit. At this point in time in our relationship, however, I still had not reached such a level of understanding.

Sir Happy, be reasonable, I said. Mowbry has just been through a harrowing ordeal and witnessed what no man should ever be forced to witness. Perhaps he is not recollecting events as clearly as he would under normal circumstances, or perhaps he is reluctant to share every detail regarding his whereabouts. I feel certain, whichever the case may be, when the truth is revealed, we will discover at worst Mowbry was poaching firewood from someone else’s land. Besides, he has lived in this village for years and is known by everyone. He may not be well liked, but he is at least well known. If he had some secret life, I feel certain the villagers would know about it by now.

Sir Happy shook his head in disagreement. Marmee, old boy, you have much to learn about human nature. Secrets are best kept in the country. There are fewer eyes out here and more ways to conceal that which the secretive man wants to hide. I do not believe our Mowbry is as upstanding as you would like to presume, especially not in this matter. Just you wait and see. We’ll sniff out his secrets soon enough.

I hated it when my friend was right.

Chapter 3

The frigid temperatures worked in our favor with regards to the man who lost his life. They prevented the rapid putrefaction of tissue, meaning we had a bit more time on our hands; time to attempt to find out who he was and where he came from. Had it been the middle of summer when this event occurred, we would have no such luxury. The heat alone would have forced a speedy burial, but with the freezing temperatures and inhospitable weather, our greatest concern was having the body become too cold, potentially damaging his tissue. The man’s remains were removed from the spare room and were relocated to a cold store room where we stored essentials for the winter, until such time as we could determine the appropriate action to take. He was laid with great care and respect on a cot between a barrel of pickled herring and a side of smoked beef.

The events of the day had drawn quite a throng of viewers, even with the thick blanket of snow on the ground. There were so many spectators and such a fuss surrounding the tragedy, it felt at times as though the entire local village had emptied all of its residents in and around Dawberry manor. Some members of the community came to offer assistance. Others gathered to exchange speculation on what they felt really happened, as though they had some insight to whole affair the rest of us lacked. Still others appeared to think they were attending a show at the theatre and awaited the next spectacle of mayhem and misfortune. We had more hands than we had work to give them, but put them to work we did, giving them whatever odd employment we could find for them to do. The task of managing the crowd was almost as daunting as the reason for its presence.

As the evening drew nigh, however, it was determined best for everyone to return to their respective dwelling places in case the weather decided to deliver another layer of snow. By the time everyone vacated the premises, it was late into the evening hours.

We had cold mutton and day old bread for our supper with very little else, although Amelia warmed a bowl of sweetened cream for me as was her custom, and Mrs. Trilby brought us tea a short while before we all retired. Exhaustion rested like a funeral mask upon everyone’s features. I wanted nothing more than to crawl into my bed and sleep until the aching of my bones and the heaviness in my heart retreated. Amelia insisted on looking in on her patient one more time before going to bed herself, and Charles, being the sweet soul he was, went with her.

With the solitude of darkness came the agony of a restless mind. My wearied body screamed for the comfort of slumber, but my mind would not comply with its demands. I was plagued by the events of the day, not just because a man had lost his life in my presence. It was horrific enough. What disturbed me and prevented me from escaping the reality of the daylight hours into the arms of my dreams was the feeling that the events as we knew them did not add together as I thought they should. Inconsistencies scratched at the back of my brain, but I was too drained mentally to put my paw upon their exact source. I was reluctant to agree with Sir Happy’s assessment of Mowbry, but I was beginning to think my friend might be on to something in believing there was more to this incident than met the eye.

I thought a nice midnight refreshment would help put my brain back in order and perhaps assist me in clearing my thoughts. After all, no truly gifted intellect could concentrate with a gurgling stomach nearby. I made my way to the cold store room to catch a smoked kipper or two. My grave mistake was forgetting that several of the villagers had laid the body of the dead man to rest there. What a sight greeted me when I eased opened the store room door.

I was not the only resident of Dawberry manor to suffer from a sleepless night, for there in the dim light of a bedroom oil lamp were Charles and Sir Happy in the initial stages of performing a crude postmortem examination of the body. While I sought mental clarity in the comfort of smoked libations, my two friends sought answers in the victim’s remains. The contrast in what we sought for our succor was unspeakably disturbing in that late hour.

I suppose I should not have been surprised by my discovery because Charles had said at supper that several of the injuries were suspicious and deserved a closer look. He specifically mentioned the wounds to the victim’s hands and abdomen. I knew even then it was just a matter of time before he scrutinized the remains. I just did not expect the examination to occur in the middle of the night, while I was seeking food to comfort and console me.

Our dear friend Hyrum had made the horrible mistake of giving Charles a copy of William A. Guy’s Principles of Forensic Medicine. It was used as a murder field guild of sorts by the Metropolitan Police to help identify whether a body had met with foul play and to determine how such foul play might have occurred. The book, combined with Charles’ natural curiosity and his knowledge and experience in medicine and anatomy, proved to be a dangerous mixture, at least as far as I was concerned. I had had my fill of mystery and mayhem with our last case and was more than ready to put my detective’s hat away for a while. It did not bode well for me and my investigative retirement when I saw Charles and Sir Happy pouring over the book and the body.

Do you see here on his hands? Charles began. These lacerations appear to be clean cuts as opposed to the type of jagged gashes one would expect to find in an accident like this. According to my forensic manual such marks upon the hands and arms are described as defensive wounds, sustained when a victim attempts to defend themselves against a blade wielding attacker. Look here at this wound on his abdomen. I would swear it looks like a stab wound.

Charles and Sir Happy peered over the corpse like two children enthralled by the vast assortment of sweets in a new sweets shop. They were so enthralled by their findings in fact that neither one realized I had entered the room until they heard me fumbling with the box of smoked kipper. My sudden appearance, combined with the low light and the company of a dead body, startled both of them. Charles even clutched his chest as though he was trying to keep his heart in its proper place. Sir Happy gave a reflexive bark of alarm, and nearly fell off the chair he was standing on in the process.

Good heavens, Marmee! Charles exclaimed. You gave us such a fright.

I meowed my apologies for my unexpected appearance and explained I was unable to sleep and needed something on my stomach. There was no way I could know they were in the room doing what they were doing.

Quite alright, Marmee, Charles said, reaching over to offer me a conciliatory rub on the head. Sir Happy and I ran into each other in the kitchen, searching for our own midnight nibble to help quiet our overactive minds. It was there we decided to take another look at our poor friend here. You are welcome to join us if you like.

The concept of remaining by choice in the company of a dead body felt like the most unnatural and gruesome thing for a gentleman to do, considering most creatures have an innate aversion to death. Part of me wanted to take my kipper and scuttle back to my room as fast as my legs could carry me. The other part of me wanted to remain where I was and share in Charles’ post mortem findings. I could not determine which annoyed me more; my indecision or once again being drawn into another potential crime. As I stood there battling my conundrum, I felt a mounting eagerness in me to once again grapple with a riddle that needed solving. My curiosity was beginning to get the better of me, but I did not want to admit it to anyone; least of all myself.

In the end, my curiosity triumphed over my reticence, and I remained with my morbid friends as they poked and prodded at the frigid flesh before them. I chose a location which gave me an excellent vantage point but was not too close to the body, all the while nibbling my kipper and ruing my weakness.

You know, Charles is right, Marmee, Sir Happy said, as Charles continued with his scrutiny of the victim’s body. These wounds are not consistent with injuries caused by trampling but are more consistent with injuries caused by a knife blade of some sort.

Do not encourage him, I grumbled. The last thing we need right now is another murder on our paws. Leave well enough alone, I say. Sir Happy snorted at my remark but said nothing. I of course leaned closer so as not to miss a thing.

Charles looked up from his examination and said, I would need Stephen to concur with my findings, but I do believe this man was murdered or at least helped along on his journey towards the afterlife. I cannot say for certain whether the fatal wounds came before or after the accident, but I would be willing to wager this man died from these knife wounds and not the injuries from the accident.

There it was; the beginning of another deadly adventure.

Chapter 4

The next morning Charles confirmed his findings with Stephen. The questionable wounds resulted from a knife of some sort and not a result of the accident. As soon as the two men concluded their morbid conference, the constable was sent for a second time. Amelia had wanted to wait until after breakfast, but Charles insisted there could be no delay in alerting the local authorities; not when there was a murderer on the loose. Amelia was resolute about breakfast, and Jonathan was dispatched only after he had taken his fill of toast, scrambled eggs, and tea. Amelia insisted he take some food with him since she knew it would take him several hours to reach the constable’s residence and then bring him back again, travel conditions being what they were in the snow.

The trip will be all the harder with the new blanket of snow we received last night, Amelia said, as she foisted another bundle of baked goods under Jonathan’s arm. The food and drink will keep you warm.

If the food did little to warm the young man in his travels, I felt certain the caring of such a dear woman would.

I was ready to retire in front of the toasty fire and take my customary after breakfast nap when Sir Happy raced up to me and whispered, Hurry, Marmee, we haven’t a moment to lose.

I pretended not to hear him and rolled over so my back was to him. I had no intention of participating in a walk about the property. The fire was warm and inviting. The snow was not.

Come on, Marmee, get a move on it, Sir Happy whispered more loudly. He accentuated his urgings with a most unpleasant poke to my ribs.

Where are we going? I asked with a stretch, knowing I was not going to like the answer.

To the stable, old chap, to discover for ourselves if there is something worth killing for in that cart, he said.

I rolled my eyes with annoyance as I mumbled to myself, I knew it!

What was that? Sir Happy asked, narrowing his eyes at me.

Oh nothing, I replied, as I followed my eager friend in the direction of my awaiting misery.

The snow was piled high in crisp white drifts of unwelcome splendor. Ordinarily, I celebrated such a glorious winter delight, but knowing I would soon be forced to trek out into the unforgiving cold deprived me of more than a small portion of the delight I normally felt at such a magnificent sight.

At first glance, the depth of the snow was not all imposing, but I learned the error in my visual calculations when I leapt out into it and discovered much to my horror, I had buried myself to the tufts of hair on my ears. Much to my displeasure, I also discovered it was a wet snow that clung to my fur in giant clumps of icy discomfort. I did my best to leap back onto my original perch, but considering I still had a layer of wet snow beneath me, I had to settle for a less graceful scramble up the small set of stairs which led to it.

I was frozen and breathless by the time I once again rejoined Sir Happy. He had wisely chosen not to follow suit in my apparent reckless behavior and had remained behind in relative comfort as he witnessed my entire ordeal in the snow; with no small measure of amusement I might add. While I plucked the ice balls from between my frozen paw pads, Sir Happy made a poor attempt at commending my efforts.

That was quite a fascinating maneuver, old boy, he said. It was effective at least in gauging the depth of the snow.

I wrinkled my nose at him as I said, Your accolades might be more convincing were they not so noticeably wrapped in your mirth. To laugh at my expense when you abandoned me to plunge alone into the snow is downright ungentlemanly. And to think, it was your idea to go pouncing around in this Godforsaken snow in the first place.

Sir Happy could not help but chuckle again as he said, Forgive me my friend, but I knew the snow was too deep the moment I realized the garden’s gazing ball and its stand were almost completely buried.

I looked to where my friend was pointing and sure enough, all but the top third of the gazing ball was buried beneath the snow.

You might have mentioned it before I leapt down from here, I said, more than a little annoyed.

Sir Happy looked very innocent as he said, I thought you knew. I wisely gave no response and continued with my plucking.

I looked out over the sea of whiteness which appeared to my disenchanted eye more like a barren, Arctic wasteland than the remnants of our once cultivated garden.

Since we are faced with an impassible barrier of snow, how do you propose we reach the stables? I asked.

It is not completely impassible, Marmee, he replied. If you look along the wall of the manor and again along the shrubbery line, you will see the snow accumulation is not as deep as it is elsewhere. If you look near the shrubbery’s end where it comes within a few meters of the stables, you will also note the path the stable-hands made so they could feed and water the horses. There are no more than two or three meters separating the shrubs from their tracks in the snow. I feel certain it is a distance we can manage for such a worthy cause.

I snorted at the thought; at least as much as a cat can snort, at any rate. The idea of referring to our tramping out in snow that was taller than our heads as a worthy cause would have been laughable if it weren’t so absurd.

Worthy cause, indeed. It’s not as if we are on our way to feed the poor. You just want to get to the stables so you can riffle through a dead man’s belongings, I grumbled.

Oh pshaw, old man’ Sir Happy said. It will do you good to get some exercise after all of your excessive eating over the holidays. Besides there is nothing like a brisk walk in the chill air to get the old blood pumping.

Or the coronary started, I mumbled.

What did you say? Sir Happy asked, his head snapping in my direction like a strip of new rubber.

Nothing.

Then lead the way, Marmee. I shall be right behind you, he said.

I just bet you will, I thought to myself. There was nothing left for me to do but trudge ahead. After all with Sir Happy behind me, any hope of retreat was lost to me.

I have to admit one thing; Sir Happy was right about our initial path. We made exceptional time as we travelled along the manor wall and the well-kept shrubbery. We still traversed through snow that was deep enough to lend a cold, wet kiss to my underside, but it was manageable. My winter coat was not as substantial as I would have liked. Waves of icy shivers coursed down my body so that I began to worry I would never be properly warm again. My back legs ached from the cold, and the portion of it which had been fractured became so stiff and uncooperative; several times I had to stop and shake it out.

I must acknowledge this about my friend; he was very patient about it all, especially considering how cold he must have been. One must understand the true nature of a dachshund to comprehend the full magnitude of the sacrifice of comfort Sir Happy was making in venturing out in such bitter weather.

Dachshunds are consummate heat seekers detesting, in general, any environment where the ambient temperature drops below that of a balmy summer day. When conditions fall below their optimum best, the average dachshund will dig and burrow beneath whatever blanket, pillow, or discarded piece of clothing they can find in order to conserve as much body heat as possible. Being so low to the ground, snowfall of any significance becomes a