Christmas at Candleshoe by Michael Innes

have called petite , and now she is so stooped – virtually, Grant thinks, into the form of an inverted capital L – as to bear the appearance of something indecisively quadrupedal moving about near the floor. But out of this posture Miss Candleshoe manages to extract more of dignity than pathos. And although doubtless a dotty old thing, she contrives an upward glance of considerable penetration from a pair of very clear black eyes which frame a powerfully hooked nose. Admiral Candleshoe, Grant remembers, has the same nose. Perhaps, before his translation into Gerard Christmas’ stony immortality, he had the same eyes too.
    ‘How do you do? Mr Armigel and I were gratified that you joined us at service. And you now add the further kindness of a call.’ Miss Candleshoe raises a hand above her head and shakes hands with Mrs Feather. ‘It is particularly good of your grandson to come. Youth has many calls.’
    ‘Grant feels, as I do, that it is a privilege to see Candleshoe.’ Mrs Feather declines to find malice in her hostess’ disposition to treat her as a contemporary. ‘It is just such a house as I have dreamed of for a long, long time.’
    Grant Feather grinds his teeth. But neither Miss Candleshoe nor Mr Armigel notice this, since they are engaged in accommodating the visitors with tightly upholstered chairs, massively rich plum-cake, and glasses of wine. Grant suspects that this last may be distilled from cowslips; he sips it and discovers it to be Madeira of a sort superior to that commonly available to junior members of the University of Oxford. Perhaps Madeira lasts forever, and this was laid down in the eighteenth century. It may have been about then that the cake was baked.
    ‘You must not be anxious about the horses.’ Miss Candleshoe herself takes a large slice of plum-cake. This however proves to be for the wolfhound, who has taken up a posture rather like that of the Prince Consort in the engraving above him. ‘My people will see to your carriage, and look after the animals very well.’
    Mrs Feather is delighted. ‘That is very kind of you. As a matter of fact–’
    ‘Although naturally, since the death of my brother Sir James, we have a trifle retrenched in the stables. I do not myself hunt. Nor does Mr Armigel care to do so, although it is a customary and very proper diversion for the clergy. Of cock-fighting I do not approve. Nor should a clergyman – I speak, of course, of the Established Church – attend bouts of fisticuffs.’
    ‘In this, fortunately, we are of one mind.’ Mr Armigel appears to find nothing out-of-the-way in the sequence of his patroness’ thoughts. ‘But I regret the desuetude of the bowling-green.’
    ‘The gardeners must see to it.’ Miss Candleshoe pauses and sips Madeira. ‘If there are any gardeners, that is to say. Since my brother Sir James died several years ago we have been obliged a little to cut down on one side and another. But the topiary, at least, is in tolerable order. The children, I am told, see to that.’
    Here is something about which Grant wants to know. ‘Then you do have kids living here?’ he asks.
    ‘At the moment, only a solitary goat.’ Mr Armigel seems to offer this reply in perfectly good faith. ‘But the poultry are very flourishing, I am glad to say.’
    ‘Only this morning, indeed, we had boiled eggs for breakfast.’ Miss Candleshoe makes this announcement with an innocent triumph somewhat at odds with her grande dame manner. ‘If we had a cow we might have some butter – in which event scrambled eggs would become a distinct possibility. Unfortunately the death of my brother Sir James made it necessary to dispose of the home farm.’
    ‘Living in this wonderful old house has its inconveniences for you?’ Mrs Feather is all sympathy.
    Miss Candleshoe may be observed as giving her visitor a very penetrating glance indeed. ‘The times are indubitably adverse to the landed interest. My brother Sir James tells me – has told