The Prisoner by Karyn Monk

’!” SHOUTED OLIVER IRRITABLY . “I canna move faster than this!”
    That was, in fact, a matter of debate. Whoever was rapping heavily upon the front door appeared to take him at his word, however, and the insistent knocking stopped.
    â€œHave ye nae learned the virtue of patience?” Oliver grumbled, grasping the latch with his gnarled hands. “Did yer ma nae teach ye ’tis no proper to be breakin’ down an old man’s door?” He swung the door open, finishing crossly, “Have ye no more manners than a stinkin’, hairy—oh, beggin’ yer pardon, Governor Thomson.”
    â€œKindly inform Miss MacPhail that Police Constable Drummond and I must speak with her at once on a most urgent matter,” said Governor Thomson impatiently.
    Oliver leaned against the door and idly scratched his white head. “What’s amiss, then? Did someone finally take a torch to that nasty pile o’ rubble ye call a jail?”
    Indignation nearly turned the roots of Governor Thomson’s wiry beard pink. “I’ll have you know I run a respectable prison, which meets with all the current recommendations of the Inspector of Prisons for Scotland. Second, what I choose to discuss with Miss MacPhail is none of your concern. And third, if you had learned anything whatsoever about being a butler since you left my prison, you would open this door this minute and escort the constable and myself into the drawing room to await Miss MacPhail’s company.”
    Oliver snapped his brows together in a snowy scowl. “Is that so? Well, I’d wager yer precious inspector would make a far different list of recommendations if he’d been made to actually stay in that stinkin’ cesspool a week or so. Second, I’m nae in the habit of lettin’ anyone enter this house without havin’ them state their business first. And third, as Miss MacPhail is my mistress, I’ll be lettin’ her decide whether ye’ll be sittin’ in her house or standin’ out here biding yer time on the doorstep.” He slammed the door in their startled faces.
    â€œLet them stew over that for a moment.” He chuckled. “Are ye ready, then, lassie?”
    â€œAlmost,” said Genevieve, lifting her skirts as she hurried down the staircase. She had been tending to her patient, who was still sleeping, and had needed a moment to straighten her appearance before facing the authorities. “You may show them into the drawing room, Oliver.” She rushed into the room and seated herself.
    Oliver waited another moment, just to further annoy Governor Thomson before finally opening the door. “Miss MacPhail will see ye both in the drawing room.” He raised an arthritic arm and gestured grandly at the modestly appointed room.
    Regarding him with irritation, Governor Thomson removed his coat and hat and held them out for Oliver to take.
    â€œâ€™Tis kind o’ ye to offer, but I canna say I’m particularly fond of black,” Oliver told him. “Makes ye look like a corpse, Guv’ner, if ye dinna mind my sayin’ so. Besides, ye’ll only be wantin’ them again when ye’re leaving.”
    Governor Thomson huffed with exasperation and marched into the drawing room, carrying his rejected attire. Constable Drummond removed his own hat and followed behind him, his thin mouth pressed into a line of disgust, as if Oliver’s rudeness was no more than what he expected.
    â€œGood morning, Governor Thomson,” said Genevieve pleasantly. “Constable Drummond. Please, sit down. May I offer you some refreshment?”
    â€œThat won’t be necessary,” Constable Drummond replied before Governor Thomson could accept.
    â€œForgive us for disturbing you this morning, Miss MacPhail,” Governor Thomson apologized, plopping his corpulent backside into a chair, “but I’m afraid something terrible has happened. Lord