The Mata Hari Institute of Culinary Excellence

[Pleater]

I returned the buck to the rabbit house next morning, the air was crisp and clear and the scent of juniper, corriander and angelica wafted lightly over the snow.

Another fall of snow had occured during the night, so the burnt areas were covered over. After checking that the rabbits all had sufficient straw, hay, water and food pellets I went up to the belvedere to get an aerial view of the damage. The impacts formed an almost perfect circle around the House, fortunately no one had been hurt except for one sprained ankle sustained running along a corridor to keep the Saltaire in view. The countryside covered in snow was rather lovely.

I went down to breakfast and found the captain looking very fragile and trying to eat a slice of dry toast without making a noise.
'How are you this beautiful morning?' I asked unsolicitously.
'Did I really use gin to bombard the garden?'
'Yes, It was quite spectacular. You must tell me how you contrived gin bombs.'
'I don't remember - except that it seemed like a good idea at the time.'
I found some kedgeree, and carried my plate to the table, at which point the captain uttered a small distressed sound and left, followed by one of the security team. Other members of staff appeared. Madam Fifi was very taken with the officer who had coordinated the daring ascent to the gondola.
'Who was that masked man? Do we know his name?'
'I suspect that he wished to remain anonymous. He was rather dashing though.'
'The way he climbed up that rope, it was most astonishing, but than he climbed inside and I could not see any more - then there was the great poof of gin - really 'orrible.'
'It was still there when I went out this morning.'
'It is so cold still - is the heating broken?'
'No - it is just that everyone opened windows and let out all the heat from the building last night. Perhaps we should get some steam from the Saltire to warm the place up again.'
'Oh that would be good. I am always cold here.'
'Are you? I did not realise - I will make you something warm to wear.'
'Ah but the things you make - I am sorry, but they are not stylish.'
'They are only intended to be warm - but if you show me what you would wear I will try to make it for you before the really cold weather arrives.'
Madam Fifi shuddered, but I finished eating quickly and went to find out who amongst the Saltires would be able to engineer a steam hose from the air ship to the House.

By noon the heat was percolating through the building, and I went to the cellars to make sure that the cold room was not being affected. The chill was unchanged, so I returned to the ground floor and noted that it was snowing again. The last of the Saltires who had not chosen between the two colours of fur for their sporrans came to me with a request to see them again, in daylight this time, and before long they had all made a decision except the captain, who seemed unable to decide. I suggested that he consult Hamish, and he carried the sporrans off to the appartment. He was looking a little less wan by then.
I checked that the gels were practising innocent Christmas fare and looked in on the trainee chefs, who were working on croissants.

[Pleater]

The captain returned with a look of resolve in his eye, though only after some hours of deep discussion, first with Hamish, then with various members of the Saltire's crew. He also wore the dark version of the sporran, already engraved with his name. I was practicing katas in the old Library - which has no books, and is normally too cold to use in the colder months, but thanks to the Saltire's most excellent heating system was now quite pleasant. He waited until I had finished and then he walked across the floor with a light step and lifted chin, as though he already proposed to cross vast distances.

'You intend to hunt the Giant Arctic Flying Squirrel again.' I said - it was not a question, I knew that a man so driven would never give up the quest to wear the pelt of the Acryli-beast he had killed himself.
He bowed gracefully, and smiled, but absently, already he was thinking of the hunt. He had changed from the maroon kilt of the Saltires into a handsome kilt of a mainly blue tartan, with a deep blue jacket, a light blue tie with a gold pattern, - his attire could not have been better chosen if it had been selected by Hamish - and perhaps it had.

'I was so foolish to think that any other pelt could satisfy me. The rabbit fur is excellent, and I will one day return to purchase a sporran, should the buck prove to be able to pass on his appearance to his progeny. Henceforth I will be proud to wear the blue arctos fur sporran made to commemorate Hamish's return as it is the most elegant accessory to our tartan. However, though I will return home with the Saltire - I vow that one day soon I will again seek out an Acryli-beast and slay it by my own efforts, in the far North, and in the white form, as nothing else will suffice.'

I bowed in return.

'I wish you good luck and success in your endeavor. I have - however, to tell you of what might be a small impediment to your plans.'
'Not the Saltire! Surely my moment of madness has not damaged that most-'

I held up my hand reassuringly. 'She is entirely undamaged, except for a tiny scorch mark on the deck of the gondola which even now is being expunged by your excellent technicians, caused by the hot metal of the missile's exhaust. Even now she is safe at her moorings and being readied for your return home. No - it is something more personal. All the stocks of gin are gone.'
He rallied from the blow most nobly.
'How?' he enquired, his voice tremulous, and he turned away his face to hide his eyes.
'I can't be certain - perhaps it was used to make the exploding canisters, perhaps it was dispersed in the release of the build up of steam pressure which threatened the airship, or perhaps it was drunk by the marines and others who came to offer assistance. All I can be certain of is that there is no gin aboard the Saltire, though the wormwood liquor, olives and the rest are untouched.'
He straightened up, cleared his throat.
'It is a most dreadful blow, but the vermouth is safe?'
I nodded, touched by his fortitude in the face of loss.
'Then I will send out for new stocks, I will replenish my supplies, it will be restored.' he declared, his eyes flashed, he was resolved to overcome this disaster entirely.
'Bravo!' I responded. 'However - it might be wise to check that the Saltire can cope with the weight. You have bought so much on your tour that the lifting power of the Helium might not be sufficient to carry you home safely.'
He nodded. 'You are wise to caution me, it might indeed be necessary to discard a few items in order to ensure a safe passage home.'
'There are the flour scales in the pantry if you wish to ascertain the weight of the various parcels.' I offered.
'Can it weigh persons too?'
'Easily - you wish to ensure the safety of your crew?'
'Something like that.' he said, smiling that far away smile again. 'Now - please excuse me - I have much to organise.'
I nodded, and he turned with a swirl of deep pleats and strode away, to whatever fate awaited him.

[Pleater]

The weather had changed to rain overnight, so the snow was gone and the air was warmer. We were no longer using the Saltire's steam generator for heating as the House is now at a most pleasant temperature, which it will retain for some time as long as we are careful.

At the invitation of the military several of the Saltires went over to the firing ranges to experience live firing. Luckily someone spoke them about it at breakfast, shortly before they left, and explained that it was the tanks which were the targets, so they would be wise not to be near one when the firing started. That made them quite thoughtful.

Those remaining in the House were busy readying their belongings for the journey and the laundry room was a hive of activity as new purchases were unpacked and pressed to be ready to wear.

The gardeners had inspected the damage, and were quite optimistic that in a decade or so there would be no trace of it remaining. The gazebo, under its multiple layers of paint, I had assumed was wooden, but in its burnt off state it was revealed to be rather good cast iron. The gardeners will clean it up and remake it, they say, as good as ever by the spring.

Matron has declared herself redundant now in Hamish's case, as he is holding court in his apartment apparently fully restored, though Mister Charles is seeing that he gets some beef tea mid morning just to be sure, and visitors are forbidden for several hours after lunch.

A thorough search has been made of the captain's quarters, to try to locate the rubber chicken he blames for his behaviour, but the security team reported that there is no sign of it there. However the keys to the weapons racks were found - in the sporran in his wardrobe. It was fortunate that the captain chose to wear dark leather yesterday.

I contacted the met office to request a date for the return trip of the Saltire, and they will inform me when there is an interval of settled weather predicted.

I suddenly found myself with nothing to do this afternoon, and so went home.
After some housework I sat down to sew for a while, and made good progress on a waistband until I was called to the House. The captain had been thought to be working in his rooms, but when afternoon tea was taken up he had been discovered locked in a wardrobe and somewhat rumpled. It seemed that a couple of the men had taken exception to his little joke about where to get the best view of the firing, and he had been thrown into the wardrobe shortly before their departure. He returned to the paper strewn desk and began to recalculate the weights for the flight home. He made light of what he called a prank, which was perhaps wise as he could have got several of his crew blown to pieces on the firing range.

[Pleater]

I had been vaguely aware that something odd had happened, and finally I realised that when the Saltire had arrived the first time, the captain was the one who spoke German - and then when they were away the man arrived who hated Australia due to his encounter with the sheep shears, and then the captain was the man who had wielded the shears - but then his victim was not here any longer.

I had sometimes glimpsed Mister Brown around the house and resolved to waylay him next time I saw him, but he came knocking at my office door, and when he came in he looked around anxiously. He was considerably singed.
He collapsed onto a chair. 'Thank goodness you're safe.' he cried, and then he coughed.
'That cushion is cream velvet. You might have chosen something more likely to resist stains.' I frowned.
'Sorry - the fire - the House -'
I administered water to drink.
'If you mean the Saltire, it proved possible to restrain the captain and the only damage was to the garden.'
'But the bombs?'
'The keys to the bomb racks were in his other sporran.'
He gave a great sigh and drank the water.
'You'd better get cleaned up. I'll show you where. You've been toasted - that sporran's done for.'
'It's alright, I'll not stop -'
'I have a question.'
'Er - yes?'
'Things have changed - people were here and now they aren't, and people are here that were not.'
'Ah. Yes. Well - you're on, or at what we call a pivot. Things happen around here.'
'They didn't use to.'
'Well - actually they did but until I pulled you into this stream, you were not aware of them. It's like taking a side step so you can see around a corner.'
'I bet it isn't.'
'Well it is sort of.'
'Never mind the flim-flam. What might have happened?'
'The House might have burned down, you might have fired the missile at the airship with the explosive still in it, or nothing at all, not here.'
'So is that man with the rubber chicken still on the loose and off his head? Is the other one still looking for the man who cut off his hair?'
'Ah - I know that one. The hair was never cut off - the captain is still the captain because he collided with a couple just before he reached the man dancing with his wife, and the shears went skidding away and were lost in the confusion. He was, therefore, not carted away in a strait jacket but available to come here.'
'But not at first.'
'Only after someone went along to get in his way.'
'Is this going to happen all the time?' I enquired sternly.
'Well - that is one of the difficult questions - however - you seem to be the one to deal with these things. It is a relief to be able to incorporate you into the time stream. I wasn't sure about the marines - but they seem to come with the territory.'
'If you are going to be around then it might be as well for you to have an office here - or maybe in the Rotunda. Somewhere you can take a shower, keep a spare set of clothes and anything else you might need.'
'The problem is that I can't seem to get here directly.'
'Does your thing use post codes?'
He nodded.
'We aren't a post code - there is one for the gate house, but not here. Actually, though - we do have a post office box number. Some of the guests require secrecy. You could try that.'
'Ha - going postal. I'll give it a try. And in return?'
'I'll let you know - though another Director would be good. There is too much to do.'
'I'll see what I can do.'
I picked up my clipboard to take to the nine thirty soviet, he rose and went out leaving only a ruined cushion and a used glass with a sooty handprint.
I followed him a few seconds later, but the corridor was empty. I went along to the board room, Carla was already pouring out tea, and Stephanie was setting up the projector screen, whilst Daphne was offering the basket of scones to Bronwen.
'Good morning, Ladies.' I greeted them.
'Ah - great news - the funding for the research program has come through.' Bronwen beamed. 'We have a slide show of the new building they want to put up for us.'
'That was items two and three.' Daphne tutted with mock severity, tapping the printed agenda.
I sighed, and sat down in my usual place half way along the table.
'It's about time,' I said.