Excerpt from Undermajordomo Minor by Patrick deWitt, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

The Count & Countess, Duke & Duchess

On the morning of the guests' arrival, Mr Olderglough had taken Lucy aside and told him, "I will look after the Duke and Duchess, and you will mind the Count and Countess. Is that quite all right with you, boy?"

Lucy answered that it was, but it struck him as curious, for Mr Olderglough had never positioned an instruction in so accommodating a manner before. "May I ask why you prefer the Duke and Duchess to the Count and Countess?" he said.

Here Mr Olderglough nodded, as if he had been found out. "We have been through a good deal together, you and I, and so I feel I can speak to you in confidence, and as a peer. Are you comfortable with that?"

"Of course, sir."

"Very good. Well, boy, if I'm to address the truth of the matter, none of the coming guests is what might be called desirable company. Actually, I have in the past found them to be distinctly undesirable."

"In what way, sir?"

"In many ways which you will, I fear, discover for yourself. But your question, if I understand correctly, is to wonder which of the two parties is the worse, isn't that right?"

"I suppose so, sir."

"Then I must tell you that the Count and Countess merit that prize, handily. And while I feel on the one hand duty-bound to take the heavier burden unto myself, I must also recognize that I simply haven't the capacities I once did. To look after people such as those who are coming to stay with us is a young man's game, and I am not young any longer, and so I take the simpler path, though you may rest assured that when I say simpler, I do not mean simple. The Duke and Duchess are no stroll in the park, and I can attest to that personally, and at length." Mr Olderglough stepped closer, his eyes filled with ugly memories. "Be on your guard with these people, boy. They answer to no one. They never have, and they never will."


Illustration by Chloe Cushman

These words played in Lucy's head as he stood on the platform awaiting the Count and Countess's arrival. As the train came into the station, he could hear a man's wild cackling; when the Count emerged from his compartment he was quite obviously drunken, swaying in place, a cigar planted in the fold of his slick, blubbery mouth. His skull was a softly pink egg, his eyes blood-daubed yolks — he drew back from the sunlight as one scalded. Once recovered, he focused on Lucy, gripping him by the lapel. "Ah, Broom, happy to see you again, boy."

"Yes, sir, nice to see you, as well. Only I'm not Mr Broom; my name is Lucy."

"What?"

"My name is Lucy, sir."

The Count stared. "You're Broom."

"I'm not he, sir."

"Well, where has Broom run off to?"

"He has died, sir."

The Count leaned back on his heels. Speaking over his shoulder and into the blackened compartment, he said, "Did you know about this?"

"About what?" said the Countess.

"Broom is dead."

"Who?"

"The servant lad? Broom? You were so fond of him last time we visited."

"Oh, yes, him. Nice boy — nice colouring. He's dead, you say?"

"Dead as dinner, apparently."

"How did he die?"

"I don't know how." The Count looked at Lucy. "How?"

Lucy said, "He was possessed by a wickedness and so cast himself into the Very Large Hole, sir."

The Count made an irritable face.

"Did he say a very large hole?" the Countess asked.

"Yes," said the Count.

"Large hole?"

"Yes."

The Countess paused. "Well, I don't want to hear another word about it." And with this, she emerged: a corpulent, panting woman with frizzed black hair, a crimson neck, and a fierce displeasure in her eye which Lucy took to be travel fatigue but which he would soon discover was simply her root mood. When he held out his hand to help her from the train, she cracked him across his knuckles with her folding fan, a stinging blow that took his breath away. Pushing past him, she stepped up the path and towards the castle, murmuring vague threats or regrets to herself. Once she was clear of earshot, the Count addressed Lucy breathily, and through a shroud of bluish smoke.

Excerpted from Undermajordomo Minor by Patrick deWitt. Copyright © 2015 by Patrick deWitt. Excerpted by permission of Ecco. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.