The Burglar in the Library - By Lawrence Block Page 0,44
we’ll have service again within a couple of hours at the most.”
“That’s good news,” Carolyn agreed. “Tell us the rest of the bad news.”
“The rest of the bad news?”
“The snow,” she prompted.
“Ah, the snow. Well, there’s a great deal of it, as you can readily see. Just over two feet of it, according to the newscast, with drifts deep enough to bury an automobile to the roofline. Most of the county roads will be impassable until the plows get through, and that may take quite some time.”
“So even if we were to phone the police,” the colonel said, “it’s doubtful they could get through to us.”
“Highly doubtful,” Nigel said. “Even if our road were cleared, they couldn’t get up our driveway. Nor can anyone else. For the time being, there’ll be no deliveries and no guests arriving.”
“The last part,” Carolyn said, “about no new guests, is more good news than bad, if you ask me. Right now the last thing we need is new people in the house. But the rest is bad news, all right. What’s the good news?”
“Even without deliveries,” he said, “we’ve no cause for alarm. The larder’s fully stocked with enough food to feed us all royally well into April. That includes an emergency supply of bottled water, which we’re unlikely to need because the well is functioning perfectly. And, though it’s early in the day to mention it, the Cuttleford cellar is fully stocked. We’ve enough beer and wine and spirits to carry us well into the next century.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Carolyn said.
“And actually,” he went on, warming to the task, “there’s more good news. It’s true we’re isolated here, albeit in comfortable isolation, but we won’t be confined for long. Orris assures me that as soon as he has the snowblower operating, he’ll be able to clear a path to the bridge. Just across the bridge our Jeep is parked, with a stout snowplow attached to it. In a matter of hours, Orris ought to be able to have our driveway cleared all the way to the road.”
“Hear, hear!” the colonel said, and there was an ill-coordinated round of applause for Orris, who acknowledged it by dropping his head so that he was staring at his boots, as if to gauge how far above them the snow would reach.
“But before anything else,” Cissy Eglantine said, “I think it’s ever so important that we all have a proper English breakfast.”
“I wonder what this is,” Carolyn said. “Maybe it’s toad-in-the-hole.” She looked at her plate, on which reposed a thick slice of toasted white bread. Its center had been removed, and an egg cooked in the circular space thus created.
“You sound disappointed,” I said.
“Well, it’s not bad,” she said. “It’s a little like Adam and Eve on a raft.”
“That’s what, two poached eggs on toast?”
“Uh-huh. Except in this case Adam fell off and drowned, and the raft’s got a hole in the floorboards. So all that’s left is Eve, holding on for dear life.” She took a bite. “Not bad, though, I have to admit. Even if it’s not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know, Bern. Some exotic form of comfort food, I suppose, if that’s not a contradiction in terms. Like this black pudding.”
“It’s exotic comfort food, eh?”
“Well, kind of.” She lifted a forkful to her mouth, chewed thoughtfully. “Very simple,” she said, “but very tasty at the same time. And it’s black, all right, but it’s not like any pudding I ever tasted.”
“A far cry from Jell-O,” I said.
“They’ve got funny ideas about pudding, Bern. Look at Yorkshire pudding. I mean, it’s good, too, but you wouldn’t rush out and squirt Cool Whip on it, would you? Black pudding. What do you suppose they make it out of?”
“Blood.”
“Seriously, Bern.”
“I’m serious. ‘Blood sausage’ is another name for it.”
“I wish you hadn’t told me that, Bern.”
“Well, you asked.”
“That didn’t mean you had to tell me. At least now I know why they call it black pudding. If they called it blood sausage, no one would want any. What about the white pudding, Bern? What do they make that out of, lymph?” She frowned. “Don’t answer that. You want more kippers, Bern?”
“I think I’ve had my limit.”
“I guess I should just be grateful,” she said, “that they don’t use a real toad for toad-in-the-hole. Listen, if they serve us bubble and squeak, do me a favor, okay? If there’s something disgusting doing the bubbling and squeaking, keep it to yourself.”