Littlejohn intended to visit the apothecary. In this I did not suspect him of falsehood. Yet I also had no doubt that he intended to visit another establishment as well. And I felt I knew what might be his intentions there.

I arrived well before him and took up my perch in the same location as I had those few nights ago. I pulled my collar tight around me and puffed on my pipe for the better part of an hour. It was then I spied his distinctive slouch approaching behind a curtain of falling snow.

I dropped my pipe into the snow and dashed across the cobblestones, my feet slipping on the soft white layer covering them. Almost I took a nasty spill, but due to winter’s cushion Littlejohn did not hear me approaching, even as I climbed the steps behind him. I caught his wrist just as he was about to rap upon the door.

He whirled round, aghast. “Butterloins!” he cried. “What on earth!”

“Doctor, I won’t permit it!”

“Do you mind!” he said, twisting his arm out of mine. “What has gotten into you, sir!”

“I cannot in good conscience let you enter into this place again. It is vile and damaging. I’ve seen your letter, doctor. The one you presented to the elderly man who came out of this house. I don’t know what kind of business you are involved in, but I do know that you are either poorly suited to it or it has consumed you in ways you did not intend.”

Littlejohn cocked his head and thumped his walking stick on the wooden stoop with a thump. “Butterloins!” he snarled. “Be off!” And he reached out to rap his fist upon the door again.

I caught his wrist in my hand.

“Doctor, I will not.”

“You will, Butterloins. I am in no mood to give an account of my actions. I will do as I please. Be off.”

Quickly, he wrenched his wrist free and pounded upon the door. I lurched forward and grabbed a fistful of his overcoat just below his neck and began to pull him back down the steps.

I thought his arm was reaching for the door yet again. I realized too late it was rearing back. I heard the whoosh of the walking stick before I felt its length strike across my ear. Pain shot through to my leg but only lasted for a moment. I had the odd sensation of riding a tree that was falling towards the ground as gently as the falling snow, which seemed to glitter like gold dust in the light of the gas lamp.

“Oh. Doctor. Good morning.”

I was quite startled. I’d just put the kettle on, thinking I was alone in the kitchen, and turned round to see Littlejohn at the table, a bowl of porridge in front of him. He was disheveled, his face pasty and pale, dark circles under his eyes. He mumbled something. It may or may not have been a greeting.

I reached into the cupboard for a cup and saucer. Glancing at Littlejohn, I saw that his eyes were inward, as if not aware of me. Not seeing. He was lost in thought; or possessed by it. His porridge sat untouched between his elbows. Each of his hands seemed intent upon wringing the life out of the other.

“I’ve, er…I’ve just seen our friend,” I said, bringing down sugar from the cupboard.

Littlejohn glanced at me quickly, then took up his spoon as if realizing that was what he ought be doing. “Already. At this hour.” Absently, he rattled the spoon round his bowl. He removed it and laid it down upon the table. “How is he?”

“The same,” I said.

No response.

“Doctor, don’t mind me.”

“Hmm? Oh.” He took up his spoon again. “Yes.” It clattered against the sides again, and shook in his hand as he raised it to his mouth.

“He has a job in mind for you.”

“I am sure he does.”

So unsteady was Littlejohn’s hand that the silver clacked against his teeth. He bent forward over his bowl and cupped his free hand below his chin to prevent a spill.

“Doctor, I’m concerned.”

Littlejohn grabbed his napkin with both hands and wiped his mouth. “I shall examine him at once,” he said into the napkin.

“It is not Rothchild who concerns me.”

“Nonsense, I am sure,” he said, pushing back from the table and rising. “Never you mind. It is merely nerves, and that is all.”

I’d been considering the document I’d found in his pocket. I’d intended to ask about it when the opportunity presented. It seemed the opportunity had presented.

“Doctor, I –”

“How are you with Ms. Pimperton?” inquired Littlejohn abruptly. Suddenly his eyes were penetrating as he brushed his sleeves with his hands. He tugged down at the lapels of his jacket and whisked his fingers through his sideburns.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your behavior when she called on us was…,” he took a step forward, hands behind his back, “…curious.”

“Was it?”

He rubbed a knuckle against a nostril and sniffed, then clasped his hands behind his back again. “Yes.”

“I see,” said I.

“It’s just the two of us now, isn’t it Butterloins?”

“Yes it is.”

It’s an adjustment, isn’t it? Such a fine staff, it was. And now it is just the two us, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“Well then. I’m off to the apothecary. Can I get you something?”

“No sir.”

“Good day to you.”

He brushed past me into the hall.

“Good day, doctor.”

After Ms. Pimperton left us, Littlejohn and I set about cleaning the foyer. This required the better part of the day; our efforts were prolonged at every turn. Rothchild invoked Article 4 of his Charter, which he claimed authorized him to revise Article 1 (or any other), to give him authority over Acts of Terror against his parlor.  

Among his demands were that the toads be purified in a bath of unicorn tears. When Littlejohn asserted that unicorns were mythical creatures, Rothchild crossed his arms and stated with the obstinacy of a three year old, "No they're not!" He punctuated his assertion with a raised-legged fart. After arguing this for the better part of an hour, he conceded to a bath in oils for each toad on the condition that a proper wake and funeral be arranged for a later date.  

He also insisted I bathe four of the toads and Littlejohn two, his reason being Littlejohn was half the man of most, including me. I bathed mine well if I do say, but when I'd done, Rothchild judged the job of poor quality. As punishment, he sentenced me to re-bathe them all twice under Littlejohn's counsel, which he untiringly corrected as wrong, even when done precisely as corrected. 

His demands only came to an end when suddenly, and in mid-sentence, he began to snore. Within moments, Littlejohn abandoned the project and announced his intention to retire to his quarters. Only then did it occur to me that neither of them had had a proper sleep since the eve of Rothchild's disappearance.  

I collected Littlejohn's suit coat from the banister upon which he'd laid it, intending to take it down to the wash. As is my habit, I checked its pockets for anything that needed removal.

I found a document folded in the breast pocket. It bore many characters inked in a script of the Orient which I am not qualified to identify, then this: 

Dear Friend, 

If the words above are true, and if the man bearing this letter has a scar in the shape of a scythe on his right hand, then he is a friend. 

Yours, 
Zhang Xu

Often I had noted the scar on Littlejohn's right hand. I'd never taken it for a scythe, but then I'd never taken it for much of anything. 

I believe this document to be the same one presented to the elderly gentleman who descended from the stoop of the opium den the night Littlejohn went in after Rothchild.  

I am unsure what this implies about the character of Littlejohn, but I am quite sure it is indicative of something hidden, and good rarely comes from such things.   

It would seem that I no longer need worry about the Constable's pants, as he is finally on his feet again and heading unsteadily out the front door without them. If he feels they are not necessary, then I for one shall not stop him. Off to bed myself. 

Like an exhausted parent, I had not the energy to defuse Rothchild's puerile caterwauling. I chose to ignore it. This of course only made it worse. At the time I was scarcely even aware, for the object of my concern was Butterloins.

It was most curious that, while Ms. Pimperton transacted her foul business with us, Butterloins seemed possesed of her. He stood frozen, his palms flat against the wall. Not once did he pull his wide, unblinking eyes from her. When finally she had completed her vendetta and made her exit, slamming shut the door behind her, Butterloins seemed pulled off the wall as if by a magnet. Sucked up against the door, he grabbed its handle. Then he thought better of twisting it. He released the handle and took a step back. He put hand to cheek, as if in thought. He dropped his head and paced to and fro. He stopped, scratched his neck, looked up at the ceiling, plunged both fists deep into his pockets, and sighed.

"Butterloins," I intoned slowly, cautiously, my question rising slowly. "What in heaven's name has gotten into you?"

I am not certain I was heard. Butterloins extracted his hands, swung the door open, and dashed outside. 

I scuttled to the bay window in the library. There I was able to see Butterloins catch up to Ms. Pimperton in the lamplight of the front garden. They stood for a moment talking face to face. After every few utterances, Butterloins took a step closer. Ms. Pimperton stood her ground. Then Butterloins took both of her hands in his and fell to one knee. 

Ms. Pimperton immediately broke her gloved hand out of his and struck him across the cheek with the flat of her palm. The dirty one. 

Then she spun round and trotted off down the walk, pulling up the hem of her dress just a bit to keep it out of the snow.
  

Glancing back to Ms. Pimperton, I noted with horror that she had openened the wooden box (which I should have recognized as that which Rothchild crafted for her last winter) and spilled its repugnant contents into her gloved hand, turning the light-grey fabric dark. Deftly I scooted backwards to avoid the splatter that landed at her feet. 

The empty box she tossed to Butterloins, who bobbled it awkwardly from hand to forearm to chin to opposite hand then dropped it. 

In her cupped palm were now several small, shimmering, bloodied orbs. 

With a flick of her wrist, she flung them across the room. They skidded across the floor like half a dozen rotted plums.   

Rothchild shrieked no! and stomped on the landing, pulling out clumps of hair with his fists. "My toads!" he cried. "My TOADS! Beatrice, what have you done!" 

"What you could not," uttered Ms. Pimperton coldy. "I've taught them to stay."

"N-not ...not the proper way!" cried Rothchild. "You must use treats and commands!" 

"Good day, Rothchild," she said, turning to go. 

"B- but wait," he stammered, "What have you done with their legs?!"  

Indeed, it was not until that moment that I realized the poor creatures had no limbs. Of course they would "stay." 

"I've arranged to have them delivered by post," she replied. "One per day. Three weeks and you shall have them all." 

She stepped out onto the landing and pulled the heavy door shut behind her. 

Butterloins was aghast, hand over his mouth. 

I looked up to Rothchild. 

Like a toddler, he fell back onto his bottom, wrinkled his face, and began to wail.     

"We are delighted to see you, Ms. Pimperton," I said. "Will you join me in the library for refreshment? I was just composing --" 

"Rothchild," she demanded. 

Her eyes flitted about the room. Each of its elements seemed to displease her. Particularly Butterloins, who was quite out of sorts under her heavy gaze. 

"I beg your pardon?" I said. 

"I've come for Rothchild," she said, rapping her fingers upon the wooden box in her hand. "I've some things of his." The look in her eyes indicated everyone in this particular foyer bored and annoyed her. It was most discomfiting.

"I'm sure Butterloins would be pleased to accept them," I suggested.

"I'm sure he wouldn't," whispered Butterloins. 

"I'm sure I would like to give them personally to Rothchild. Be so kind as to call him down from his little boyroom, where I assume he's sequestered himself again." 

A splat. 

Some viscous substance landing upon the floor at Ms. Pimperton's feet. 

I glanced down and saw a dark splot directly below the box in her hands. As I studied it in befuddlement, attempting to ascertain its nature, another droplet splattered upon the same spot. 
 
I observed that upon a bottom corner of the box in her hands, another droplet was forming, and about to fall. 

"Ms. Pimperton!" I cried. "   

"Oh!" said Butterloins. 

"AIYEEEEE!" came a high-pitched shriek from above. 

All heads turned to the second floor landing. 

Rothchild stood at the banister, hands gripping it as if about to twist it apart. He bucked up and down like a bull in a stall and yelled "NOOOO!!!"  

Why Butterloions struggled so to answer this surprise caller was perplexing. That he required my reminder to compel him towards performing this perfunctory duty was of some concern.  

"Butterloins," I said gently, placing my hand upon his arm, for he seemed frazzled. "'Tis some visitor entreating entance at the door. Only this, and nothing more." 

I gripped the large wrought-iron handle and swung wide the heavy wooden door.

Always when it opened this door sucked along with it a whisk of incoming air. This time it seemed as though an actual, perhaps even sinister, wind swept in as well, bringing with it a dusting of snow, and rustling the purple dress of the lady waiting in the lamplight on the landing. A rare and radiant lady. A silken, sad, uncertain rustling. 

Poor Butterloins seemed filled with fantastic terror. 

"Ms. Pimperton," said I. "You're forgiveness I implore. So faintly you came tapping that I scarce was sure I heard you."  

In the lady's hands was a wooden box. Its bottom was discoloured, but I thought nothing of it at the time.  

Though it is most unbecoming of me, I do feel compelled to note that I by no means intended to eavesdrop, if you will, upon what Littlejohn was putting down in his notes. However, while leaning over to refresh his beverage, I did happen to read (most inadvertently I assure you) the line attributing his shakey penmanship to anger over Rothchild's behavior as opposed to his own pronounced intoxication. I share this now only because I feel that at this point in my narrative there is little to be salvaged by being anything less than forthright about this ever more squalid affair. I turned and left Littlejohn to his composition in the library. 

Entering the foyer, I discovered the Constable sitting upright on the floor, his bare legs straight out before him, the backs of his hands flat on the floor on either side. It seemed a struggle for him to hold his head up, and when his eyes did find mine they had the look of a befuddled and mistreated hound.  

"Officer," I said to him, putting a knee down. "How may I assist you?" 

The Constable's head wobbled in the general direction of his naked legs, then back up to me. His mouth, in what seemed like a grand effort, annunciated the single word "pants." 

"Of course," I said gently, and set off to see what I could find, though not with optimism. He was a short man of considerable girth. I feared we might have better luck cutting two pair off at the knees and sewing them together than finding some that would fit him. 

But before I could take two steps, there came the clack clack clack of the brass knocker outside. 

I must admit, I was taken aback. It was most unwelcome, and poorly timed. Yet I had an obligation to the master of the estate. 

I hesitated, glancing at the Constable. He was not yet cogent enough to be aware of his surroundings. Peeking into the library, I saw that Littlejohn was still scribbling, oblivious. 

Quietly, I padded to the door on the balls of my feet. I waited, hoping that whoever it was might leave. 

The knocker went clack clack clack again, and louder.

"Butterloins!" called Littlejohn from the library. 

I did not answer. 

The chair in the library skidded back from the desk. Littlejohn called, "Butterloins, is that the door." Clearly it was not a question.   

Again the knocker went clack clack clack.

The muffled voice from without said, "Littlejohn at least seems to have found his way home." 

I punched the air with my fists. Under my breath, I defiled with numerous and vile curses the creature outside. Then I inhaled deeply, to steady my nerves. Finally I replied, "Who's there?" 

The pause that ensued seemed to last ages. 

"Don't trifle with me, Butterloins. It's frigid out. Be so kind as to admit a lady." 

Eyes closed, my head clunked against the wall. A lady? By no means.     

On the landing outside stood Ms. Pimperton. 

Dearest Readers,

I truly regret that my duty to my employer, the unfortunate Rothchild, is to hereby put forth publicly the following claims on his behalf. These he dictated with as much clarity as he could muster in his present condition, which is not a very good one.

Yours with sincerest apologies, 

DLE


The Declaration of Independence of the Autocratic Parlorment of Rothchild

When in the course of Human Events, a Government, having been founded upon noble-sounding Principle, and having asserted such Principle as self-evident which is not really so self-evident as it is asserted to be, and having been conceived in noble Purpose, yet having allowed that Purpose be devoured by the same worms which inhabit Dr. Littlejohnson's trousers, certain disgruntled individuals subject to such government may, after due and difficult deliberation, choose to cast off such government in order that they might establish a more efficacious Government founded upon Better Principle.

By this Declaration, that portion of Physical Space defined by the contours of Rothchild’s Parlor is asserted to be a Sovereign and Independent nation under the rule of me, Rothchild. It shall be equal in Status to any other nation established by Humankind. The Government of the Independent Nation shall be an Autocratic Parlorment headed by a Chairman who will provide checks and balances against the Autocrat and the Parlorment. I, Rothchild, shall serve as Chairman. I will also serve as the Parolorment and Reign Over All as Autocrat. 

The Charter of the Autocratic Parlorment of Rothchild

Article 1

Within the Nation, Gentlemen shall conduct themselves according to the Whimsy of the Autocrat and Chairman and Parlorment (all of whom are me). Examples of My Whimsy shall include, but not be limited to, the rending of tunics, the playing of flutes at high volume, the grinding and compacting of meat coats, and the casting of insults at Dr. Littlejohnson, who is in fact a cad but is nevertheless insufficiently Tawdry. 

Within the Nation, there shall be no Distinguished Behaviors, only Tawdry Ones. These shall not include, and are not limited to not including, the Polite Discussion of Matters of Interest, the Exchange of Pleasantries, and the Transaction of Business, all of which have become Tiresome. 

Infractors of Article 1 shall be penalized. The penalty shall include a lot of shouting and instantaneous deportation to the Old Country, either through the door (minor infractions) or through the window (significant ones). The Arbiter of Such A Question as to what comprises Whimsy or Distinguished Behavior shall be the Autocrat, or the Chairman (I, Rothchild, in either case). Note that under no Circumstance should Littlejohnson ever be given Authority to do anything for anyone.

Article 2

Citizenship in the Autocratic Parlorment of Rothchild shall be obtained by decree of Rothchild (me) only. Individuals desiring Citizenship shall petition me (Rothchild) directly. I (Rothchild) shall consider each case and determine whether Citizenship ought be granted based upon Merit. Or possibly Whimsy. Should Citizenship be petitioned by and granted to a member of any group, family, tribe, cult, or what-have-you, that Citizenship shall apply only to that petitioner, and not the group, family, tribe, cult, or what-have-you en masse. Any individuals being born Upon or Within the Parlor shall not be considered Citizens or granted Citizenship outside of the Mandate established above, unless they should like to adopt me as their prophet and sage, in which case exceptions might be considered provided an arbitrary number of Feats of Whimsy have been demonstrated.

Article 3

Individuals having not obtained Citizenship may be allowed provisional admittance into my Parlor on the grounds that they adhere to Article 1 above during said admittance. Individuals not adhering to Article 1 above shall be subject to the same penalty as enumerated in Article 1 above, and also to having at least one nipple pinched.

Article 4

The articles above, the one below, this one, future articles, and all possible Amendments, are subject to further amendment at any time. Amendments that seem wise at first but turn out to be not so good at all will be null and void. Previous drafts of modified or excised Articles and Amendments are eligible for restoration. Amendments and restorations may be proposed or ratified by either the Autocrat or Chairman (me and me), provided checks and balances do not prohibit the process. Each of these Governing Bodies may, with the consent of the other, filibuster to preclude these decisions, or any others. Before moving on to Article 5, it might behoove the Reader to revisit Articles 1-4 for Amendments, Restorations, or Excisions.

Article 5

Upon the Earthly Demise of Rothchild, the Autocratic Parlorment of Rothchild shall continue and Be Governed by that individual whom Rothchild (who is I) has decreed as his (my) heir. Birthright shall have no part in the substantiation of such an heir. If, upon the Earthly Demise of Rothchild (moi), no heir has been decreed, the Autocratic Parlorment shall Go Up In Flames by My Hand, because I won’t abide Littlejohnson Fucking with it. Any Earthly Boundaries previously claimed by the Autocratic Parlorment shall revert to the Lord our God, as shall any such territories subsequently usurped by Humankind, woe be unto such a people.

Let us now engage in Whimsy.