The bone handled knife

The bone handled knife,

By Victoria Hamilton (pen name)

The firelight flickering in the black lacquered grate illuminated the ancestors, captured forever in ornate frames lining the walls of the formal dining room. The thin wreath pattern embossed in the maroon wallpaper offsets the gold frames, creating a warm and cosy atmosphere.

Around the long and well laid dining table, although the conversation was stilted the wine was flowing from decanters, and servants attended to the wine and made sure the glasses were topped up as per the gentlemen next to the lady, and his employers’ instructions. Tall candles were interspersed with serving dishes, and flowers were arranged in vases along the table, their rich colours contrasting with the stiff white tablecloth.

The Barrington’s had made England their home after coming out from the Americas several generations ago, and the ancestors were indeed looking down approvingly on the pre-Christmas dining table and guests, such was the esteem of the gathering.

Kitty and Charles were a well renowned couple, who were both social and affable, and regularly entertained guests from abroad, the table easily seating a dozen or so. Charles had made his money in publishing and printing, and Kitty had raised their four children with both discipline and affection, and three of them had now flown the coop, except for the youngest, Lillian. Lillian was an accomplished and adept piano player, with an above average, though not astounding voice, who liked to entertain over cocktails beforehand, and then after dinner (once the men had retired to the library.)

Their guest this evening was Thomas Farquhar, a budding solicitor who had recently returned from the Orient. The pleasantries that had been exchanged before dinner now led to more probing questions from Kitty, who liked to know all about her guests.

“And how long were you in the Orient for, Farquhar,” Kitty enquired.

“Oh, about one year, just long enough to become familiar with some of the countryside and traditions,” he replied.

“And what was your favourite encounter over there - I hear the elephants are quite something to behold,” said Kitty.

“Yes, they are magnificent creatures, and quite good for shorter journeys, over hilly terrain - though the trains are very well appointed and run for longer trips,” said Thomas.

“Their ivory of course is highly sought after here,” said Kitty.

“There is a saying now, tinkling the ivories,” interjected Charles.

“About piano playing of course,” said Lillian.

Laughter roamed the table, here and there, polite more than ribald. Thomas, knife and fork in hand, looked down at the bone handled knife poised to cut the roast beef on his plate.

“This is a rather fine set of knives; would they be ivory?” he enquired.

A moment’s silence around the table as Kitty, Charles, and Lillian exchange glances.

“No, bone,” replied Lillian, glancing first at Thomas and then over Thomas’s shoulder at one of the ancestors looking down on the table from her place above.

“We have had this set for years; it was handed down through the family,” said Kitty.

Thomas clutches the knife and cuts through the tender beef, then spears it with his fork and takes a mouthful, declaring it to be most succulent. As he continues to eat, Thomas notices a slight fleck in the bone handle of the knife.

“Where did you say the cutlery set was from? Sometimes on the African continent, camel or giraffe bones are used, and they can retain the trace of a pattern on the bone,” enquired Thomas.

Charles cleared his throat, and said that no, the bones were from the Americas and changed the subject. Thomas set about clearing his plate, he was tiring from his trip to the Barrington’s, and wanted to have the dutiful port and cigars, and retire to bed. As he ate, he looked at the portraits, a noble lineage shone through the faces, with even features and a prominent jaw line, and dark blue eyes like a Siamese cat shared amongst the family.

Retiring to his bedroom for the evening, Thomas found that, although he was quite tired, he could not rest and wondered if it was the full moon lighting his bedroom through the upper windows, which were not curtained, only the lower two thirds were covered. He decided to leave his room and go for a stroll, as that usually helped him to relax sufficiently to allow sleep.

The moon lit the family estate, and he took a narrow road towards the back of the estate. There, the family cemetery stood apart from the last hedge and through a small white gate, he entered and, as the night was so bright, he could just discern the names on the headstones. A cloud passed over the moon, limiting his vision. He startled as a pheasant flew out from the hedgerow and stumbled against one of the iron railings that surrounded the grave of the Barrington matriarch. His ankle touched on something, that seemed to grate against the railing and then crunch, a snapping sound.

Bending down, he tried to ascertain the object and hoped that his new leather boots had not been damaged. The curved object had been a narrow u-shape and he picked up one of the bits and inspected it, as the moon reappeared behind the cloud. There in his hand was the half a jaw bone, with a few teeth still embedded in it. A dog, he wondered, a family pet that had been buried alongside his mistress, but then dug up by another animal perhaps? As be picked up the other half, and put them together, he saw the unmistakeable shape of a human jaw.

Disturbed, Thomas searched for his handkerchief to hold the thing, he didn’t know what to do with it, and thought of placing it on the gravestone, then changed his mind, and wondered if there was a more appropriate place to put it before he could share his find, discreetly, with a member of the household in the morning.

Returning to the rear of the house, he noticed a cellar door slightly ajar, and wishing he had a candle or lantern, hoped he might find somewhere to place the jaw. The moon pushed into the cellar along with him and he indeed saw a shelf and carefully placed the jaw there. He turned, and something caught his eye. On the shelf was a long femur bone, a human bone, beside it, the blades of knives ready to be assembled, with the silver crest of the Barrington family readied to go on the hilt.

Thomas backed out of the cellar and realised with horror that the knife he had been holding last night was made of human bone. A Barrington bone.