Molasses

Five clangs on a triangle, accompanied by a shrill, elderly voice calling out the event of an evening's suppertime. A cocky, grey-haired fellow with half a mouthful of teeth set two places at opposite ends of the table with dinnerware of pure silver. At place he put a crystal goblet and filled it with fresh wine. From a door at the north side of the room came a lanky, stiff man in a formal business suit. He checked his pocket-watch apon approach of the table. The postureless servant showed the man two his seat, then did the same for a voluptuous noblewoman who just entered by the south doorway. She was dressed in a green silk dress, her hair pulled tight behind her head.
The humble manservant, Winston he was called, carried a steaming bowl towardd the woman. "For m'lady, I have prepared a zesty lentil soup," he said, then set the bowl on her plate. Winston thought about the previous night:

'It is eleven o'clock, the hour grows dreadfully late. But it's not to bed for me, I must get these pots and pans clean. My work is interrupted by the sound of the door opening, and in walks my master. "Is there something wrong, Master Williams?" I ask. It is a surprise to see him up so late.
"Not at all, Winston," he assures me. "As you know, tomorrow is the seventeenth anniversary of my marriage to Mrs. Williams. I would like you to cook her a special meal of lentil soup. It is her favorite." I humbly agree. "There is more," he informs me. "I want you to prepare it with this..." And he pulls from his pocket a small bottle, with a yellow label. "It is molasses, a special pick from the Virginian mountains where we first met. And say nothing to her." I agree again, and he leaves. When he is gone, I study the bottle carefully, then put in on the table next to my recipe book.'

The thought took but a moment. His two masters did not even notice a pause after he delivered the meal. He quickly shuffled back to the kitchen, and returned with a steaming plate of shiny, sweet-smelling meat. "For Master Williams, I have prepared succulant roast duck in orange sauce."
"Excellent, Winston," said the master.
Very good, indeed," said the wife. Winston bowed, and left the room thinking about that morning:

'It is half past dawn, and breakfast must be prepared. I crack three eggs in a pan, and put another log into the stove. When I look back up, there is Mistress Williams, in her silk bathrobe. "Is there a problem, madam Williams?"
"Nothing of the sort, Winston. As you know today is my husband's and my seventeenth anniversary, and I was hoping you'd do something special for him. You also know that Henry has always had a taste for duck. Perhaps you could roast one for him for tonight's supper." I agree heedlessly, and turn back to the stove, but am pulled back to her attention.
"One more thing. Perhaps you could add a touch of this," and she pulls from her pocket a small bottle, with a red label. "This terragon has been saved from our summer at the vineyard on our honeymoon. And say nothing to him." I nod, and put the bottle on the table, by my recipe book. She leaves, and I attend to the eggs.'

"How's your soup dear?" Master Williams asked his wife. She took another spoonful, and answered.
"Delicious, dear. I wonder where Winston got this...MMM... tasty recipe. How's your roast duck?"
"Magnificent. The orange sauce is out of this world. It's almost... spicy."
For several minutes the two just stared at each other and ate. Each was wondering why the other was staring, but neither said a word. Nervously, they both finished their meals and emptied their goblets. After sitting awkwardly for a moment, the woman finally spoke.
"Why hasn't Winston come and taken our plates?"
"I'll go see what he's doing." The man got up from the table and headed towards the door. His wife said she'd follow, and she did. When they got to Winston's room, they found him lying face down in a bowl of porridge. Both were a little taken aback, yet they never once made eye contact. Mr. Williams leaned over and felt Winston's wrist.
"He's still alive," he said. They stared at the wall, the floor, or the eaves and avoided each other's gaze.
"We should tell somebody," Mrs. Williams said.
"Yes," Henry replied, "we should."

"Make sure he stays in bed and gets plenty of water. I'll be back tomorrow to check on him. And watch out; if he is ill, you'll want to spend as little time around him as possible. Good night."
"Thank you, doctor. We'll be careful." Mr. Williams closed the door as the doctor climbed back into his horse-drawn carriage. He then turned to his wife.
"I'll get up early tomorrow and make us both breakfast. For now we must get some rest." They nodded, and retired.
The next morning the man was up at dawn, and in the kitchen usually occupied by Winston. He sliced two pieces of bread from a loaf, and put them on the skillet. Nothing happeded. He realized he had forgotten to light the stove, so he loaded it with two dry logs. Once the fire was going and the bread was toasting, he scrambled two eggs in another skillet. Finding a pitcher of hollandaise sauce in the cupboard, he filled two bowls. He then found the bottle of molasses he had given to Winston, and mixed a modest helping into one of the bowls. Next two the bottle he noticed another, labeled "Terragon." He mixed a modest helping into the other bowl. With the eggs cooked and the bread toasted, he put one serving on each of two plates. He poured one bowl of sauce on one plate, and the other on the other, making sure his wife would get the one with the molasses.

The doctor's carriage was pulled up to the front steps of Williams Manor. Dr. Mare climbed the steps and knocked on the door. No one answered. "This is Dr. Mare!" he shouted. "I've come to check on Winston!" No repsonse. He found the door to be unlocked, and walked in. Not finding the couple in the drawing room, he headed to the dining hall. "Mr. Williams, are you here? I've come to---"
Mr. Williams was there, with his wife, both face down on their plates. Hollandaise sauce was in their hair, forks were on the floor. Mare crept up behind Henry and tapped his shoulder. He then checked the pulse, of which he found none. He tried the same on the woman; same result. Silently he walked past the kitchen to the servant's quarters. Laying in his bed was Winston, not breathing.
In his mind Dr. Mare was already writing up his report to give to the police chief, when he stopped in the kitchen. Seeing the spice bottles near the recipe book, he picked up the one labeled "Molasses." He put it in this coat pocket and walked off, not even noticing the bottle of terragon. "Good work, Winston," he muttererd to himself, as he walked out the door.


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