The Dark House: A Knot Unravelled

“Don’t drink our sherry, Charles?”
Mr Preenham, the butler, stood by the table in the gloomy servants’ hall, as if he had received a shock.
“No, sir; I took ’em up the beer at first, and they shook their heads and asked for wine, and when I took ’em the sherry they shook their heads again, and the one who speaks English said they want key-aunty.”
“Well, all I have got to say,” exclaimed the portly cook, “is, that if I had known what was going to take place, I wouldn’t have stopped an hour after the old man died. It’s wicked! And something awful will happen, as sure as my name’s Thompson.”
“Don’t say that, Mrs Thompson,” said the mild-looking butler. “It is very dreadful, though.”
“Dreadful isn’t the word. Are we ancient Egyptians? I declare, ever since them Hightalians have been in the house, going about like three dark conspirators in a play, I’ve had the creeps. I say, it didn’t ought to be allowed.”
“What am I to say to them, sir?” said the footman, a strongly built man, with shifty eyes and quickly twitching lips.
“Well, look here, Charles,” said the butler, slowly wiping his mouth with his hand, “We have no Chianti wine. You must take them a bottle of Chambertin.”
“My!” ejaculated cook.
“Chambertin, sir?”
“It’s Mr Girtle’s orders. They’ve come here straight from Paris on purpose, and they are to have everything they want.”