Page 3 of Otters and Obstacles
He looked from the basket to the impassive young man holding it, and back to the basket.
The squeaking intensified, and the basket began to vibrate.
“Ain’t you Mr. Sloane? I was told Mr. Sloane lived here,” the young man said.
“I’m afraid a mistake has been made,” Peter said. “The Reverend Mr. Sloane has retired to Brighton.”
Peter’s eldest brother, the Duke of Livesey, had provided Mr. Sloane with a handsome pension to clear the way for Peter to take over the living here as a glorified curate, with Mr. Sloane nominally keeping his title as rector of the parish. After a few necessary improvements had been completed, Peter had finished the process of unpacking and re-organizing the rectory only a few weeks ago, having removed what seemed like dozens of small animals posed under glass from every corner of the cottage to the attic so he could rest without reproachful eyes watching his every move.
And now he was receiving live animals in their stead.
The boy shrugged. “That ain’t my concern, vicar. I was told to deliver these here, and I ain’t got the funds to go haring across the country. They’re yours now.”
He set the basket on the floor and legged it out the front door, ducking under the housekeeper’s attempt at restraint and fleeing down the walkway as Peter and Mrs. Barwick went in fruitless pursuit.
For one moment, the young man paused and shouted over his shoulder, “They like a bit o’ fish!” before continuing down the lane towards the village and vanishing from sight.
Peter sighed and rubbed his forehead before returning to the vicarage with Mrs. Barwick, who removed herself to the kitchen with a grim expression.
He closed the front door and, after a moment’s contemplation of the increasingly urgent squeaks, carried the basket into his study, where he sat on the floor and lifted the latch.
He flinched away in alarm as three furry creatures swarmed out of the basket, squeaking furiously. One climbed his arm to peer into his face, its front paws clinging to him almost as though it had fingers. Its whiskers twitched as they contemplated one another, the animal’s face strangely solemn. It sniffed Peter’s cheek before scurrying back down his arm to join the other two on the floor.
Were they… otters? If so, they were not the large English river otters he was accustomed to. These were much smaller, about the size of a housecat, and clearly not solitary animals with the way they moved together as a single unit. Their fur was a medium brown, with lighter brown markings on their face and chest, marking another difference from the English species.
Tentatively, he reached out a finger to pet the closest one. It squeaked but did not appear to mind. They seemed tame, or at least accustomed to people. Its fur was soft and silky.
The otters began exploring the study, heads bobbing in curiosity. Peter hurried to his feet so he could place the mesh fire screen in front of the unlit fireplace to prevent them from getting into any unswept ashes before re-seating himself on the floor so he could stay closer to the otters’ level.
He racked his brain to try and remember what his older brother Paul had taught him about otters. When he was young, Peter had loved to trail after Paul to observe nature and watch him care for any injured animals he found, but he had not rambled through the forest near the family seat for years. Not since he had begun his studies at Oxford, at the very least. Now that Paul had unexpectedly inherited their father’s title, married, and produced an heir, he likely did not have as much time as he wished for his animals.
Peter had not realized how much he missed those times with his older brother until now.
The study door re-opened. “Lord Peter?—”
The otters immediately scampered to the door, pushing past Mrs. Barwick’s skirts as she shrieked, and disappeared down the hallway.
“What are thosethings?”
Peter rose from his seat on the floor, dusting off his trousers. “They appear to be otters of some kind, Mrs. Barwick. Do you have any fish scraps?”
She wrung her hands. “I suppose so, but…”
“Did the boy leave a letter? Or a message of any kind?”
“He only asked for Mr. Sloane.”
“Very strange.” Peter frowned. “I suppose we’d better feed them.”
“They should go out to the chicken coop,” she said decisively. “There’s no chickens in there right now since Mr. Sloane took his with him.”
“I think we must keep them here, at least until we determine who the proper owner is.”
“Here? You meanin the house?”
“They seem quite tame, so far. They may be all right in the house, at least until I can make the chicken coop secure for them.”
She frowned skeptically at him, but said, “If you insist, Lord Peter.”
