Missy - Brings 17th century slave to the 21st century

Saffron had her hut, and most of all, she had her freedom. This was reasonably unusual for an African woman on a farm in the south of America in the 1700s. But there were ways.

Saffron had done what she’d had to in order to earn her freedom. She’d had six children and she’d handed them all over to the plantation owner. This had not been without qualms. Indeed, when the wind blew in the wrong direction, you could hear her sobbing.

Giving up her babies had been hard, but it had given her freedom and a tiny bit of property. And she was able to w

***

One area where the Scoundrels Club of the twenty-first century did admit women was into the kitchens, and Saffron (out of her time but not her depth) rose swiftly up the ranks. No one cared that the Scoundrels’ new head chef was strange and terrifying – all they noticed was that the club’s food, for the first time in 300 years, was astounding.

When the Scoundrels’ Annual Marlowe Banquet (thirteen courses and a reading of their treasured manuscript of Dr Faustus II) was announced, Harrison Mandeville made a special visit down to the kitchens to insist that the head chef cooked the feast personally.

***

‘Typical woman. Skulking in the shadows.’

That should have got a laugh. It did not.

Mandeville started to realise that the members around him were not just silent but had that peaky, mild sheen that normally came over a fellow after a glass too many of the club’s brandy. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, noticing for the first time that the fire was a little hot. He ran a finger under his collar – then realised it had stopped moving. Curious. The finger was just jammed there, in his shirt. How odd. He tried to stand, and realised that that wasn’t happening either. He looked around the table and realised all the other members were similarly indisposed, their eyes rolling helplessly in their heads.

‘Drugged …’ gasped the Surgeon to his right.

The doors crashed open, and the Scoundrels’ head chef entered, followed by the club’s most notorious ex-member. She curtsied to them all. ‘So sorry I’m late. Just been running over a maths teacher with a milk float. You know how it is.’ She nudged Saffron. ‘Take a bow, my dear. MANDEVILLE! Saffron here – she used to be a slave on one of your family’s dreary plantations. The ones you’ve forgotten about because it was so long ago and the money’s still in your bank account. I let Saffron cook this meal for you lot as her revenge.’

***

To everyone else, it was just a horse’s head, neatly severed. But Mandeville knew that noble brow, that clear eye and that tufted forelock only too well. Here was Downton, his prized stallion.

‘My horse!’

‘And your kingdom, yes, yes. Saffron here’s cooked your whole stable. And you ate them all.’ The woman stroked the horse’s bloodied mane. ‘No. Saffron couldn’t have poisoned Dobbin here. That would have been rude. No, no, no. It was the desserts that she poisoned. After all, she and her family really know their sugar.’

***

The Missy Chronicles: Dismemberment