“This is decidedly not seemly or amusing! Quite! And it all ought to stop! Right this instant! Sir Thomas! You must have it stop!” Lady Bertram was shrieking, batting away with both hands at her finely coiffed head where two flying falcons were taking turns dive-bombing her, while from a mantelpiece, at least four mid-sized baboons were pelting her with their excrement and an occasional dish of Turkish Delight, or plum pudding, or, quite inevitably, a small stuffed game hen. They had armed themselves with whatever remained of the supper buffet, and were now doling it out to everyone in sight.

Sir Thomas had arrived on the scene, and stood at the door rather stunned for the first moment of seeing the events of the ballroom. Then, he was assailed by a mummy, and the self-preservation instinct took over.

Edmund, seeing his father, dutifully imparted urgent advice across the room. “Strike the mouth, sir! The mouth is their vulnerable spot, use anything at hand to stopper it like a bottle and cork mechanism, if you please—”

“Understood!” his father retorted, picking up the Cornish hen and shoving it powerfully into the nearest mummy’s gaping maw. With a crunch, the thing collapsed and then fell into dust. “By George! that should do it,” said Sir Thomas with grim satisfaction, picking up a bowl of stuffed quail.

A few feet away Baddeley came up in haste, his hands loaded with household firearms. “Sir Thomas! If you please, your fowling piece! Or, if you prefer, the larger musket—”

“I fear those are unnatural fowl.” Sir Thomas grimly pointed at the several flying creatures near the chandelier. “I doubt these will have any effect. As I am told—and I have observed just now, in practice—we must aim for their mouth area. Though, I do prefer not to have any buckshot damage the crown moulding of the room, nor the imported window glass, which came at a considerable expense of over fifty pounds each during the most recent renovations. That was not last November but, if I recall, the fall before last—”

A number of mummies came up on both sides, preventing any further architectural discussion. Before he went to war with this set, Sir Thomas whispered conspiratorially to Baddeley, with a pointed look in Lady Bertram’s direction: “As I said, beware striking the windows . . . but any cat statuary or other such imported merchandize is fair game.”

“Understood, Sir. Would you prefer me to—ahem—aim at anything in particular?”

“Strike far and wide, Baddeley, strike far and wide!”

And the butler, putting his mind to a rising flock of pheasants, dutifully complied.

Mr. Crawford arrived at the center of the ballroom melee, having escaped unscathed from the two lycanthropes.

“My dear Miss Price!” he exclaimed, making his way between struggling guests and mummies. “A thousand pardons! But I am, at last, at your service!” And he also stripped to his shirtsleeves to use his jacket as an Egyptian mouth-wad.