My dear Hilda,
I am so glad to hear that Mother is behaving herself and being more biddable since you last wrote. How wise of you to take my advice and alert Dr Hencroft to the blockage. I am sure that will have done the trick. And talking of such matters, according to Primrose, Bouncer too is restored to rude health – ‘rude’ being the operative term in my view. That dog is not of the most couth! She brought it to the school play the other night but sensibly left it in the car, so one was spared its boisterous attentions. A great mercy.
Mind you, had the dog been out of the car and in the school hall we might at least have been distracted from young Mr Urquart’s curious production, which was not exactly the gayest of dramas. Doubtless it was all very deep and clever, but I fear it had a soporific effect on some of the parents, which even pride in their offspring’s performance did little to dispel. At the time I felt quite sorry for Mr Winchbrooke, who, having to balance evident boredom with a show of rapt understanding, was spending a tense evening engaged in some play-acting of his own.
However, since then my sympathy has diminished. Apparently Primrose was thoughtless enough to suggest that for next year’s event he himself might assume the dramatist’s mantle and devise a play based on the Biggles stories and Bulldog Drummond. But isn’t that harmless? I hear you ask. Far from it! Mr Winchbrooke has become enraptured with the idea and sees himself as a cross between Shakespeare and Dashiell Hammett and spends hours at his desk imitating the voices of Humphrey Bogart and George Sanders. This wouldn’t be quite so bad were I not now required to take endless shorthand notes on the imaginary dialogue between Biggles and Drummond plus scenes of mayhem and carnage wrought by their enemies. Really, as if one hasn’t enough to do without being expected to act the role of amanuensis to a creative genius! It is all very vexing and I blame Primrose entirely. She has the knack of stirring things up, a knack honed to a fine art – not unlike our mother’s.
Anyway, on a lighter note, you will be interested to hear that there has been a break-in at Needham Court – the home of poor Mrs Travers and latterly her murdered sister. Yes, quite a little surprise! But I fear rather an embarrassment to the police, who after the appalling fate of Alice Markham had been quick to shut the place up as a deterrent to would-be burglars or trophy hunters. Sergeant Wilding tells me that once word gets about that a house stands empty – for whatever reason – the vultures close in. ‘But surely not after a sudden death?’ I said. ‘You bet,’ he replied cheerfully, ‘best time for it. People have got other things on their mind, funerals and such.’ Well really, it just goes to show how grasping human nature is! And frankly, Hilda, we would do well to remember that danger when Mother eventually passes … I mean, one doesn’t want any Tom, Dick or Harry bursting in and muddying the carpets; that would be too much!
As to any progress regarding the Markham tragedy itself, I fear there is little to report. Naturally the police play their cards very close to their chest in such matters, but from what the chief superintendent’s wife let slip the other day (we were both at the chiropodist’s with the same ailment, bunions) I get the impression that Mr MacManus is very morose about it all. When I mentioned this to Primrose she said curtly, ‘Serve him right.’ Of course, she has never liked him and I have to admit that he is not the most extrovert of our law officers – unlike the new Detective Inspector Ronald Spikesy, who seems very personable and alert. In fact, rumour has it – or at least Sergeant Wilding has it – that Mr MacManus has taken against him, and for that very reason. ‘He don’t like being upstaged,’ Wilding told me indiscreetly … Well, I don’t know about the chief superintendent being upstaged, but it is quite obvious that poor Mr Urquart will be if the headmaster has his way. It wouldn’t be so bad if he were not so enraptured with his own scribblings – scribblings that I am supposed to decipher and then tell him what an admirable dramatist he is!
Well, Hilda, I must leave off now as Primrose has invited me to tea. I can’t think why. Guilt, probably: she has been most offhand these last few weeks. I gather we are to have it in the garden. A nice idea – provided that the table is not too close to the chinchillas’ hutch (I mean, she might unleash them!) and that I shall not be required to amuse the dog by playing fetch and carry with its disgusting rubber ring.
In some trepidation, your devoted sister,
Emily