July 24, 1930

To Mr. Thomas Brigsby,

Tommy old thing, how are you? Is Liverpool treating you well? I’m tops, thanks for asking. You may have heard that the elder brother kicked the bucket last week. (Don’t think me cruel Tom, I find that not taking life too seriously is often the best way to get one’s head around these things.) 

It's a rummy affair, the doc can’t seem to make up his mind as to what all happened. General consensus is that my brother suffered some kind of heart condition brought on by the mental strain of business cares, that the old boy literally worked himself into the ground. I’ll vouch that the fellow was in a right state – at first I thought it more of a chronic case of bourbon; he was in something of a mania in those last days. In any case, the end result is that we three remaining hapless siblings are all gathered here in the grand old shack at Haverfall by-the-Sea, perched atop a cliff and squabbling over brother’s old tea sets.

The sisters are well, or as well as can be expected. Mira seems to be caught up in another of her confounded fantasies that she’s more famous than a Maharani. I’ve told her that nineteen acquaintances at the lady’s garden club do not generally constitute fame, but Tommy old boy, I could have told her the sky was made of custard for all the attention she payed me. I think she’s determined to exhale a lung through that piccolo of hers; I haven’t heard such a racket since the bombardment at the Somme. 

Eileen, poor old bird, continues to have absolutely no sense of humor. Don’t think she shed a tear when old Willie kicked it, just began obsessing over the organization of the dearly departed’s affairs. We've pushed back the funeral so that the folks out of town can attend, and she's beside herself making arrangements and sorting through the loot in the house in the meantime. Even brought in a secretary, can you imagine? As if we can’t fight it out amongst ourselves like civilized folk about who gets the old china cabinet or the tiger throw rug without first writing it down.

They’re making secretaries younger these days, by the by. This one can’t be twenty yet; little stick of a thing, and a more whimsically dramatic secretary you'll not find. Thought they were supposed to be all efficiency and logic, but not this one; you should have seen those eyes grow round in wonder when Walter mentioned the ghost. (Yes, Old Walter is still here though I can’t imagine why, hunched and muttering fellow that he is; I think his hinges need oiling.) 

To top things off, the secretary is so dashed inquisitive and bent on exploring as you wouldn’t believe; there’s not a corner of the house we haven’t stumbled into one another. Nearly scared the dickens out of me, crouched in the corner of some jolly ruins while I was taking a stroll about the battlements this morning. (Most of the household avoids that walk, you remember the one I mean? That behemoth of a wall that overlooks the sea to the south? There are the old legends of hauntings and whatnot that cling to the place like seaweed, but it’s all rot. I say the view is jolly picturesque and why shouldn’t I enjoy a whiff of salt air and a topping view of the deep blue when I’m stuck at Haverfall?)

Well Tommy, you’ve let me prattle on without coming to the point of things. I’ve heard the automotive biz is treating you well. How’s about lending a fellow a couple quid? I’ve got this new trade venture, see, and it needs investing in. Raj let me in on the early stages of the plan, he can connect us directly with the dealers in Mumbai. There’s no risk, I’ve consulted old Harrison on that account and he practically swears by it. Shiny pennies through the ceiling for us, I guarantee it; all we need is capital for the extra steamers to get us there, and I fancy you're just the man for the job.

Well Tom, if you could see it in your heart to help out your old cricket pal, I’d be simply beside myself with gratitude and brotherly devotion an all that. Knew I could count on you, just wire me for the details! Give my best to Sarah.

Yours Ever So Devotedly,

Ashwin

P.S. You’ll get a laugh out of this; I'm just about to seal up this letter when that thespian of a secretary I mentioned near throws the door off its hinges and cries out "I've found it! Lord Rathod's death! It wasn't a heart condition, it wasn't any condition at all, it's MURDER!  It's murder and I can prove it!" 

Life at Haverfall is nothing if not entertaining, Tommy old fellow.