2 Aug, 1930

To Mr. Sidney Wallston

Dear Sid,

How are you old sport!  Holding up?  Don’t know if you’re back from holiday yet but here's hoping that Lisbon was as picturesque as advertised. Give my love to Jenny (and when she asks, tell her that yes, I am still languishing away in the sordid life of a bachelor). Shoulder giving you any trouble? I can’t tell you how my leg aches when it rains, ever since the Marne.  

Listen Sid, I've been meaning to get back to you about that sum I borrowed.  Know I’m still good for it, you can count on it - and with interest!  I’ve got a surefire little investment up in Gloucestershire and I’m only waiting for the dividends to pay out, it'll be any day now.

Anyhow Sid, if you must know, I’m still stuck here at Haverfall by-the-Sea, and having a devil of a time of it. They say visits to the shore are supposed to be restful, the shameless liars. Of all the confounded luck! Just when I’d thought we were over the whole “murder” kerfuffle, that dunce of a groundskeeper has to go toss himself down a staircase and bash his head in. Really, it’s all getting to be a bit much – two deaths in as many weeks -  people will talk (and you know as well as anyone how I feel about the press getting involved in my affairs).

I’m really out of sorts over the whole business. But if you wish to know how it all transpired: well, no one in the house had clapped eyes on the groundskeeper for a good three days (which wasn’t taken as so unusual, if that tells you anything about what kind of work-ethic the fellow had.) About Friday someone gets the idea that we really ought to have the bloke round for tea and give him a piece of our minds, seeing as he was attempting first degree extortion and all. But where had Walter holed himself up? We sent old Picton the butler out to hunt for the fellow. He combs the length and breadth of the place, to no avail.

It wasn’t until round past two that someone thinks to perhaps check the south part of the house, because what more natural place could there be for the ruddy gardener than the deserted wing off from the sleeping quarters? This time Picton comes back white as a sheet and says we’d all better follow him posthaste, and soon as I know it Mira’s shrieking her head off and the whole house is in pandemonium.

Walter was there alright, and a sorry sight at that, all crumpled at the bottom of the staircase (not that I pity him, I’ve not a generous enough temperament for that.) There’s no telling how long the fellow had been there - the family never uses the wing any more, ever since that incident back in the day. Well well, no pulse, call the doctor and the police and the fire department and the prime minister and what have you, and before you know it the place is jolly well a three ring circus. Eileen about had a conniption with so many strangers overrunning her nice carpets.

What on earth was the ruddy groundskeeper doing near the family quarters, that’s what I want to know! Well wouldn’t you guess it, those fine fellows from the Eastbourne police department wish to know the very same thing. As I’ve told them a thousand times, I haven't a clue, but our esteemed purveyors of justice seem to have gotten it into their heads that I am privy to some secret and am holding out on all the juicy details of Walter’s lurking habits. I can't see how there's any question of foul play; most everything in that wing of the home has a good coating of dust over in and there aren't any recent fingerprints about. Besides, the top board of the staircase was quiet loose and set askew, so it's easy to see how the blighter could have lost his footing.

The worst of it all is that the whole blessed business about the blackmail has come out. (Mira, curse her loquacious socks, just had to mention it to the coppers.) I’m sure you’ll have heard about it by now through the old grapevine, so I want to set the record straight before Artie starts blabbering about it at the club. Walter, this scarecrow of a groundskeeper, had somehow got it into his head that he’d cause to demand a king’s ransom for some nonsense he’d concocted about the family's past. Naturally I chucked his blackmail note right away in the fire, rubbish that it was, and didn’t give it a second thought. Now all the sudden the fellow goes belly up, and how do you think that looks to the press? Blackmailer dies under mysterious circumstances! They’re having a bloody field day. I’ve told the papers there’s nothing mysterious about a man who likely tripped over his own shoelaces.

I can’t tell you effect it’s all had on the sisters, especially Mira. She’s near off her head, has herself convinced there’s something otherworldy at play here. And what, I ask her? Ghosts don’t go round chucking gardeners down the apples and pears. But she’ll have none of it. It just had to happen on the first of August (nevermind that the accident wasn’t until the 7th, the whole month is cursed in her mind.) And in the south wing, of all places! Mira’s always held some unholy horror about those rooms. Now she thinks that the spirits of old are clamoring for revenge, or some rot, or at the very least some bloodthirsty axe-murderer is hiding under her bed.  I’ve had to come up with a scheme to reassure the old girl; there's only one master key to this place and I’ve up and swiped it from the butler. Every night I shall lock us all in our rooms snug as bugs, and if a murderer manages to get past three inches of solid oak doors, well then, perhaps I really shall have cause to believe in ghosts.

I can’t say how much longer we’ll be at Haverfall. We’ve got to finish going through all my brother’s possessions, and heaven knows there are a lot of them. But we really must - and now this business with the groundskeeper shall keep me tied up here even longer. Sid, they say there’s nothing as magnificent as the white cliffs here at the coast, but I can tell you they’re nearly maddening when you’ve nothing else to look at day after day, with the sea crashing over and over on those broken teeth of rocks at the base, rushing them like some demented cavalry.

Sid, I didn't tell you - well, there's hardly cause to mention really- but the most confounded part of it all. It's silly, I know, only the thing sticks in my mind like some nettle that I can't get out. When he died the groundskeeper had almost nothing on him, not much more than empty pockets and grease stains. But there, in his breast pocket, Sid, they found a single white glove. Small glove, a lady's glove, yellowed with age. I know it's nothing, only the thing strikes me as so odd.  I can't think of where, but really I could swear I've seen the thing before.

Sincerely,

Ashwin

P.S. Listen Sid old boy, I've gone rambling and nearly forgotten the point of this letter! I’ve a favor to ask of you. If you could scuttle down into town next chance you get and see what information you can hunt up on a local, a secretary by the name of Northwind? I’ve no complaints, model employee so far, but a little, how shall I say? A little odd. Just a personal curiosity of mine.