…Monsieur Phillipe Montgomery laid aside his goose feather quill.
It made an art of his writing.
It made a rite of his practise of that art.
Besides which it happened to be the instrument with which he had first learnt to practice his art and he saw no reason to acquire a different one.
‘One day,’ he thought to himself, “I will publish a memoir and I shall need a nom-de-plume!”
There was a knock at his door…
The new valet entered carrying a letter-tray on which rested an envelope.
In this day and age a man-servant was an affront to most free thinking citizens.
But, then, Monsieur Phillipe Montgomery was not really of this day and age.
Immaculately attired, the valet seemed to tip-toe across the chequered floor without making a sound.
“You will need a name,” said Montgomery eyeing the envelope with some relish.
“I already have a name,” said the valet.
“My previous charge was known as Marko,” continued Montgomery, “Do you have any preferences?” He took the envelope from the tray and slit the top with a letter opener from his desk.
“None whatsoever,” said the valet.
Montgomery perused the contents of the discharged envelope…
‘We have apprehended the mispers – STP.’
“Very well, Winnie, dispose of this will you?”
“As you wish, your grace.”
Once ‘Winnie’ had departed Montgomery strode across to one of the windows of his room and drew back a blind.
The sun was rising in a clear morning sky.
Montgomery looked out over the grounds.
He could see the Corpse Road wending its way far into the hills…
‘Apprehension is such a futile emotion,’ he thought.
Just then a dark form flitted briefly across the face of the rising sun.
Kith ‘n’ Kin