My dear Ernesto
What calamity has befallen you? Your last letter has left me
shaken and in need of a large dose of Dr Sproule’s restorative powders! Am I to
understand that our business arrangements have suffered a blow from which they
may not recover? It is hard to decipher your true meaning when your missives
ramble so, and I am concerned that your drinking has entered a new and
dangerous phase. Please find enclosed a sum of money, which I implore you to
spend on making the necessary travel arrangements to visit me here as soon as
you can. We must nip this in the bud, whatever it is.
I sent an urgent telegram to our mutual friend at the Polish
embassy and have this morning received his response. He confirms that the final
shipment has not yet arrived in Constantinople and certain Latvian parties are
making certain Latvian threats. I have no reason to doubt that they will make
good on their rather sadistic promises if matters are not resolved to their
satisfaction. If we do not act with all care and guile, then our futures do
indeed look rather bleak.
In other news, a new vicar has been installed in the parish. His
name is Baritone-Lint and he
has already endeared himself to many, including myself. His Christian
benevolence seemingly knows no bounds, and he has already organised a number of
social events to raise money for fallen women and orphans. The orphans, when
they arrive from London, will be housed in the larger of our cow sheds, while
the good Reverend has agreed that the fallen women may reside at the vicarage.
There is a meeting in the big hall later this week to discuss how best to
utilise their talents, and I have already come up with some splendid ideas in
this regard (see accompanying sketches). I have invited a number of eminent
notables (Cabinet Ministers, popular musicians and fellow members of the
aristocracy) to Gimlet Mansions to prepare for the meeting, and I must say that
the response so far has been most enthusiastic. It should be noted at this
juncture, however, that I have been forced to burn some of the letters I have
received, due to the levels of enthusiasm and detail contained therein, lest
they fall into the hands of certain newspaper proprietors.
And now, sadly, to Agatha. The frightful St Clement, of whom
I made mention in my last letter, has vanished, taking not only Agatha’s psoriasis
ointment but also her life savings. She is bereft, Ernesto, simply bereft, and
will not countenance any intervention on my part. She spends her days consoling
herself by playing the trombone in the front parlour and singing excerpts from
Porgy and Bess. You will recall that her singing voice is poor and her trombone
playing worse, but nothing I can do or say will rouse her from this
grief-ridden cacophony. Maybe her spirits will rise when you arrive from
Dundee. She always had a soft spot for you, brother mine, and she assures me
that it is washed almost daily.
And so, once more, I must take my leave. I am weary,
Ernesto. Aunt Daphne arrives early tomorrow morning with Cousin Ralph, and I
have not yet finished laying the traps.
I remain, your loving brother,
Frimley
