THE SILVER CIGARETTE CASE
BY
BARRY VAN-ASTEN
Mr Thomas Fairfax, a
man of slight wealth and much leisure, called upon Mr Esdmonde De John at his
rooms in Eaton Square, Belgravia and finding the latter at home and busy in his
drawing room which was sometimes called the library and sometimes called the
study, seated amongst a few Christmas decorations, he took the opportunity of
wishing Esmonde a merry Christmas. Esmonde in turn sighed and slumped further
into his chair.
Thomas was a tall,
dark-haired young man with an air of affected aristocracy who wandered through
life with little purpose or regret, ‘you know Esmonde’ said Thomas, ‘there’s a name for people like you, rarely
used in polite society and frowned upon amongst the lower classes – a humbug!’
and Thomas drew closer to his friend.
‘Don’t mock me Thomas
for I am in yuletide disarray!’ Esmonde said, his eyes looking up and directed
at Thomas, filled with some perceivable heartache. Esmonde, a gentleman of
similar wealth and appearance stood a little taller than Thomas and had about
him an air of tragedy, a sort of melancholy that pervaded his persona.
‘Esmonde, dear boy,
you look as if you have the weight of the world on your shoulders; what is the
matter?’ Thomas asked quite affectionately, putting a hand on Esmonde’s
shoulder as if to feel the weight of the world for himself. Esmonde looked up
into Thomas’ eyes like a small boy full of dejection, ‘Aunt Augusta has sent a
letter to inform me that she will be joining me for Christmas after all as the
Vicar has had an unfortunate accident in the bell tower and shall be spending
Christmas, and no doubt several weeks, disposed in the infirmary!’
‘No doubt it shall do
him the world of good Esmonde to be amongst his parishioners in suffering! A
pity he could not join them in abject poverty or at least meet them half-way,
that would teach him something real and useful!’ Thomas laughed.
‘Yes but now I am
condemned to suffer under the auspicious gaze of Aunt Augusta who does not
appreciate my bachelor ways.’
‘My dear Esmonde even
I do not appreciate your bachelor ways and I am quite broad-minded! I think in
some respect even you fail to fully appreciate them and put them to good use! Perhaps
it is time you entered the sanctity of marriage?’ and Thomas peered upon the
condemned man with loyal tenderness.
‘Good God Thomas, you
sound like a missionary!’ Esmonde said with a look of shock upon his face that
could give ecclesiastical circles a run for its money! ‘Besides’, he continued,
‘I have it on good authority that the state of matrimony is doing very well
without my interference and it would completely upset my soft furnishings!’
‘Ah, the fairer sex
does have a tendency for upsetting a gentleman’s orderly conduct and
haberdashery!’ uttered Thomas, ‘and children of course have that propensity to
destroy a man’s sanity with the charitable thought that fatherhood is the apex
of manhood and the paternal instinct the very meaning of existence; as if it is
our sole purpose and duty to leave the next generation in a better condition
than the one that abandons it!’
‘I have little regard for
the next generation, the previous or the present for that matter and even less
regard for the molluscs that crawl across the surface of the earth and have no
wish to add to its population!’ Esmonde said, grasping the spirit of Christmas
as if it were a thorny rose.
‘Why you sentimental
old fool, you do have a heart after all!’ Thomas said with a look of tenderness
in his eyes which can only be established through years of friendship. Thomas
continued, saying ‘far be it for me to speak ill of the dead Esmonde but surely
you can put up with the old girl for one day, it is Christmas after all?’
‘Christmas be damned! She
has requested to stay the night as her daughter Francesca who would usually
wait upon her in festive drudgery is attending a Christmas Ball at the parents
of the man she intends to marry, a nice fellow, but rather dull! I can see it
now - the carols will resound throughout the household like an introit for the
dead! The dinner bell shall toll like a death knell and there will be a slow
march to the awaiting grave that is breakfast in the clear light of day! My
epitaph shall read “here lies the mortal remains of Esmonde De John, confirmed bachelor,
who succumbed to the devastating and destructive influence of old age”.’
Thomas chuckled, ‘and
I shall produce a marvelous eulogy, at no cost. The cemetery is filled with similar
good intentions I believe.’
‘And the church is
filled with wickedness,’ retorted Esmonde, ‘but nothing so wicked as having to
sit opposite Aunt Augusta for Christmas dinner; her teeth rise like half-submerged
derelicts from the exposed sands littered with the wrecks and prison hulks of
yesteryear and her lips cover them like the shifting dunes of time! They died
an awfully long time ago, when Victoria
‘Then it’s high time
she joined them! I have not had the pleasure of her company myself but I have
it on good authority, actually Reverend Baldwin, that she has a fine
complexion, not unlike cheese. Take comfort Esmonde that she will depart from
this world at some point in the not too distant future one hopes and leave her
spoils to her favourite Nephew, no doubt!’
‘Yes, and probably on
the condition that I produce a family to order!’ and Esmonde winced.
‘Tricky! Thankfully I
do not believe in miracles. Have you ever really been in love Esmonde, I mean
all that surrendering of the spirit and two hearts as one sort of tosh? I hear
it does wonders for the soul and for filling tedious idle hours which would
otherwise be spent in fascinating manly pursuits.’
‘I was in love once, Thomas’,
Esmonde confessed as if it were some sinful crime, ‘it was during the bloom of
my youth and she was the most stunning creature that ever dreamed by night and
walked by day, or perhaps I should say dreamed by day and walked by night as
she was of a nocturnal beauty; her mind was piercingly fierce of intellect and
her eyes were of a vaporous moonlight, the pure feminine, a goddess in stature
who stood between worlds, that of the living and that of the dead; the most
exceptional woman I ever met and ever will meet!’
‘And you let her go?’
Thomas said abruptly.
‘It was an inevitable
catastrophe! She haunts my every thought and lingers in my dreams. I pour my
love upon her from afar as if she were an altar of devotion and shall do till
my dying breath on earth. I was a fool, an absolute fool to my shame!’ Esmonde
bowed his head as if seemingly before that altar of his desire.
‘Well there is no use
dwelling on the past old boy and what could have been; “might have beens” won’t
cut any ice with Aunt Augusta you know!’ Thomas said in an attempt at sympathy.
Esmonde looked off into the distance remembering things as they were between
him and his lost love or inventing them in a new light of imagination and some
moments elapsed until the silence was broken by Simpkins, Esmonde’s valet and
general manservant entering the drawing room.
‘Excuse me sir, but I
have taken the liberty of unpacking a case of sherry as your Aunt is so fond of
it! Oh and I have disposed of that matter to which we are not supposed to talk
about sir.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know
to what you are referring to Simpkins but thank you anyway. That will be all
for tonight, and merry Christmas to you!’
‘Yes merry Christmas!’
echoed Thomas, adding, ‘I say, he’s the very Sphinx isn’t he?’
‘I couldn’t do without
him!’ whispered Esmonde, ‘he sweeps all my desires under the carpet until there
is no trace of them! Everyone should have a Simpkins!’
Simpkins, a
long-necked, reliable man in his forties left the room in his easy and
distinctive manner; usually his head would enter a room peering round the door
and the rest of him would appear several seconds later. He was a confident man
not averse to covering certain misdemeanours of his master and employer, Mr.
Esmonde De John; a man in receipt of much trust and favour in pasting over the
socially embarrassing cracks that appear from time to time following his
master’s excursions into unknown pastures of London
Esmonde took his
cigarette case from his pocket and offered it to Thomas, who took one and
smiled, and then Thomas said, looking at the cigarette case: ‘I see you are
still loath to part with this little treasure! See how close he clutches the
abomination!’ Thomas mocked as Esmonde rolled the sparkling cigarette case in
his hands.
‘There are so few
cigarette cases in the hands of the recipients as most were pawned for hard
cash Thomas and besides, it was a gift from Oscar to me and it has become a
symbol of friendship – I could never part with it!’
‘Friendship indeed!
You met him once or twice and consider yourself a life-long comrade of the
condemned man!’ Thomas said as if scolding his friend.
‘Thomas you sound like
a common shop girl! You know you are much mistaken and you are much like Oscar
when you speak so ill of me for he was an inveterate snob also and I told him
so, in jest of course, to his utter amusement.’
‘I know you did, it’s
been trotted round every dinner and luncheon table ever since!’
‘You seem to doubt me
Thomas.’ Esmonde said, hiding his upset.
‘On the contrary old
boy I know the truth of the matter and have refrained from referring to it in
society. Please do me the honour and haul it out once again just for me won’t
you!’ Thomas put his hand on Esmonde’s hand with the touch of firm friendship.
‘You are rude Thomas
and I shall do no such thing!’ Esmonde looked decidedly hurt by the remark.
‘I am sorry Esmonde,
really I am, it’s just my way, I could never do anything to hurt you really. Please
do relate the story once more.’ Pure love blazoned from Thomas’ eyes upon his
friend, a love unspoken and eternal.
‘Oh very well, as you
asked me so nicely. Well, I said he was an inveterate snob and Wilde, grasping
at his jowls, thanked me and said he was much flattered by the observation and
that the world revolves on flattery and coins of the realm and that he was rich
in one and poor in the other!’
Thomas yawned; ‘I bet
he never mentioned those stained sheets of the Savoy
‘Thomas, how could you
be so heartless?’ Esmonde was decidedly perturbed.
‘Heartless nothing old
chap! And fancy making that remark about the ugly boy, what was his name?’
Thomas rubbed his fingers together as if searching through an imaginary
directory of ugly boys.
‘Walter Grainger.’
Answered Esmonde triumphantly.
‘Yes, that’s it, and not kissing him due to
his peculiar ugliness! What a fool! It sealed his fate of course!’
‘Rot and you know it!’
‘Perhaps, was that the
only time you met Wilde?’ Thomas inquired.
‘I’d rather not say.’
And Esmonde changed the subject. ‘Tell me Thomas, how is that book of yours
coming along? Is it as indecent as its author pretends to be?’
‘Motets and
Moon-Threads? Not so well but it’s to be expected; one cannot thrust a volume
of poetry upon an unsuspecting public and expect a fair trial. The critic you know
says what is on his mind and the artist says what is in his heart but the general
public replies with what is in their bank accounts.’
‘There is a distinct
lack in humanity to appreciate good poetry these days. When I am called to
answer for my foibles Thomas I shall take Saint Peter aside and have the
failing corrected!’
‘I have always
suspected you of having fraudulent connections in the next world!’
‘You shouldn’t treat
the matter so lightly you know Thomas, there are more things in heaven and
hell… tell me, what is your opinion of death?’
‘Like honouring one’s
debts it is to be avoided at all costs! You do surprise me Esmonde, for if I
want a lecture upon immorality and spiritual affairs I go to my barber and if I
want advice on all the riches heaven supposedly has in store for me I go to my
tailor; likewise a sermon on the wickedness of fornication and the sins of the
flesh is dispensed by my butcher – for business and financial management and
salacious gossip I go to the Church!’
‘Then we are of a similar
mind for I always go to my dentist for the dangers of democracy and political
affairs of state to which he is privy! But seriously Thomas, what are your
views on death?’ Esmonde gazed into Thomas’ eyes searchingly.
‘We exist and then we
die, that is all, it is a bitter-sweet tragedy I know but there is no evidence
to the contrary. Why are you so morbid this evening Esmonde?’
‘These dark nights of
winter turn my mind to mortality and other dark thoughts I am afraid. I fear I
am condemned to the obscurity of the grave; I have made no singular difference
to the life of another living soul – I have been and ever shall be an
unsatisfied and un-manifested afterthought and my life is not worth the skin I
inhabit!’
Thomas put his hand on
Esmonde’s shoulder, saying ‘such tragedy in twenty-seven years of existence!
These thoughts are not peculiar to you alone you know, the essence of humanity
is bathed in darkness.’
‘I can only speak for
myself Thomas’, Esmonde said with a look of dejection on his face, ‘I am tired
of the artificial and want something real to have and hold! I produce no sensation
and provoke no emotion – I am already dead!’
Silence ensued and
Thomas put his hand to Esmonde’s head and softly stroked his hair which seemed
to pull Esmonde a little from his despair.
‘Aunt Augusta believes
in spiritualism’, Esmonde said like a child, ‘you know all that table-rapping
stuff and conversing with long dead entities such as Drake and Cromwell!’
‘If it were possible
then why do we not hear from the likes of Judas, a much maligned man if I may
say so, and Caligula and Genghis Khan? No doubt it shall come as some surprise
to her when she looks death square in the teeth to find no celestial plane on
which to play bridge or stand eye-ball to eye-ball with the great and the good!
Have you ever seen a ghost Esmonde, you talk as if you are half converted
yourself?’
‘I have a yearning
towards such things but to say I have seen a ghost would be a lie, yet I might
add, that the apparition of Aunt Augusta rising in the night like a spectre
from the grave might have a similar effect upon the living!’
‘How perfectly
frightful! You know Esmonde, I never could understand why you adore Christmas
so much, or at least pretend to, you a complete pagan, and deplore New Year! Will
you be attending mass this year?’
‘I would not miss it
for the world! Those delightful choristers brighten up anyone’s Christmas mood
especially after the Reverend keeps
insisting on mentioning some fellow named Jesus which completely spoils the
atmosphere of Christmas!’ Esmonde sneered.
‘I quite agree’ said
Thomas, ‘there is much too much importance placed on this Jesus chap, I mean,
what did he ever do in the name of Christmas? It’s not like he invented the
bloomin’ thing! Did he distribute presents to the children who slept soundly in
their beds at night while Lord and Lady Dillweather-something-or-other hurried
the servants along – no he did not! It seems to me all he did do was to stop
people having damned fun; look at what he did in the market place for God’s
sake, completely ruined everyone’s day – what a dullard, a real dowdy sort of fellow
and not someone you’d care to rub shoulders with. He must have been thoroughly
dead to every sensation, except suffering, he was very good at that so we are
told constantly, but did he ever have one, just one strong and sensuous emotion
or express beauty in the form of flesh upon flesh? These are the high
sensations of life Esmonde. But I forget, I’m preaching to the converted.’
‘You are a born
philosopher Thomas and a barbarian to boot! If I were born with your
immeasurable kindness I should think I could accomplish wonders, but as I was
not I do not and therefore waste away in utter obscurity; please say you will
stay for dinner.’
‘Ah and be a witness
to the ritual slaughter of Christmas by Aunt Augusta! When is she supposed to
arrive: the witching hour?’
‘At eight and she is
always punctual! Please say you will stay Thomas and protect me from her
infernal questioning. I shall be an absolute wreck before New Year hammers the
final nail in the coffin. You haven’t made other arrangements have you?’
‘That depends on what gastronomic
delight you have prepared.’
‘Lobster!’ Esmonde
said as if it were some sacred word of the Ancient Order of Gentlemanly
Layabouts, uttered in darkness before an altar of depravity.
‘What a thoroughly
wicked life you lead!’ Thomas squealed, knitting his brows together at the
thought of lobster, ‘speaking of lobster, how is your sister Clarissa?’
‘I do not know why you
should force lobster and my sister Clarissa into the same sentence as if it
were a cooking pot; you know perfectly well she is engaged to be married.’
‘Is that still going
ahead? I thought it had all fallen through.’
‘And why shouldn’t it?
My sister is perfectly respectable and will make an excellent wife to Rector
Spotiswode.’
‘I have frequently
found that country Rector’s wives have all the erotic allure of an old Saint
and the patience of a tuppeny strumpet!’
‘Thankfully I have
never been so rash or so extravagant as to spend so much as “tuppeny” on a
strumpet, patient or otherwise and never will and your attempt at humour is as
disagreeable as a cold shower on a wet weekend in Hastings
‘Very well old boy, I
shall stay in the name of friendship and in the line of duty to defend the good
name of De John!’
‘You are a marvel
Thomas!’
‘So I am frequently
told. You know, I cannot say myself that I have experienced love; all that
passion sort of thing, it seems to me that lust is an ever-present condition
and usually unsatisfied. I tend to believe that madness is the outward
manifestation of love. You know Esmonde, I have always had this strange
affliction for nuns, all that restrained passion suppressed by the spiritual
bindings of the church and the material barrier of the habit. To tap it and see
that passion gush forth like oil upon water in every conceivable fleshly
direction, splashing upon poor sinning me. No doubt it shall all come out in my
autobiography – Touched by Raven and Rook!’
‘You’re speaking like
a common Bishop! Pull yourself together old boy and if ever such an
autobiography were to appear it would be avoided like the plague!’ Just then a
bell rang.
‘Talking of the
plague!’ Esmonde turned quite pale and said ‘into the lion’s den!’
‘Remember Androcles!’
Thomas said defiantly.
‘He didn’t have to
contend with Aunt Augusta!’ Esmonde went into the hallway to receive his Aunt.
‘Good gracious
Esmonde! Have you sunk so low that you must open your own front door?’ Chimed
Aunt Augusta.
‘And merry Christmas
to you too Aunt Augusta!’ Esmonde bellowed, stifling his laughter before
continuing, ‘I have given Simpkins the night off, it is Christmas Day after all!’
‘Yes, yes’ waved Aunt
Augusta. ‘You know Esmonde, I have always noticed in you a nasty streak of
lavish generosity. Such liberties did not occur in my day!’
Aunt Augusta entered
handing her coat, hat and gloves to Esmonde. ‘I suppose cook will be available
or have you completely taken leave of your senses?’
‘Cook has prepared a
most admirable dinner and I have sent her home to be with her family at
Christmas.’
‘How very bohemian of
you, I really don’t know where you get it from, it’s certainly not from your
mother’s side. Are there any other wild Saturnalian surprises in store?’
‘Just one and he is
waiting for us in the drawing room.’
Esmonde ushered in
Aunt Augusta whose stern face seemed to whither away the Christmas cheer at an
alarming pace and replace it with Christmas misery.
‘And who is this, the parlour
maid I daresay?’ said Aunt Augusta under her breath before intoning, ‘Esmonde,
who is your charming friend?’ and Aunt Augusta stretched out an arm in the general
direction of Thomas.
‘Aunt Augusta may I
introduce my dear friend Mr. Thomas Cyril Fairfax!’
‘Pleased to meet you
Mr. Fairfax; and what is your profession?’
‘I am a poet Madam!
Therefore I have no profession!’
‘Ah, an honest sloth,
how delightful.’
‘May I get you a
sherry Aunt?’ asked Esmonde.
‘Esmonde, you know I
deplore strong drink! But one must be festive I suppose, perhaps a small one.’
Esmonde handed Aunt Augusta a glass of sherry which was very far from small and
very near to full and they all sat by the fire.
Aunt Augusta noticed a
book on the fireside table and picked it up and turned it around in her hands,
‘Pride and Prejudice. Esmonde, have you been reading this?’
‘Yes, it’s really
rather good Aunt.’
‘Hmm, a lady may write
novels, it is a harmless occupation, but it is most unbecoming of a gentleman
to read them! I find it quite deplorable that a lady should reveal a woman’s intimate
and genteel shortcomings which would otherwise remain one of life’s great
mysteries!’ Aunt Augusta sniffed and dropped the novel as if it were
contagious.
‘Esmonde tells me
Madam’, Thomas said in an effort to change the subject, ‘that you are
interested in spiritualism, how fascinating!’
‘Yes, do you know that
I am on the most intimate and friendliest of terms with most of the deceased
Kings of England? They are really quite charming, except for Henry VIII, he’s
quite a bully you know! When my time comes and I am called to the veil it is
more than likely that I shall be returning like Marley’s ghost to rattle my
chains and haunt the family who think I am slightly mad you know?’
‘Well as you shall be
in the business of haunting I must give you the name and address of my tax
collector!’ chuckled Esmonde; Aunt Augusta ignored the remark.
‘Tell me Mr. Fairfax,
are your parents still with us or are they in the afterlife?’ Aunt Augusta
stared inquisitively into Thomas’ eyes.
‘Gladly still with us
Madam on the side of the living but sadly not here with us. I am of Hampshire
stock Madam and my father is in the business of agriculture.’
‘He means he’s a
farmer’s son Aunt Augusta.’ That distinguished old lady turned her nose up and
shrivelled intensely at the thought.
‘Nothing of the sort
Esmonde, father is an exporter of agricultural implements and is highly
respected in that field and made a sizable fortune from it!’
‘Farmers and their
fields!’ sighed Aunt Augusta, ‘shall you be returning to that delightful county
for New Year Mr. Fairfax or have you completely lost all sense of proportion
and accustomed yourself, like Esmonde, to London
‘I am a simple man of
nature at heart Madam and therefore have become fully acclimatised to the whirl
of London
'Yes, and do you know
why Mr. Fairfax?’ Aunt Augusta squeaked, looking down her nose.
‘Don’t believe a word
of it Thomas!’ said Esmonde handing Aunt Augusta another sherry with a look of
absolute fear on his face as if he were to be exposed of a crime.
‘Because’ continued
Aunt Augusta in a tone of reverence, ‘he was found doing something quite
unspeakable one New Year’s Eve with the house-boy!’
‘That’s a lie Aunt
Augusta and you know it!’ Esmonde said defiantly.
‘I had it from the
lips of your own dear mother Esmonde and I would hardly disbelieve my own
sister now would I?’ There was a silence as Thomas looked at Esmonde and
Esmonde glanced at Aunt Augusta who in turn was staring at Thomas. Esmonde nervously
took his cigarette case from his pocket and put a cigarette to his lips.
‘Esmonde must you, you
know I detest smoking and do not approve of it!’ declared Aunt Augusta, ‘you
would not’ she continued, ‘do such a thing in church.’
‘That depends Madam’
said Thomas, ‘in theory – yes, in practice – no.’
‘Are you a church now
Aunt Augusta?’ Esmonde asked sarcastically.
‘Don’t be impertinent!’
said that austere old lady taking another sherry for herself, ‘you may have
acquired a smoky reputation which invariably occurs from some nefarious point
of ignition but there is no need to fan the flames further by smoking!’
Esmonde glanced at
Aunt Augusta and a chill surged through him as his attention was drawn to her
atrocious teeth which rose like broken battlements in that valley of death
which was her mouth; he returned the cigarette to the case, ‘and besides,
continued Aunt Augusta, ‘that case has beastly attachments!’
‘It has nothing of the
sort. It was given to me by a very dear friend, an artist; one might even go so
far as to say a genius.’
‘That may be so but
must he suffer for his art so literally and so publicly and offend society by
so doing?’
‘Society can go hang!’
Esmonde said under his breath. Thomas chuckled.
‘You said something
Esmonde?’
‘Merely that Society
is everything! Thomas, you were telling me something of your interest in the
church before Aunt Augusta arrived and how you admire those dutiful and poor
sisters who work so tirelessly in their devotion.’
‘You are quite
exceeding the realms of friendship dear Esmonde to speak of such personal
spiritual aspirations which I spoke of in strictest confidence.’ Thomas handed
Aunt Augusta another sherry.
‘You are quite right
Mr Fairfax it is most unbecoming of Esmonde to bring the matter up. Are you
married Mr Fairfax?’ Aunt Augusta asked.
‘Sadly no madam, I
have not had the good fortune to find love.’
‘Good gracious! One
does not marry for love Mr Fairfax; one marries for position and social
standing. I absolutely detested my first husband Major Barclay, we never saw
eye to eye on anything. He was stationed in India
‘Do they ever contact
you, from the other side I mean?’ asked Thomas.
‘Good heavens no! The
Major was never one to speak much in life, certainly not to me so I don’t see
why he should suddenly become a chatterbox in death! Although I did hear from
Stephen once, he told me that he didn’t mind me marrying again but I am hardly
likely to try a third time! I find I am suited to widowhood, it has really made
me!’
‘I must say you don’t
paint an awfully pretty picture of marriage.’ Said Thomas with a smile, handing
her another sherry, ‘if only I were twenty years younger Mr Fairfax I should attend
to your peculiarities a little more carefully,’ Aunt Augusta said, smiling to
reveal the sunken wrecks. ‘Forty years younger would not be stretching the
imagination too far!’ Thomas thought to himself but politely said ‘Your Aunt
Augusta Esmonde is a lady of impeccable taste and refinement!’
‘My dear Mr Fairfax,
how very perceptive of you,’ returned Aunt Augusta, and so the conversation
drifted into this and that corner of half-hearted attempts at prolonging humour
and interest but in the face of such adversity as Aunt Augusta the barrage
became a minor tirade of boredom and displeasure which eked itself out through
dinner.
Aunt Augusta was
decidedly unimpressed with the lobster but held her tongue on the matter and
following two more glasses of sweet sherry she retired to her bed chamber for
the night. Esmonde and Thomas sat up a while enjoying their brandy and
cigarettes now that the old dispenser of gloom and disapproval had extinguished
her eyes and found the world of sleep full of new opportunities for misery
making.
‘I’m not sure I like
the idea of your making love to My Aunt Augusta, Thomas, it is most distressing
and thoroughly obscene.’
Thomas agreed to stay
the night also as it was late and carriages would be difficult to be had and he
was as much averse to walking as he was hard work, so he took up space on a
sofa and made himself comfortable before falling into a chain of nightmares all
of which featured the terrible sight of Aunt Augusta’s teeth.
The next morning,
having woken quite late, Esmonde knocked on Aunt Augusta’s door to inform her
that breakfast would be prepared shortly. Receiving no answer Esmonde slowly and
cautiously entered the room and to his utter astonishment there was no sight or
sound of Aunt Augusta; in fact, her bed had not been slept in. He scanned the
room and worked by a process of elimination and made a search for her handbag for
Aunt Augusta was rarely far away from her handbag and failing that he looked
for her gown and then in turn looked for her gloves, hat and coat which were
nowhere to be found and neither was the small and imperfectly formed body of
Aunt Augusta or the rotten, broken tusks that rose from her gums and passed for
teeth; in fact, she was nowhere to be seen in the house! Esmonde woke Thomas
and told him his concerns and that Aunt Augusta
Esmonde discovered his
cigarette case was missing – ‘I’ve been burgled Thomas’. A search for the item
turned up nothing and the mystery deepened.
Thomas had to leave as
he had already made arrangements that afternoon but he promised to return later
that evening to comfort Esmonde who was beside himself with worry for his Aunt,
and of course for the whereabouts of his cigarette case.
It was towards the evening that a letter arrived
from his cousin, Miss Wade who informed him that on her return from the country
she found that her mother, Esmonde’s Aunt Augusta, had sadly died sometime
around six p.m. the
previous day, Christmas Day. But how could that have been when shortly after
this time she arrived at the home of Esmonde in Eaton Square
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