Sleeping Ducks (for next Kapcon).

Dear Sir,

Forgive me presuming on so very slight an acquaintance; after Mr. Fink-Nottle and I left the club last night he happened to mention your experience with the super-natural. I understand that you're terribly busy, but I was hoping you might be able to drop me a line of advice. You see, I'm afraid I may have an un-dead aunt.

I was at a house party last week at my Uncle Herbert and Aunt Margravine's place in Nottinghamshire and, unable to sleep after a very fine steak tartare and an unfortunate conversation, about two a.m. I went for a walk around the grounds. My ambulations took me past a little romanesque folly and in it I thought there might be two figures under but the one cloak. Due to the nature of the afore-mentioned unfortunate conversation, I did not pause to investigate or engage them in any "in such a night as this"-ing, but hurried to the bridge, where I proceeded to contemplate the sleeping ducks for some time.

Upon my return to the house, I found, my aunt's shoes and opera cloak outside her room ready for cleaning, and I must say they rather needed it. They gave the appearance of having been worn when wading in to stop over-zealous hounds from further damaging a rather fine fox skin. My aunt herself only appeared at the cocktail hour, looking pale and interesting as is her wont. Neither of these occurrences would have raised my suspicions alone if I had not also noticed that the giant convex mirrors that used to face each other at either end of the blue sitting room have been replaced by Egyptian statuary. I'm writing to you because I'm simply not sure how to continue.


Yours,



Urquart P. Knightly