Tidings fair and foul

Dear Wilbur,

I greet you with tidings both fair and foul.

My soul soars to tell you that at last our cousin has reopened his eyes to the world. The sisters arrived some two days ago. I know not from whence they came, or how they came to be here. However on rising from a restless repose the morning before last, I was greeted by three of their darkly cloaked and veiled forms gathered about Watford's bed. It was one of my more disconcerting experiences, for though I have heard much of the sisters' rare abilities and ethereal mien, I was ill prepared for the reality.

I woke to a mortiferous silence. The air itself felt dense and as I rose from my bed and made my way towards our cousin's room, it was as if I walked through pockets of glacial cold. The room, the Club, indeed all of the island it seemed, was enveloped in a shroud of silence, with nothing to be heard but the sisters' sibilant whispers, which seemed to reverberate and echo through my very being. Disconcerting to say the least old man, even to one with so wide an experience of aetheric machinations as I.

I may not - and indeed cannot! - say what occurred, but after two days of their careful ministrations, our cousin stirred and blinked, and although weak and in some delirium, there was indeed a spark of undoubted Watfordness behind those small sunken eyes.

The sisters have now departed, saying there is naught to do but wait while he regains his strength, and that patience and generousity of spirit is required. As you can imagine, I am fair chomping at the bit to be shot of this place. It seems a lifetime ago that we arrived here with so clear a purpose, but it is as if this place does not wish us to leave! It is only recently that Sir Terry has told me similar stories of the area's effect on visitors who tarry a while – the way they are drawn in and over and again find themselves unable to depart. It is utter drivel of course, but I find myself so irked and impeded that these days my mind will entertain any manner of claptrap to keep itself occupied.

And now for the tidings foul, dear coz. Since Court-Knotley's departure two weeks ago, I have sat and waited and watched, first for the sisters to arrive, and now as Watford slouches hour upon hour before the window and stares it seems at nothing, speaking only here and there, and then in the most confounding terms... During this time, preparations have been afoot for the departure of your friend Captain Sir Risticus Geppering-Barclay. Stuck with nothing to do but work on my diaries and progress my Aphrodite, (coming along rather nicely out of a superb piece of pink marble thrombatted over by strawberry-sweet Rosie Reedwarbler), I took the time to look into the habits of the Maunchmaunch islanders.

The prospect that your friend will have much of a future beyond his apotheosis is frankly unlikely. The islanders are not known for their hospitality and according to a report from our colleague Bernard 'Peggy' Blanditt, they will sooner eat you for dinner than have you to dinner. Now with regards your friend Geppering-Barclay, this is frankly of little moment. The man has shown himself to be unreceptive to both subtle allusions to the fate of that Cook fellow and more direct quotations from Peggy's hair-raising memoirs. My short acquaintance with the man shows him to be odious in the extreme, and I can only imagine that your friendship has been forged out of some inscrutable culinary concord that I am not privy to, for the man is both humourless and doltish.

What does concern me, however, is the fate of the clod's cousin, the incomparable Lady Felicity Smattering-Barclay, recently arrived in our midst. Oh what a delightful morsel has appeared in the form of Lady Felicity – sweet as an Egyptian lily, soft as a summer pudding, her alabaster skin and gentle-spoken way, her hesitant smile and hands that flutter like small trapped birds when she speaks, she is dear England shown in her most delicate light. And that cretin intends for her to accompany him to his new abode! I cannot allow it, coz – for such a rare jewel to be sacrificed at the altar of Geppering-Barclay's fatuousness. Mark my words, Wilbur, I will not countenance it.

Yours,
Cedric

Of orchids and earrings

Yes, yes I do recall you may have dropped it in the hothouse - that orchid is recovering magnificently I'm sure you'd want to know... Am quite sure it wasn't the lab as Eldritch was there that night. Could have been the larder - you know we ate all the potted hare, too! Since it's a family piece I shall ask the char if she didn't mistake it for an earring and put it in the wallsafe.

I've quite the appetite for potted hare again, you know? Let me know if you require a hand with the cylinder cleaning...

R

Marvellous!

Much obliged, Rosie, you delicious little minx,

Have passed on comments to Sir Terry, who is currently knee deep in some kind of viscous fluid.

By the way, did you ever manage to track down that cufflink I misplaced the last time we met? Bit of a bother, those sapphires been in the family for generations...

C

Advice?

Cedric darling,

Terence belled me about this last month and mentioned he had procured something new for it from The Gardstrum Brothers. I believe your aetheric fallout may be resulting from the translocutional hinge agitating against the radial flange - try tightening the flange and slackening off the hinge. If that doesn't work, attempting a full refit of the steam-driven oscillators.

Be careful!

With affection,
Rosie

Crackling combobulators and missives from the mists

*** crackle grind gruddle snick clank pew clunk ***

Merry - blurp – cedric here – blurp - attempting use of new contraption Sir Terry has been working on – blurp – apologies for any alarm caused by bedside combobulator suddenly beginning to broadcast – blurp – your letter and translations received with thanks – blurp – am filled with melancholy sentiment at your missive – blurp – watford in desperate straits, all my fault, I can barely express my grief - blurp – doubtful that we will be ready to travel for Yule – blurp - dreaming of england and the simplicity of our youth, dear snitty snitkins – blurp – following by thrombat additional rubbings taken from fragment of petroglyph stumbled over outside club – blurp – suspect highly significant! - blurp – we are here into the new year, until watford regains semblance of humanity – blurp – wishing... what? Ack – what? Damnation... - blurp -

*** sizzle clunk snerp snickle griddle crunk ***

Of gods and charlatans, but little progress

Dear Wilbur,

It has been three long months since I first wrote you about Watford's sad predicament, and oh how I have longed for your company during this time. We remain on Rapa Nui, and I am seldom these days found beyond the close confines of the Club. Sir Terry has been a great stalwart over this time, and has helped keep my spirits aloft with his tales of his travels in Southern Sawachuanaland during the Mahokihoki uprising of 1874-75.

Your friend, Captain Sir Risticus Geppering-Barclay returned last month, so gold and gem encrusted that I was surprised he did not sink the ship he arrived on. Apparently he has been exploring the seas to the south of here, and has had the, you might say, honour of being deified by the nearby Maunchmaunch islanders. He is to return there in six moons to participate in the ceremony that officially apotheosizes him, and at that point he will apparently be ensconced in the mausoleum like structure that was built for the purpose some centuries ago.

I mentioned that it sounded a rather uncomfortable arrangement, and that I could scarce imagine spending the rest of my days in so unwelcoming a structure as a mausoleum. However the good Captain assures me that the building is well ventilated with many rooms, and that he has requested that his cousin, Lady Felicity Smattering-Barclay, a lady with refined aesthetic sensibilities, make her way here posthaste with a selection soft furnishings.

Now regarding Watty... The metaphysician and psychobabulist arrived within days of each other in late September. While the metaphysician, one Clinton Court-Knotley, clearly knows his stuff and is a most capital fellow, the German psychobabulist proved to be something of a charlatan, speaking all kinds of tarradiddle about the conscious and unconscious mind and 'dream-states', and the likelihood that Watty is trapped within some kind of inner world.

Court-Knotley quickly set him straight and explained that clearly Watty was trapped in some kind of other world, experiencing who knows what kinds of horror or bliss while his poor body has been left behind to waste away before our eyes. We sent Doktor Guttenhausenschtein on his way by the next dirigible, and while dear Court-Knotley was sadly unable to affect any change upon Watty's person, I have convinced him to remain a time, as he is simply such blasted good company!

We now anxiously await the arrival of Les Soeurs Dépaysées, and I thank you heartily for your assistance in contacting these talented although elusive ladies.

With ever fond regards, in darkness and in light,

Cedric