Collecting Mr. Philip Stork

January 02, 2022

After we had removed the body, we set about gathering the loose ends.

First was informing next of kin—Mrs. Humphrey volunteered, having dealt with similar matters for her elderly mistress the year prior. Next was contacting his place of employment, which surprised a number of us, myself included, considering the man was sixty-seven and none of us could recall crossing paths with him in town in the last two decades. Regardless, McKinley assured us he would be responsible for the correspondence.

Within a fortnight we reconvened at the estate to address the deceased’s accoutrements, with Miss Erskine directing the ladies in the organisation of items of promising value, and young Peter Bishop and a few of his schoolmates in charge of the exodus of heavier import: chesterfields, book-cases, et cetera.

When it came to our attention that a sizeable portion of the west wing had been boarded up in such a manner that made it impermeable except by means of utmost force, we sent one of the boys to fetch Stuart Cole to assist in our struggle. Naturally the ensuing wait encouraged us to trickle down to the drawing room, wherein Mrs. Humphrey related to us her visit.

“Well Mrs. Sucksby weren’t so shock’d from the news, an’ she asked me in for tea. Sweet old lady, right church-bell tho’. Only met him once it were, a queer little man with a trembling lip, eyes too round. Much preferred books to people, in accordance to ’er late husband. An’ after the war he stay’d here, tho’ set for brass he was, hir’d only one maid. The miss were to leave food outside his bedroom an’ clean the grounds once a week.”

“A bit odd, wouldn’t you say?” McKinley interjected.

“Didn’t need to work a day in his life, that man, with the inheritance he got. Even in his less mobile years the gentleman was in office every morning at 7:45 sharp and out by 5:15. Fellow had a strange way, Mr. Greene said. Would find him immobile in the sorting room, staring for ages at the envelopes. Upon arousal he’d barely reply, eyes shift-like and words like treacle but he was on the whole an efficient worker, so Mr. Greene didn’t mind. In his thirty odd years of employ he never exchanged more than a handful—”

Thereupon came a knock from the main entrance. Our anticipated guest had arrived, cutting McKinley’s narrative short. Presently we ushered Stuart into the west hall. As he produced various specialised implements from his tool-kit, Mr. Harris leaned over my shoulder and remarked,

“Two pints says it’s stuffed to the brim with filthy halfpennies.”

“Oh hush you,” chided Mrs. Harris. “Surely it’s where he kept the family heirlooms.”

With an emphatic grunt, Stuart prised the bulk of the plywood off the affected entryway, and the men combined efforts to knock away the stragglers. Hushed in curiosity, we stepped into the unknown.

Miss Erskine gasped.

Thoroughly distributed throughout the room, on the tables and the chairs and the shelves, arranged precariously in piles so high they bordered on shelves themselves, were hundreds—perhaps thousands—of letters. Unsent and unreceived.