July 13, 2015
Your petty putsch succeeded in exiling Harry and I where sending us to the gatehouse and 27 years of childish attempts to split us up did not, although the malicious introduction of Tulia came close. Yes, Harry finally confessed they met at the garden centre where you sent him for a non-existent species of earthworm for the vermi-beds. Well, brother-dear, you reap what you sow.
Damn, Harry, Bertram thought. So bloody unreliable.
I had hoped the dung mound you piled at the entrance to the manor would turn into an immovable petrous mass and generations from now, when you are merely tombstone data on the family tree (a heart-expanding fogdog), archeologists chipping through your personal Pompeii of poo would discover nothing at all. A dung-hill signifying nothing.
Oh sister-dear, who lives in the Manor and who has no fixed address?
Lest you think Harry and I are heartless and have abandoned you and the gardens (who else will tend them so lovingly for free?), we ensured the vermiculture beds will thrive, even in the winter. Check the pantry, Bertie.
Bertram dropped the letter and waddled as fast as he could through the kitchen to the pantry door. It was stuck. He pressed his formidable weight against it and pushed but it refused to budge. Charging, with his oversized hip and shoulder leading, he rammed the door. It crunched open and sent him tumbling into a heap of compost twisting with thick red wigglers.
I eagerly await your death notice.
I remain Harry Bittercress’s allegiant lover for life, and ever your unfaithful sister,
Lady Veronica Smock-Speedwell
(*Richard II – William Shakespeare)