Missing Emeralds Found: In retrospect - Norman L. Winchester

I live in hope that Rogers' assassination of poor Mrs Jenkin's taste is uncalled for and that, indeed, Mrs Jenkins lives a life of fantastic irony. The niggles in my tired mind lead me away from such hope and land me firmly back in the reality of doilies and artificial room scent.

The Butler is a prat. He can't be named for legal reasons, so we shall refer to his sorry touche as such. The prat figured in his camp little mind that this lady of the manor would ignore his japes or that her taste for gin early in the day would render her too cloudy to notice priceless jewels taking a holiday. NONSENSE! I have yet to convince Rogers of my theory and my hearsay evidence and I can see her scowling through a fog of disagreement across our dingy office. How I wish she would stop tutting and refreshing her name-sake shade of lipstick and pour me a tumbler of fine single malt. This will never happen. We don't have any in this echo chamber of an empty office. Christ knows how that huge spider plant stays alive. It wouldn't be from the hard work churned out by Sibylle whose best work ethic is lighting another fag.

Anyway, you get the picture. This Prat by name and nature butler definitely did the deed, but I reckon upon a deeper scandal brewing here like a shit mug of tea. When I extracted him from the hedge he managed to invade he whispered something (he was badly winded) which I figured to be interesting. "Fag hag". Mrs Jenkins,  do you have secrets you are yet to share with us?

I have thrown out those new shoes. Should have stuck to the boots. Sure they stink, but so does this case.

N.L.W.