Spencer Drops a Bombshell

16/12/08

Spencer rarely makes an appearance before lunchtime. Since his return to Drumfeld, only mandatory appointments with the Department of Social Security have guaranteed his presence at the breakfast table. On these occasions his spectral appearance has suggested that he's avoided going to bed altogether. As a rule, before four p.m. he is virtually incapable of summoning a verbal response, civil or otherwise. This morning, however, he presented himself at breakfast, made an incoherent but genuine attempt at conversation and even requested permission to use my specially imported Italian coffee rather than simply helping himself, as is customary. No great gifts of intuition were required to detect the whiff of rat in the air. I could hear the patter of the beast's paws behind the skirting board even before Spencer, frowning with concentration as he attempted to roll a cigarette, casually mentioned that his estranged wife would be joining us for Christmas. The rodent, now looming into view assumed unexpected proportions. I can't think of anything more detrimental to the festive spirit than Colette's angry presence. The only occasion on which I can ever recall hearing her laugh immediately followed my helicopter rescue from a storm tossed pedalo. It was Colette's refusal to tolerate my presence at their ridiculous beach wedding ceremony that compelled me to take to resort to such measures in the first place. Only Christine's vigilance prevented a tragedy. Not that my drowning would have detracted from Spencer's enjoyment of the occasion. The sight of my lifeless body on the shingle might, in fact, have caused him more happiness than the prospect of a lifetime with the woman he (fleetingly) claimed to love.

Naturally, I thought it best to remind Spencer that the union which had commenced with my near death had ended less than six months later with his. "She stabbed you," I said, firmly, but not, I hope, unkindly. "It was an accident", he snapped before reminding me that the wound was to the buttock. Like many laymen, my brother imagines that certain parts of the human anatomy can be violated with impunity. It still doesn't occur to him that had I not, coincidentally, been watching events unfold through his kitchen window, he would almost certainly have bled to death. When I pointed this out to him, however, his mood turned. "Am I supposed to be grateful that you were spying on me?" he snarled, blatantly violating house rules by lighting his stringy cigarette. "I was conducting an investigation," I corrected him, "and if I hadn't been you'd be dead and Colette would be spending another Christmas in prison." As always, the encroachment of logic caused my brother to absent the vicinity. "She's absolutely not staying here," I shouted after him. To be perfectly honest, I was less concerned about any threat to Spencer's safety than the influence Colette might have on my niece. Muriel's anti-Hamilton stance has recently become so pronounced that it occurred to me that she might emulate Colette simply to spite me.

 

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