A number of strange occurrences have taken place on campus lately.
I refer not to the blow-pipe containing extract of quinine discovered in the reed bushes by the piranha pond last week, nor to the lacrosse team, floating face down in said pond, nor to the question of whose expert herringbone brickwork interred poor Jade, nor to poor, dear Sigismund of the quivering knitting kneedles, nor to the many, many trophies that have been reported missing since the start of term (most notably, my own 1976 Gold Gymkhana cup).
No, dear Reader.
I refer to the whispering of my own name late at night in the plumbing.
I refer to my rocking chair, rocking back and forth in demented fashion whenever I enter my office.
I refer to the face in the window as I look up from my labours at night, and see, just for a moment, a face like a deathmask, its strangely familiar features grinning back at me.
I refer to my own brush with infinity, as I lay in my deck chair in the cooling shade cast by the benign outstretched hand belonging to the giant gold statue of Ser Basil. Just as Lu-Seal served me my morning refreshment I happened to look up. There, silhouetted against the dazzling sun, was a small, rotund figure, dressed in black from head to toe. The next thing I knew, Lu-Seal had thrown the tray of margaritas over me, causing me to leap from my chair at the very moment the statue toppled, crushing my deckchair beneath Ser Basil’s Girdle of Venus.*
I refer, dear Reader, to the disappearance of both Shiny and Darren.
I think I know who is behind this.
* Please consult with the newly opened School of Palmistry, dear Reader.