Dear Inspector Summers,
I am not dead and neither is my sister, so you can discontinue your search. I daresay you have been frightfully unlucky to be assigned to this case, Inspector – especially after so many have failed before you. But today marks a turn in your luck. After all these year...
<p>Dear Inspector Summers,</p>
<p>I am not dead and neither is my sister, so you can discontinue your search. I daresay you have been frightfully unlucky to be assigned to this case, Inspector – especially after so many have failed before you. But today marks a turn in your luck. After all these years, I think it is time to finally confess the truth.</p>
<p>It has taken many a year to pen this letter, and I realise that the tale woven into its pages will most likely be dismissed as nonsensical fantasy. However, I implore you to open your mind and to give my story your full attention. I promise you, every word is true.</p>
<p>I shall start from the beginning.</p>
<p>We were never meant to come to your town. Elizabeth and I were city-folk reared on the smoky, dark teat of London Town. It was not our fault that Father was killed in the war and Mother was made unbalanced by grief. Our uncle was not a pleasant man, but he accepted us into his home, provided we obeyed the rules he enforced with a heavy hand. We became his servants. We would wash his clothes, polish his boots, scrub his lavatories, and adhere to his every whim and fancy. Needless to say, we despised him.</p>
<p>As I’m sure you are already aware, Inspector, our uncle’s house was Charmont Manor, a glum building squashed between two identical mansions facing Millington Woods. I still remember peering through the barred windows of our bedroom to the world outside.</p>
<p>For three whole years, we were confined to that house. Our dear Uncle Horace tried to hide us at first, but when people started to notice our faces in the windows, he was forced to confess. He told the authorities that we were being homeschooled as we were too disruptive for public education. This was a lie. All we learnt in our time with our uncle was how to steal enough food from the kitchen to keep us alive, but not so much to bring his attention to his diminishing pantry. All we had was each other, and on many a night as we huddled in the corner of a dark and damp room with only a rotting, threadbare sheet to share, that was all that kept us alive.</p>
<p>Elizabeth often confessed to me that she wished she were dead and with our parents. This always upset me, and I am saddened to admit I was cruel to her because of it, in the way siblings often are. I told her she was a selfish cad and that if she were to leave me, then I would have nothing. She never replied, but simply looked out of our wi...