Winters' Tales

The Pinkerton's Agency.

-FIVE YEARS AFTER THE RETURN OF ALIANNA WINTER-

In quite a large, smart office, in quite a large, smart office block, in quite a large, smart, exceedingly busy New York City street somewhere in the dizzying labyrinths of Manhattan, ex-Lieutenant Robert Newham was lounging on a big, comfy sofa with his shoes off and his feet up on the opposite arm, reading (for his own amusement alone) the morning's New York Times.

As it always did every morning at ten past ten, the office door swung open with a drawn out squeak.

"Good morning, Arthman" Newham muttered, without looking up from his paper.

"Morning, Newham. How's the world? Still trying to kill itself?"

Newham smirked dryly.

"Rather. Germany's got itself all worked up again. People are talking about war in Europe."

"Good thing you quit the Army, then" Arthman sighed, shutting the door and wandering over to his desk. "I wouldn't want you pelting off to war. Work's lonely when you're operating alone."

"So kind of you to say" Newham replied, still a little dryly. He himself was very grateful for his new American life. An Army career wasn't something he had ever particularly wanted to stay with him until old age, and being permanently out of Britain in itself was a bonus. In reality, he had been trying to get abroad for years. Hence why he had originally joined the Army.

"We have mail" Arthman commented, waving a small stack of letters in Newham's face.

"Who from?" Newham asked, putting the newspaper to one side and sitting up, shuffling into a comfy position leaning over the back of the couch (which had always been placed awkwardly in the centre of the room, facing the south windows) looking at Arthman still stood at his desk.

"Well" the American began, raising a humouring eyebrow. "I have a couple magazines, non subscription-they'll have shoved them in all our letterboxes, the idiots-I also have a letter for you, from a Miss Vanessa Hunter-Smith..."

Newham groaned loudly and flopped back on the sofa as Arthman swiftly opened the letter, a dainty thing in a pink envelope, written in a gorgeous, swirling hand.

"...informing you that you have been cordially invited to the Diamontè Hotel in Boston, for a private banquet on the 24th of the month" Arthman finished, sniggering. "Jeez. That lady sure doesn't give up, does she?"

Newham rolled his eyes.

"I plan on cordially declining" he said with a dry smirk. "I'm going to be on a case."

"You're going to be on a case?" Arthman echoed, in mock surprise. "Robert Newham-you are the most blatant of liars!"

"Am not!" Newham snapped. "I" he carried on "am an English gentleman. English gentlemen do not lie-unless they can really help it..."

Arthman giggled.

"Find us a case, Henry" Newham sighed. "A long one. Preferably one where I can either be busy or hospitalised on the 24th."

"We could just hospitalise you anyway" Arthman mused, drumming his fingers on his desk. "I mean, I've a baseball bat in a cupboard somewhere..."

"Find us a case" Newham repeated, slumping back down on the sofa.

***

"I say" Arthman commented, four hours later. Newham stopped doing the New York Times crossword at his desk and sat up interestedly. His colleague was on the phone, and was beckoning him over silently as someone on the other end launched into a story. Arthman turned the phone so they could both hear, and the two of them leant on his desk, listening.