A curious incident in the middle of the night

I arrived at Bertie's in time for tea and scones on his veranda. He remains as fine a fellow as I remember: an iron-strong eye, waxen whiskers and a waddling walk that endears him to all who make his acquantance. We discussed the prime minister's fiscal stimulation policy, then I removed myself to my chambers where I unpacked my Everlite.

Re-emerging an hour later, I found Bertie wandering his aviary in the grounds. Bertie keeps one of the finest collections of owls in the UK, and we stood admiring a particularly jaunty Speckled Woodchuck. Relaxed by a combination of port and the owl's delicate markings, I revealed all about the visitation of my dead wife to my chambers this week hence.

Bertie reassured me: 'Sure to be but a half-digested carrot disturbing your sleeping pattern,' he smiled, gripping my cervical plexus then drawing me over to an enclave of woodpeckers.

'See,' he pointed. 'Magnificent specimens.' He reached for my hand and placed int0 it a grey pill. 'Take it before you go to bed, should do the trick.'

That night I woke around half past four with an urgent calling from my bladder. Rising and heading for the toilet, I saw Bertie leaving his bedroom and tiptoing down the stairs. What was this? An affair with a serving wench? A midnight nip from the whiskey bottle? As I drew water, I resolved to investigate further on another evening.