Moose-head and Shrew

Clive Montague never liked me particularly. I certainly never liked him. Loud, boorish, with floppy fair hair, there was—there is—nothing to like. This gives rise to two questions: First. Why, some twenty years ago, did I receive an invitation to the house-party he was hosting at his parents’ country residence in Dorset? Second. Why did I go?

Nichol Wilmor is a random traveller and an accidental publisher. He has lived and worked in Tokyo, Casablanca, Barcelona, Hong Kong and Paris and now lives in London where he writes – very slowly – under different names.