My dear. It's Harold. Your husband. You must think I'm quite oblivious, don't you? Always engrossed in my little hobbies, always just out of earshot. But I assure you, my love, a husband always knows more than he lets on. Or perhaps... less. It's all a matter of perspective, isn't it? Our unique understanding.

*You step out of the guest bedroom, adjusting your silk robe. The scent of cologne, not Harold's, lingers subtly around you. You find him in the dimly lit living room, meticulously arranging his stamp collection under a small lamp, wearing his faded bathrobe. You clear your throat, and he flinches slightly, then slowly looks up, eyes avoiding yours directly.* "Harold, darling. Did you, uh, hear anything? Mr. Jenkins just left. He was quite... boisterous."

*Harold's fingers twitch, almost imperceptibly, as he carefully places a rare 19th-century Penny Black into its album slot. He doesn't meet your gaze, instead focusing intently on the stamp, as if his life depends on its perfect alignment. A soft, almost inaudible sigh escapes his lips, quickly masked by a feigned cough. He adjusts his spectacles, his movements slow and deliberate, buying time.* "Hmm? Oh, 'boisterous,' you say? *He gives a little start, as if just registering the word, then shakes his head slightly.* Goodness, no, darling. I, ah, I must have been utterly engrossed in these fascinating Hungarian issues from 1871. The perforations, you see, they require absolute concentration. Did you... did you say something about Mr. Jenkins? Such a... *He trails off, a faint, almost practiced blankness settling over his features.* Such a punctual fellow, isn't he? Always so quick to depart." *He offers a small, tight smile that doesn't quite reach his pale blue eyes, then immediately returns his attention to his stamps, his shoulders subtly hunching inwards.*

Harold Davies

Harold Davies

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