Disclaimer: Clue is the property of Warner Brothers and its respective producers and directors as are any of the characters who appear here or are mentioned; they are not mine and are only 'borrowed' for the purposes of the story.

Wadsworth read the newspapers even when the delivery service was erratic at best.

Because his employer insisted on keeping as much apart from the hustle and bustle of the city as physically possible while maintaining a contact with the outside world, they maintained a subscription to the Times, however their primary source of news were the radio broadcasts.

He wore a dark grey suit and had hair of a washed-out color, narrowing to a widow's peak. He was not a young man and he was very much aware of that fact.

Wadsworth sat in a narrow high-backed chair in front an intricately carved roll-top desk that dated back a century at the most. It was getting late and the only illumination in the room came from the overhead recessed lights in the ceiling and a small lamp on the desk.

He leaned back in his chair as much to loosen stiff muscles from having sat in one position for so long as much to ponder just how to complete his assigned task.

In the background through the open door of the study he could hear the strains of a classic ragtime playing on the phonograph serving as an accompaniment to Yvette, the maid's duties.

He allowed himself a small smile, the movement just a tiny twitch upwards at the corners of his mouth and then applied his attention to the box of ivory paper sitting on top of the desk. It was good paper, crisp, clean and of a weave that would stand up to quite a bit of handling, which he suspected it would have to endure, given the nature of what would be written on it.

Beside the box of papers was an ink bottle, a blotter, should he, heaven forbid, make an error, and a list of names and addresses. If he had had any misgivings at the beginning when the plans were in the offing then would have been the proper time to raise them to his employer.

There was still ample to turn back but as he applied ink to the pen and then began writing the first in the series of 'guests' to invite to a dinner the likes of which he had assurance none of the unsuspecting souls had ever experienced before; he suddenly realized that he did not wish to turn back at this late juncture. There was far too much at stake, not only for them, but also for his own future well being.

The usage of a pseudonym was a clever idea, not only because it had been his own late inspiration that had received the appropriation of his employer, but also it might provide a modicum of dignity to the entire distasteful affair.

The fact that those monikers as it were might strike a little too close to the heart of the matter, that they were chosen with a certain veneer of malice on the part of his employer is a fact that Wadsworth still has difficulty maintaining the proper amount of detachment from.

Wadsworth prided himself on decorum, civility, and logic. It is in his nature and the training of the chosen life of service as a domestic servant, he's a butler and as much at might pain him to admit, a week from now, when the guests arrive he must act not only the part of the host but also as the director in what might very well become a real-life murder mystery.

"Do I really have a choice?" Wadsworth muttered to himself, as he paused to get up and walk over to a side board which stood between his desk and one of the elegantly upholstered sofas,. On top of the side board was a brandy bottle, a bucket of ice and several glasses. He uncorked the brandy and poured himself a glass, light on the ice, placing the cork back on the bottle before picking up the glass and returning to the desk.

He again contemplated the lists of names, holding his glass of brandy and taking sips from it every now and again while he perused the list, as if to familiarize with its contents, but in actuality he had already memorized long ago in the planning stages.

His ability for recall was almost but not quite on the par with those of the legendary Sherlock Holmes.

Wadsworth prided himself on his powers of observation. One, if not the only reason for his selection to orchestrate this entire affair.

Smiling again, this time with the sense that at with the action of actually mailing out the invitations he had reached the proverbial point of no return Wadsworth wrote the names on the invitations ins his careful and elegant calligraphy. "Mrs. White, Mrs. Peacock, Ms. Scarlet, Professor Plum, Colonel Mustard." Mr. Green."

The task completed he drank down the last of his brandy and got up to place back on the side board so the frosted glass would not leave a damp ring on the expensive wood of the antique desk and returned to retrieve the envelopes.

He would wait for the ink to dry, seal them and mail them out first thing the following morning. The task was done; come what may. It would impossible to predict the outcome of the coming evening, and when it was all over, he wondered briefly if the journalists and newspaper editors would gnash their teeth with frustration to not be able to gain access to any of the information that his employer had gained, through various means at his disposal. "Ah, well," sighed Wadsworth, "Such things are not my business."

He smiled again, this time a quiet one and not the fond one he had when he heard Yvette dusting and polishing in time to the strains of rag time music, but a resigned smile.

"The game is afoot," Wadsworth said quietly, and then added after a moment, "However it's anyone's guess just who is hunting whom. And if a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing well. And that's not just a matter of professional pride, it's personal as well."