The Wombat File Is Yours to Keep

Outside: Stygian night, no moon and a mournful wind. An ancient and gloomy manor house, situated precariously atop a sea-spattered cliff.

Unseen until the moment of his rising, your host emerges from a deep chair, closing a large book bound in curiously worked leather. Its title, you can see as he lays it aside, is A Key to the Work of Thomas Kinkade, "The Painter of Light (TM)."

Good evening, my friend. Or, should I say, good morning? The hour is both late and early. Not too early to share some of this glorious cognac, I hope? Ah, I thought not. Your reputation as a lover of good things precedes you. I see you can appreciate its subtle bouquet. Well then -- to fate! The unimaginable workings of the universe, the inevitable collision of our destinies!

Ah. You'll have another? I insist. Now, please, make yourself comfortable.

You wonder, I suppose, that I seem so prepared for your arrival. Indeed, I have long expected it. You were aware, of course, that you were followed in Marseilles. That, of course, was little more than a formality, since the hotel staff would, under the slightest of persuasions, have revealed the fact that your luggage was all being forwarded to Riga, while your correspondence (intercepted, naturally, by an easily-corrupted postal clerk) revealed your true destination in the islands to the north of Zanzibar.

Would you care for a cigar? No? Do you mind if I...well, where were we -- ah, yes. I was long gone from Pemba by the time of your arrival, but I am ashamed to say that I failed, there, to cover my tracks properly. I suppose it's my age showing. In any event, you made your discoveries, and interviewed a very foolish young man, who, I am sorry to say, will never again taste that American soft drink he was so fond of. Was it "Dewy Hill?" Some repulsive concoction. In any event, full fathom five thy informant lies, and so on and so forth. But the damage was done, and you have proven, I must say, terrier-like in your refusal to -- excuse me -- yes, Smedley? No, we shan't be requiring anything more this evening. You may leave us -- but do go around the kennels and see that the dogs are let out upon the grounds.

Smedley's a marvel, isn't he? Entirely clockwork -- I designed him myself. Not much of a conversationalist, but he's perfectly reliable, and sometimes, on a rainy afternoon he'll sit at the piano down in the ballroom and play. Only knows "Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star," but he does pound it out with such conviction! And of course, he's a ruthless killer. He's the one who got your friend with the eyepatch. All in the line of business, of course.

Speaking of business. This is all very pleasant, in its way, but there's no avoiding the subject any longer, is there? You've come here to find out. You've braved every obstacle I've thrown in your way, and now I suppose you believe yourself entitled to something. And perhaps, my friend, perhaps you are.

Today's quiz question:

Its first recorded mention in English is in the 1740s. The Blackshirts in Mussolini's Italy used it as part of their campaign of terror against political opponents. Two characters in a musical set in Edwardian England sing of it disapprovingly. Its use in the automotive world prompted its adoption into a well-known brand name in 1930 -- the brand still exists, although the substance is no longer a part of the product. It is speculated that its earliest uses may have been among the ancient Egyptians, based on findings in tombs.

What is this substance?

First correct answer posted to comments gets a fifteen-minute head start before Smedley lets the largest mastiff out. Unless you're a first-rate rock climber with a confederate waiting in a boat down below, your best bet's the swampy ground directly to the southeast. Watch out for quicksand, though. No Googling or even thinking of Googling. Or Googling "thinking." One guess per comment, but comment as often as you like.