“Yes, I saw that too.”
“The Squire is a remarkable man,” said the Vicar warmly. “Indeed, I tell him sometimes that he has all the enterprise of a man half his age! I remember when he first made up his mind to turn the common to account—I should explain, Inspector, that the common—”
“Talking about the common,” interrupted Haswell, “can anything be done, Chief Inspector to dissuade people from trailing across it, dropping litter all over it, and staring over the hedge at Fox House? It's extremely unpleasant for Miss Warrenby, to say the least of it.”
“Poor girl, poor girl!” exclaimed the Vicar. “This is most disgraceful! One wonders what the world is coming to! This unmannerly craving for sensationalism! Gavin Plenmeller said something to me about it this morning, but I paid little heed, since the way in which he phrased it led me to believe that he was merely indulging in one of those jokes which I, frankly, neither like nor find any way amusing. Inspector, something must be done!”
“I'm afraid there's nothing the police can do about it, sir—not as long as people stick to the common and the public road, and don't go creating obstructions, which they really can't be said to do, right up the end of a blind road,” replied Hemingway.
An anxious look came into the Vicar's face. “I wonder, if I were to go up, and address a few words to them, pointing out to them how very—”
“Some of them would giggle, and others would be extremely rude to you,” interposed Haswell. “You'd do better to persuade Plenmeller to take on that job—he'd enjoy it, and might even succeed in dispersing the mob. Unless they lynched him.”
“Haswell, Haswell, my dear friend!” the Vicar reproved him.
Haswell laughed. “Don't worry! Can you imagine him lifting a finger on behalf of Warrenby's niece?”
The Vicar shook his head, and said that their poor friend had a very unkind tongue, but one must strive to make allowances, and the heart knew its own bitterness.