"I'm not going to. In fact, I'm beginning to wish I hadn't said anything about it. Moreover, Hugh doesn't think the Inspector would believe a word of it."
"Well, I think we ought to broaden his mind," said Vicky. "Or do you feel that this is really a case for Scotland Yard?"
"Oh, my goodness, don't suggest such a thing!" exclaimed Ermyntrude. "I mean, what's the use? Scotland Yard can't bring Wally to life again, and when you think that I've got to face an Inquest, it's too much to expect me to put up with detectives as well. Because you know, dearie, once they start, heaven alone knows what they won't dig up!"
Unfortunately, this point of view was not shared by the police. On the afternoon of the following day a brisk and bright-eyed Inspector from the Criminal Investigation Department arrived in Fritton, accompanied by an earnest young Sergeant, and several less distinguished assistants.
Neither Inspector Cook nor Superintendent Small viewed with much pleasure the prospect of handing over their case to the Inspector from London, but Inspector Hemingway, when he arrived, disarmed hostility by a certain engaging breeziness of manner, which had long been the despair of his superiors.
"Nice goings-on in the country!" said Inspector Hemingway, who had beguiled the tedium of his journey from town with a careful perusal of the account of the case, submitted to his Department. "Mind you, I don't say I'm not going to like the case. It looks to me a very high-class bit of work, what with rich wives, and Russian princes, and I don't know what besides."
"Properly speaking, this Prince isn't a Russian, but a Georgian," said the Superintendent. "At least, that's what he says."
"My mistake," apologised Hemingway. "Matter of fact, I knew it all along. My chief tells me that if he's a Georgian, he ought by rights to be a dark chap, with an aquiline kind of face, and not over-tall. He tells me he's got a Georgian name all right, so no doubt he was speaking the truth."
"He's dark and aquiline right enough," said Cook. "And I don't mind telling you that I don't take to him, not by a long chalk."
"That's insular prejudice," said Hemingway cheerfully. He opened the folder he had brought with him, and rail his eye over the first type-written sheet. "Well, let's get down to it. What I want is a bit of local colour. By what I can make out, the murdered man's no loss to his family."