Replacing the telephone on its bracket, Sir Clinton picked up the telegram once more and seemed to reconsider its wording. He looked up as someone knocked on the door and entered the room.
“Morning, Inspector. You're looking a bit tired. I suppose you've fixed up all last night's business?”
“Yes, sir. Both bodies are in the mortuary; the doctor's been warned about the P.M.’s; the coroner's been informed about the inquests. And I've got young Hassendean's papers all collected. I haven't had time to do more than glance through them yet, sir.”
Sir Clinton gave a nod of approval and flipped the telegram across his desk.
“Sit down and have a look at that, Inspector. You can add it to your collection.”
Flamborough secured the slip of paper and glanced over it as he pulled a chair towards the desk.
“ ‘Chief Constable, Westerhaven. Try hassendean bungalow lizardbridge road justice.’ H'm! Handed in at the G.P.O. at 8.5 a.m. this morning. Seems to err a bit on the side of conciseness. He could have had three more words for his bob, and they wouldn't have come amiss. Who sent it, sir?”
“A member of the Order of the Helpful Hand, perhaps. I found it on my desk when I came in a few minutes ago. Now you know as much about it as I do, Inspector.”
“One of these amateur sleuths, you think, sir?” asked the Inspector, and the sub-acid tinge in his tone betrayed his opinion of uninvited assistants. “I had about my fill of that lot when we were handling that Laxfield affair last year.”
He paused for a moment, and then continued: