“Unless you’ve got electric light in your house and want to commit suicide with gas.”
“That’s true. What was the name of the inn, by the way?”
“The Load of Mischief. Such a jolly dedication, I think.”
“Now let’s try the map.”
“I was coming to that. Here’s the Busk all right. I say, how funny, there’s a place on the Busk called ‘Mottram.’ ”
“Anywhere near Chilthorpe?”
“I haven’t found it yet. Oh, yes, here it is, about four miles away. Incidentally, it’s only twenty miles or so from Pullford. Well, what about it? Are we going by car?”
“Why not? The Rolls is in excellent condition. Two or three days ought to see us through; we can stay, with any luck, at the Load of Mischief, and the youthful Francis will be all the better for being left to his nurse for a day or two. You’ve been feeding him corn, and he is becoming obstreperous.”
“You don’t deserve to have a son. However, I think you’re right. I don’t want to trust you alone in a ship town of 2,500 inhabitants, some of them female. Miles, dear, this is going to be one of your big successes, isn’t it?”
“On the contrary, I shall lose no time in reporting to the directors that the deceased gentleman had an unfortunate accident with the gas, and they had better pay up like sportsmen. I shall further point out that it is a great waste of their money keeping a private spy at all.”