Hemingway produced his card, and handed it to her. It took her a moment or two to get it into focus, and he wondered how many more slightly inebriated young women he was destined to meet that evening. When she had succeeded in deciphering it, she gave a laugh, and exclaimed: "God, I shall dine out on this one! A whole, live Chief Inspector at one of my parties!"
"And very nice too, I've no doubt," said Hemingway. "But I haven't come to the party, miss, thanking you all the same. What I want is a few words with your brother."
"I shouldn't think they'd do you much good: he's well away!" she replied. "If you want to call me anything, call me CoMr..ade, not miss! What do you want with Lance?"
"I'll tell him, if you'll be so good as to fetch him along," said Hemingway.
"But why?" she argued. "If it's about the murder the other night, Lance can't tell you anything! The man you want is Butter-wick. If you don't recognise the description, I mean a God-awful little pansy-boy, with curly hair and long eyelashes! You take a look at him, and you'll know why the privileged classes are doomed! And I don't want any dirty cracks about Lance!" she added fiercely. "He's got himself into a rotten set, that's all that's the matter with him! He's got a bourgeois streak which makes him think it's the hell of a thing to be a peer of the realm, but he'll get over it! Trust me!"
"Listen, CoMr..ade!" said Hemingway. "If you were to carry on like this in Russia, keeping the police hanging about instead of hopping to it double-quick, you'd wake up to find yourself in a salt-mine, and not such a bad thing either! You go and tell this bourgeois brother ol yours I want to speak to him, and don't waste your time blasting the privileged classes to me, because, for one thing, I don't belong to them, and, for another, I don't like corny stories! That one was stale before the War!"
"Damn your eyes, how dare you speak to me like that?" demanded Miss Guisborough furiously.
"Yes, I thought it wouldn't be long before we stopped being coMr..ades," said Hemingway. "When I was a lot younger than what I am now, it was one of my jobs to move your sort along, and try to stop you spoiling everyone's fun by chucking yourselves in front of leading horses, and a lot of other silly tricks of the same nature. Now, I've had a long day, and I'm not in the mood to listen to what they call stump-oratory. You go and fetch that brother of yours, and while I'm talking to him you can tell that crowd in there how to suck eggs! My old grandmother showed me the proper way before you were born!"
Fortunately for the peace of the evening's entertainment one of Miss Guisborough's guests came out of the studio at that moment. He had a pleasant face, but was otherwise distinguished only by his evident predilection for good tailors and barbers. He slid an arm round Miss Guisborough's waist, and demanded to be told what was eating her.
The Chief Inspector answered him. "It's just this, sir! I want a word with Lord Guisborough! I'm Chief Inspector Hemingway, of the Criminal Investigation Department, and I shan't, I hope, keep his lordship many minutes from his party!"
The newcomer regarded him curiously, but said: "Fair enough! I'll get him for you. Come on, Trixie! you walked off with the beer,, you mindless wench!"
He then swept his hostess back into the studio; and in a few moments Lord Guisborough came into the lobby, rucking a little on his heels, but with his eyes bright and intelligent still. "Hallo!" he said. "Want me, Ch-chief Iinspector?"
"If you please, my lord!"
Guisborough flung open the door into a small parlour. "All right, come in here! M'sister doesn't like people to call me my lord. I don't mind it m'self. Funny! Wouldn't mind living at Guisborough, really. Can't, of course. Let it to old Letty Guisborough. Cousin, or something. Stinks of money! Kenelm's one of her pets. That shows you! Daresay she makes him an allowance, but she can't give him the title! Dam' funny, that!" He stopped, seemed to make an effort to collect his slightly scattered wits, and said: "What do you want with me?"
"I think you called on Mrs. Haddington this afternoon, didn't you, my lord?"
"That's right. What of it?" said his lordship, rather belligerently.
"I should like to know, my lord, what was the purpose of your visit." Hemingway saw Guisborough's eyes fixed on his face, at once wary and suspicious, and added: "And what passed between you."
"What the hell's it got to do with you?"
"Your lordship may take it that it has a lot to do with me."
"Bloody cheek! Mrs. Haddington didn't like me taking her daughter out to dance last night, that's all. Silly old trout!"
"Was there any sort of a quarrel between you, my lord?"
"Like hell there was! If you want to know, did I slam out of the house? Yes, I did! And if that's a crime, it's the first I've heard of it!"
"At what time would that have been, my lord?"
The wary look was deepening. "No idea! Why?" "Perhaps you can tell me, my lord, when it was that you entered the house?"
A frown of intense concentration descended on Guisborough's brow. After a moment for consideration, he replied: "About a quarter-to-six, I think."
"Was anyone else present when you arrived?" 'Butterwick. Passed me on the stairs."
"Thank you, my lord. And how long do you think you may have been with Mrs. Haddington?"
"You don't think I kept my eye on the clock, do you? I don't know."
"Where did you go when you left Charles Street, my lord?" said Hemingway.
"Came home."
"And when did you reach this house?"
"Look here!" demanded Guisborough. "What's all this leading up to?"
"If you'll answer my question, my lord, perhaps I'll answer yours."
"Damned if I will! I know you policemen! You're trying to catch me out or something! Minions of aristocratic power, that's what you are, the whole bloody lot of you! Upholding one law for the rich, and another -"
"You've got that wrong, my lord," interrupted Hemingway tartly. "It was a Turncock, not the police, and not aristocratic power either!"
"What the hell are you talking about?" said Gainsborough, staring at him.
"Dickens. He happens to be my favourite writer, that's all."
"Dickens!" exclaimed Guisborough, in accents of repulsion. "What do you suppose I care for him?"
"I'm sure I don't know, my lord, but that's no reason to go about misquoting him!" retorted Hemingway. "What's more, there's a time and a place for everything, and this isn't either the one or the other for Dickens! What I asked you was, when did you get back to this house after you left Charles Street today?"
Guisborough glared at him, but after a few moments he said sullenly: "God knows!"
"I don't doubt that, my lord. If you can't remember perhaps Miss Guisborough can help me."
"Well, I shouldn't think I was much more than half an hour with Mrs. Haddington."
"Thank you. And when you left the house?"
Guisborough passed a hand across his brow, sweeping back the loose lock of black hair that drooped over one eye. "What a moment to choose to come and ask me conundrums!" he said fretfully. "Do you want me to remember the names of all the streets between here and Charles Street? Because I don't!"
"No, my lord, I don't want that at all. Did you take a taxi, or had you your own car, perhaps?"
"I suppose you think that just because I've got a title I'm one of the idle rich?" said Guisborough jeeringly. "Well, you're wrong! I walked!"
"All the way?"
"Yes, all the way! And if I didn't happen to like walking I should have taken a 'bus! If my - if anyone's been telling you that the title makes any difference to me, it's a damned lie!"