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here?”
    “About half past ten, from Berkeley Square.”
    “And you were driving the German sports car?”
    “I was.”
    “Pick that up in London, did you?”
    “I did. And another car, as well.”
    “Didn’t see that one.”
    “Ms. Blackburn had so much luggage it required another car. It should be here early this afternoon.”
    “That is a calumny,” Susan said. She pointed at Stone. “ He is the one with all the luggage.”
    “I won’t get in the middle of that argument,” Holmes said. “Ms. Blackburn, do you believe that Mr. Barrington murdered Sir Richard Curtis?”
    Susan thought about it for a moment. “Probably not.”
    Holmes closed his notebook and stood up. “That’s good enough for me,” he said, “but Mr. Barrington, don’t leave town.”
    Stone laughed. “I’m flying to New York on Monday morning,” he said, “unless you arrest me first.”
    “I’m sorry,” Holmes said, “I made myself sound like Bulldog Drummond there for a moment, didn’t I?”
    “Just a bit.”
    “Let’s leave it at this: if you think of anything else that might help me with my inquiries, please call.” He handed Stone a card. “Is that better?”
    “Much,” Stone replied.
    “Good day, then.”
    “Good day,” Stone said, and the man started for the door, but his journey was interrupted by Sir Charles Bourne entering the room, red-faced.
    “Filthy weather!” he nearly shouted.
    “Sir Charles,” Stone said, “may I present Deputy Inspector Holmes? Not Sherlock.” Then he turned to Susan. “Probably not? That was a ringing endorsement of my character.”
    “Oh, well,” she said.

8

    S ir Charles pulled a silken cord at one side of the fireplace, then opened a cabinet to reveal a very nice bar. “Must have a brandy and soda after that drive,” he said.
    Elsie appeared, and Charles ordered lunch, then he sat down by the fire and took a pull on his drink. “Good. Now, what’s the mystery in the meadow?” he asked.
    “It appears that a neighbor of yours has met an untimely death,” Stone said, “and Deputy Inspector Holmes is investigating.”
    “What neighbor?” Charles asked.
    “Sir Richard Curtis,” Holmes replied, watching Charles carefully.
    “Good God!” Charles said. He took another swig of his drink and set it on a side table. “Why would anyone harm Richard?”
    “That is the subject of our investigation,” Holmes replied, “that and who.”
    “You don’t know?”
    “Not yet. We’ve interviewed your staff, one by one, and they all appear to have no involvement.”
    “I should think not,” Charles said.
    “Sir Charles, have you just arrived from London?”
    “I have.”
    “When did you leave this house yesterday for London?”
    “Late in the day—I wanted to avoid the rush-hour traffic in London, so I timed it to arrive around seven.”
    “And where did you go?”
    “I keep a flat in London. I went there and made myself some dinner.”
    “Were you alone?”
    “I was. I read for a while, then went to bed. I had a meeting at nine this morning with Mr. Barrington.”
    “Did anyone see you when you arrived at your flat?”
    “Not that I’m aware of. I have a semi-detached, half a house. The people next door are away on the Continent, I believe.”
    “Where did you park your car?”
    “In the garage in the house.”
    “And did you drive to your meeting this morning?”
    “No, I legged it. It’s only ten minutes on foot. Inspector, I’ve watched enough television to know that you are trying to prove either my guilt or my innocence.”
    “Quite.”
    “I am innocent of any involvement in Richard’s death.”
    “I’m glad to hear it. How long did you know Sir Richard?”
    “Since first form at school. We were neighbors then, too. We were also at Eton together. After that he went to Cambridge, I to Oxford.”
    “So you grew apart then?”
    “Oh, no, we remained friends for our . . . his whole life. Have you a suspect?”
    “Not as such.”
    “But