In the Teeth of the Evidence by Dorothy L. Sayers Page B

murdering his father, I fancy his father’s money would go to the next of kin – to that gentleman who published the book that tells you all about Noyeau.
        ‘It’s very unfortunate,’ said Mr Egg, ‘that my firm should have supplied the goods in question, but there you are. If accidents happen and you are to blame, take steps to avoid repetition of same. Not that we should admit any responsibility, far from it, the nature of the commodity being what it is. But we might perhaps insert a warning in our forthcoming Catalogue.
        ‘And à propos, gentlemen, let me make a note to send you our New Centenary History of the House of Plummett & Rose. It will be a very refined production, got up regardless, and worthy of a position on any library shelf.’

FALSE WEIGHT
    A Montague Egg Story
    ‘Hullo!’ said Mr Montague Egg.
        He knew the Royal Oak, at Pondering Parva, and it was not, in a general way, a place he would have chosen to stop at. It did but little business, its food was bad, its landlord surly, and it offered few opportunities to an enterprising traveller in high-class wines and spirits. But to find it at half-past eight in the morning the centre of an interested crowd, with a police car and an ambulance drawn up before the door, was a challenge to any man’s curiosity. Mr Egg took his foot from the accelerator, and eased the car to a standstill.
        ‘What’s up here?’ he asked a bystander.
        ‘Somebody killed . . . Old Rudd’s cut ’is missus’s throat . . . no, he ain’t – George done it . . . that ain’t right, neither, it was thieves and they’ve gone off with the till . . . George, he come down and found the blood running all over the floor . . . hear that? that’s Liz Rudd a-hollerin’ . . . she got highsterics . . . thought you said ’e’d cut ’er throat . . . no, I didn’t, Jim said that, he don’t know nothin’. I tell you ’tis George . . . Ah! here’s the Inspector a-comin’ out; now we’ll hear summat  . . .’
        Mr Egg was already out of the car and approaching the bar entrance. A uniformed Inspector of police met him on the doorstep.
        ‘Now then, you can’t come in here. Who are you, and what do you want?’
        ‘My name’s Montague Egg – travelling for Plummett & Rose, wines and spirits, Piccadilly. I’ve come to see Mr Rudd.’
        ‘Well, you can’t see him now, so you’d better buzz off. Wait a minute. You say you’re a commercial traveller. This your regular district?’
        Mr Egg replied that it was.
        ‘Then you might be able to give us some information. Come in, will you?’
        ‘Wait while I fetch my bag,’ said Monty. He was interested, but not to the point of forgetting that a traveller’s first duty is to his samples and credentials. He fetched the heavy case from the car and carried it into the inn, to the accompaniment of cries from the crowd: ‘That’s the photographer, see his camera?’ Setting it down inside the door, he looked round the bar of the Royal Oak. At a table near the window sat a police-constable, writing in a notebook. A large, pug-faced man, whom Monty recognised as Rudd, the landlord, was leaning back against the bar in his shirt-sleeves. He was unshaven, and looked as though he had dressed hurriedly. A tousle-headed young fellow, with immense muscles and no forehead to speak of, stood scowling beside him. From a room somewhere at the back came a noise of feminine shrieking and sobbing. That was all, except that a door on the right, labelled ‘Bar-parlour’, stood open, and through it could be seen the back of a man in an overcoat, who was bending over something on the floor.
        The Inspector took Mr Egg’s papers, looked them through and returned them.
        ‘You’re on the road early,’ he said.
        ‘Yes,’ said Monty. ‘I meant to get through to Pettiford last night, but the fog held me up at Madgebury. I’m making up for lost time. I slept at the