The Problem at Two Tithes (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 7) by Clara Benson

leave us, then?’
    ‘Back where we started,’ said Primm.
    ‘I hope not,’ said Jameson. The church bell rang for a quarter to one, and he said, ‘I hate to think on an empty stomach. Let’s have something to eat and talk the case over in the meantime. How is the food at the Red Lion?’
    ‘I’ve had worse,’ said Primm. ‘Bob’s a good fellow, all told.’
    ‘Then let’s go there.’
    Primm agreed and the two men said goodbye to Peter and returned across the green. As they were about to enter the Red Lion a young man came out, and they stood back politely to let him pass. It was Freddy Pilkington-Soames. He greeted them with enthusiasm.
    ‘So there you are, inspector,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard rumours of your presence since I got here yesterday, but so far you’ve remained determinedly elusive and I was beginning to think it was all a cruel hoax. But here you are, striding forth on your quest for justice as usual.’
    ‘Hallo, Freddy,’ said Jameson. ‘Not so much striding forth as going for lunch. So the press have got wind of the thing, have they? I suppose it was only a matter of time. I do hope you’re not going to make a nuisance of yourself.’
    ‘I?’ said Freddy. ‘Certainly not. At least, no more than usual, and you can’t say fairer than that. Things are quietish in London at the moment, though, and so a story like this is inevitably going to attract attention.’
    ‘Just so long as you don’t write any nonsense,’ said Jameson, who was familiar with the sort of story commonly produced by publications such as Freddy’s.
    ‘Of course I won’t,’ said Freddy with dignity. ‘I am bound by honour to speak and write only the truth, come what may.’ He saw something over Jameson’s shoulder and his face darkened. ‘You’d better watch out for Corky, though. He’s hot on the scent of who knows what—or at least, he thinks he is—and his pen produces only the purest, thrice-distilled fiction.’
    The two policemen turned to see Corky Beckwith standing a few feet away, apparently engaged in conversation with a pretty, dark girl, who was regarding him contemptuously.
    ‘Hallo, Marthe,’ said Freddy, recognizing her. ‘Did Angela send you out? Is this gentleman bothering you?’
    ‘Gentleman? Which gentleman do you mean?’ said Marthe with magnificent disdain. ‘There is a person here who insists on asking me questions of the greatest impertinence, but as for gentlemen —’ here she gave a sniff, ‘—I see none before me but yourselves. Excuse me, for I am very busy and have no time to stay here. Bonjour , M. Pilkington-Soames, bonjour, M. l’Inspecteur .’
    And with that she sailed off, her nose in the air.
    ‘What did you interrupt for?’ said Corky. ‘That’s Angela Marchmont’s maid. We were getting along famously, and I had all but got her to agree to speak to me about her mistress. I had in mind a piece for the women’s pages about Mrs. Marchmont’s beauty secrets—how she does her hair, what she puts on her face—you know the kind of thing: “Our lady detective never goes to bed without first anointing her face with a generous amount of Calvert’s Cold Cream, in order to ward off the arrival of those fine lines which will begin to encroach once a woman reaches a certain age.” If you hadn’t turned up I’d have had it all straight from the horse’s mouth.’
    ‘Don’t talk rot,’ said Freddy. ‘Why, she squashed you neatly in about three words.’
    ‘Nonsense,’ said Corky. ‘I am unsquashable.’
    ‘Well, that’s true enough,’ said Freddy.
    Corky, undaunted, now turned his attention to Jameson and Primm.
    ‘Hallo, inspector,’ he said. ‘Are you going to give me the low-down on this story, then?’
    ‘Sorry, Mr. Beckwith,’ said Jameson, who knew Corky of old. ‘We’ve got nothing for you at present, I’m afraid, but I’ll let you know as soon as we have anything that’s worth printing.’
    ‘Never mind,’ said Corky, who never