Joseph, who was coming down the stairs, overheard this, and threw up his hands. ‘Oh, my dear, are we never to hear the last of that book? I thought we had decided to forget about it!’

‘You may have decided to forget about it, Joseph, but it was not your book. I was very much interested in it, and I want to know what the end was.’

‘Well, my dear, and so you shall,’ promised Joseph. ‘When all this stress is over, I’ll get you a copy, never fear!’

‘Thank you, Joseph, I will get one for myself, without waiting for anything to be over,’ said Maud, walking away.

The Inspector picked up his hat again. Joseph said: ‘Ah, Inspector! Just off? I mustn’t ask you if you’ve discovered anything, must I? I know you won’t keep us in suspense longer than you need.’

‘Certainly not, sir. I understand I have to congratulate you, by the way.’

Joseph winced. ‘Please don’t, Inspector! What has happened isn’t in the least what I wanted. But it may all come right yet.’

‘I hope it may, I’m sure, sir. I’m sorry about Mrs Herriard’s book, and I’m afraid she thinks I ought to bring someone to justice about it.’

Joseph smiled wearily. ‘I think we’ve all heard enough about that book,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, my wife has a way, which the young people find tiresome, of recounting stray pieces of what she has read. The least said about it the better. She’ll soon forget about it.’

‘For the last time,’ said Stephen dangerously, ‘I – did – not – touch – the – book!’

‘Very well, old chap, we’ll leave it at that,’ said Joseph in a soothing voice.

The Inspector then left the house, accompanied by Sergeant Ware. During the drive back to the town, he was unusually silent, and the Sergeant, stealing a glance at him, saw that he was frowning. Over a lunch of cold turkey and ham at the Blue Dog, Hemingway continued to frown until the Sergeant ventured to ask him what he thought about the morning’s work.

‘I’m beginning to get some very queer ideas about this case,’ replied Hemingway, digging into a fine Stilton cheese. ‘Very queer. I wouldn’t wonder if I began seeing things soon.’

‘I was thinking myself of something you once said to me,’ said the Sergeant slowly.

‘If you thought more about what I say to you you’d very likely get to be an Inspector one of these days,’ replied Hemingway. ‘What did I say?’

‘You told me that when a case got so gummed up that it looked hopeless you liked it, because it meant that something was going to break.’

‘I won’t say it isn’t true, because very often it is, but it won’t do you any good to remember that kind of remark,’ said Hemingway severely.

‘Well, sir, is this case gummed up enough for you yet?’

‘Yes,’ said Hemingway, ‘it is.’

‘You’ve got something?’

‘I’ve got a strong feeling that things moved a bit too fast for someone this morning,’ said Hemingway. ‘It’s no use asking me how I get these hunches: it’s what they call a flair. That’s why they made me an Inspector.’