“Story,” Lancer repeated. “Doctor Clark came to my office yesterday afternoon. Said there were two constables from Bristol out here, both of them damaged and one most severely. Said one of them had broken ribs and the other had a bullet crease across his right cheek. I see that’s you. Doctor Clark said these two constables were escorting to Bristol from London a man who had committed three murders. So … what’s the story?”

“Well … sir … that is the story.”

“That is a story,” Lancer corrected. He put the pipe’s bit in his mouth and chewed on it. His brown eyes had taken on a chill. “The coach you constables came in on … that’s quite a vehicle. I’m sure there’s a story behind that, too.”

“We had to steal the coach. We had to spirit our man away from the house his …” Think, think! Matthew told himself. “His gang was holed up in. We didn’t have much choice.”

“Where was this house?”

“In London. Of course.”

“The area. Where?”

“Um … Endsleigh Park Road.”

“Hm.” Puff, puff. The smoke, smelling of spicy Virginia tobacco, wafted past Matthew’s face. “I know that area. I lived in London for many years. My two sons live there now. That area is a fine neighborhood. Not a place where one usually finds gangs of killers.”

“Nevertheless,” said Matthew, “that’s where it was.”

“And you and your other … constable … were charged by the court in Bristol to attack this house on Endsleigh Park Road and arrest this murderer? What about the rest of his …” He puffed smoke again. “Gang,” he said.

“They came to bad ends,” was Matthew’s reply.

“Pardon my saying, but you don’t look the type to be attacking a murderous gang.”

“Well,” said Matthew with a tight smile, “I suppose that makes me all the more valuable.” Before Sheriff Lancer could respond, Matthew plowed on: “As a matter of fact, sir, I am more than a constable. And as a matter of fact, I am an associate of the Herrald Agency. Have you ever heard of that organization?”

Lancer smoked his pipe in silence. He watched the smoke slide into the fireplace and slip up the chimney.

“Certainly,” said the sheriff, his expression blank. He took two more pulls on his pipe before he spoke again. “When I lived in London, I was an associate of the Herrald Agency for … oh … was it five years? No. Six years. And four months. Yes, almost exactly four.”

Matthew sat still, but his mouth had dropped open.

“I suppose, as an associate of the Herrald Agency,” said Lancer, “you know the first name of its founder.”

Matthew found his missing tongue. “Richard. Unfortunately passed away.”

“And you must know his charming widow, Caroline.”

“His charming and gracious widow, Katherine,” said Matthew.

“Oh yes.” Lancer nodded. “So she is.”