There is no doubt that murder is disgraceful, but it is not the word I should use to describe it myself. It surprised Melchett too, I could see.
“Have you any light to throw upon the matter?” he asked.
“That’s your business. It’s the business of the police. What do we pay rates and taxes for, I should like to know?”
One wonders how many times that query is uttered in a year!
“We’re doing our best, Mrs. Price Ridley,” said the Chief Constable.
“But the man here hadn’t even heard of it till I told him about it!” cried the lady.
We all looked at the constable.
“Lady been rung up on the telephone,” he said. “Annoyed. Matter of obscene language, I understand.”
“Oh! I see.” The colonel’s brow cleared. “We’ve been talking at cross purposes. You came down here to make a complaint, did you?”
Melchett is a wise man. He knows that when it is a question of an irate middle-aged lady, there is only one thing to be done—listen to her. When she has said all that she wants to say, there is a chance that she will listen to you.
Mrs. Price Ridley surged into speech.
“Such disgraceful occurrences ought to be prevented. They ought not to occur. To be rung up in one’s own house and insulted—yes, insulted. I’m not accustomed to such things happening. Ever since the war there has been a loosening of moral fibre. Nobody minds what they say, and as to the clothes they wear—”
“Quite,” said Colonel Melchett hastily. “What happened exactly?”