Four men from Scotland Yard were waiting in the drawing-room. As I went in, I couldn’t help notice particularly one of them because he was obviously a gentleman and obviously at his ease, which the others were decidedly not. He was tall and blond, rather good-looking and, as a matter of fact, exactly like all the other tall, blond, good-looking young Englishmen of the upper classes that one meets.
He stepped forward to meet me. “Mr. Braithwaite,” he said cheerfully, quite as though he were not a policeman in a house of bereavement, “the Chief said you’d be here. I’m Inspector Boyd of Scotland Yard.”
I bowed a little stiffly, but he went on.
“Will you tell Mrs. Scoville that we’re here? The doctor will be along in a few minutes. And I’d like to talk to her as soon as I’ve seen the body.”
