Free Snobbery with Violence by MC Beaton

Kerridge was driven in the new Scotland Yard police car to Captain Cathcart’s address, he felt like a king. He wished he could take this splendid vehicle home to show his wife.
    He had decided to interview the captain alone. He knew people were often intimidated by the sight of a policeman or a detective in the background, taking notes.
    At the house in Water Street, Becket announced him and led him into the front room, where the captain was sitting at a desk at the window.
    Kerridge’s first impression of the captain was that he was a dangerous man. His brooding saturnine good looks gave the impression of action and power.
    Harry welcomed the superintendent and then sat staring at him vacantly.
    ‘I have come about the bombing of Stacey Magna,’ began Kerridge.
    ‘Frightful, what?’ commented Harry. He took out a monocle, fixed it in one eye and stared at the detective.
    ‘Yes, it was indeed frightful. Now—’
    ‘Caught any of these Bolshevik chappies yet?’
    ‘No, sir, but we will . . . provided it turns out to be the work of the Bolsheviks. Have you known the Earl of Hadshire for long?’
    ‘Don’t know. People come and go.’ Harry let the monocle drop and fixed the detective with a vacuous stare.
    ‘His Majesty was supposed to visit Lord Hadshire, but the visit had to be cancelled.’
    ‘Pity.’
    ‘Have you any reason to suppose the earl did not wish this visit?’
    Harry laughed, an insolent braying laugh. Then he said, ‘I say, you think old Hadshire crept out during the night and blew up things to keep kingie away?’
    ‘It is a flight of fancy, I admit,’ said Kerridge. ‘Let’s take it further. The earl employed someone to blow up the bridge and the station.’
    Harry grinned. ‘Go on. I’m enjoying this.’
    ‘It is not a laughing matter, sir,’ said Kerridge severely. ‘It was just fortunate that there was no one on the bridge at the time or in the station.’
    ‘True, true,’ said Harry. ‘Ask me some more questions.’
    ‘During your stay at Stacey Court, did you see any suspicious people lurking around?’
    ‘Only that cousin of Lady Polly’s. What a bore! I nearly fainted in my soup.’
    ‘So you can tell me nothing to help me?’
    ‘I’m afraid not.’
    ‘What was the reason for your visit?’
    Harry glared at him. ‘My dear sir, one goes into the country on many visits to many households. It’s what one does.’
    ‘I forgot, sir. Of course it is what one does when one does not have to work for a living.’
    ‘Oh, we aren’t all lilies of the field, y’know. Viscount Hinton has been wheeling a piano-organette around the streets these many years.’
    ‘But he doesn’t have to. He’s eccentric’
    ‘What about the House of Lords?’
    ‘What about it?’ jeered Kerridge. ‘Waste of time, if you ask me. Half the house is absent and the other half s nearly dead.’
    ‘Dear me, Super, you’re quite the little Bolshevik yourself.’
    ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’ Kerridge was shocked at his own behaviour. If his injudicious remarks got back to Scotland Yard, he would lose his job. He plodded on with the questioning, reflecting as he did so that the captain was one of the most empty-headed men he had met.
    But when he got back to his desk at Scotland Yard, he turned over his conversation with the captain. He had an obscure feeling that he had somehow been irritated and manipulated into betraying his radical views. And then, there had been that odd business of the earl winking at his secretary.
    That evening, before going home, he dropped in at the pub in the hope that Posh Cyril might be around, but there was no sign of the footman. He took his leave and bumped into Posh Cyril in the street outside.
    ‘I want a word with you,’ muttered the superintendent.
    ‘Walk away and into the alley along there. Be with you in a mo’,’ whispered the footman. ‘Got a friend in the pub and don’t want to be seen with you.’
    Kerridge stood impatiently in the alley