The Problem at Two Tithes (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 7) by Clara Benson

‘Really? Tell me you’re joking. I can’t believe you have a brother. In fact, I don’t believe you were born in the normal way at all. I’ve always supposed that you emerged fully formed from a fountain, in a shower of jewels and rose-petals. Please don’t shatter my illusions like that—I fear I shall never get over it.’
    ‘Idiot,’ she said good-humouredly. ‘No, I’m afraid I came into being in the usual manner, and am presently showing what a dutiful sister I am by staying here and behaving with great sobriety and respectability.’
    ‘Poor you,’ he said. ‘That sounds awfully dull. Still, I’m here now to shine a little light on things.’
    ‘Yes, it’s very kind of you,’ said Angela. ‘And how is the reporting business going?’
    ‘Slow, very slow,’ said Freddy. ‘I expect it’s the time of year.’
    ‘But it’s the middle of the season,’ said Angela. ‘Don’t they send you to all the debutantes’ dances?’
    Freddy shuddered.
    ‘They most certainly do,’ he said, ‘and I may never recover from the horror of it. I’m supposed to be there to observe and then find twenty different ways of describing pink tulle, but what actually happens is that I enter the room and a thousand beady eyes immediately regard me in the manner of a school of sharks contemplating a small and frightened herring. Then all at once I am pounced upon and plied with champagne, and someone says, “Of course you remember Bessie, don’t you? She was at school with Evelyn Fox, you know, whose aunt ran off to Antibes with Harold Barker-White, who used to be the stepfather of Reggie Coverdale—now don’t tell me you don’t remember Reggie: he’s doing marvellously well out in India now that he’s recovered from the amputation,” and then before I know it I’m smiling glassily and dancing with some trussed-up female who might be quite good-looking if one could only get a glimpse of her under all that silk and lace and rouge, and might even be rather good fun if only she hadn’t been drilled to death in the proper behaviour and one could get a laugh out of her. I don’t know what’s wrong with the young men of today,’ he finished, ‘but I tell you this: it’s coming to something when all the proud mamas of Mayfair are eyeing me up as a prospect.’
    ‘Don’t be silly—I’m sure you’ll make some girl very happy one day,’ said Angela kindly. ‘So then, this murder must have been rather a godsend for you.’
    ‘I’ll say,’ he said. ‘As soon as it turned up I threw my dinner-suit on the fire and came down here like a shot.’
    ‘And what is the Clarion ’s position on the case?’
    ‘I don’t know yet,’ said Freddy. ‘I haven’t thought of one. I’ve been scouting about all morning, but I’ve been rather hamstrung by the competition.’
    ‘Ah, that would be the other man I saw. Is he a reporter too?’
    At this, Freddy gave a sound expressive of utter disgust.
    ‘A reporter?’ he said. ‘I beg you, please don’t use that word in the same sentence as that—that—no, I won’t flatter him by calling him a blister. As a matter of fact, to call him a blister would be an insult to right-thinking blisters everywhere. He’s a weeping sore on the face of humanity, that’s what he is.’
    ‘Goodness,’ said Angela. ‘Who is he?’
    ‘Corky Beckwith,’ said Freddy. ‘He works for the Herald —and I won’t bore you with my opinions on that rag: suffice it to say that it’s the sort of newspaper which employs people like Corky Beckwith, and that ought to tell you all you need to know about it.’
    ‘How dreadful,’ said Angela politely. ‘I shall spit at his feet and turn my back on him if I happen to meet him accidentally.’
    ‘Oh, I shouldn’t bother,’ said Freddy. ‘The gesture would be quite lost on him. I say,’ he went on more cheerfully, ‘I haven’t seen you in simply ages, have I? You’re looking very well. Isn’t that a sun-tan? Have you been