An elegant white barouche, with blue seating and drawn up hood halted in front of the police station. When its footman had jumped down and opened the door, a blonde middle-aged man rose from under the hood. He paused. Stone grey eyes scrutinized the building. Then he took his cane, stepped down and marched into the police station with determination.

One of the constables, the one with a big moustache, a big belly, and currently one button of his uniform missing – the aristocratic visitor could not remember his name. Was it ‘Ward’? – was leaning on a high desk, holding a coffee cup, and yawning over some notes he was making. He quickly straightened up when he saw who had just entered, spilling coffee over his already shabby uniform.

“Lord McPadraic. What can I do for you?” he said, sheepishly stepping behind the desk in a futile attempt to cover up the coffee stain.

Lord McPadraic had watched the scene with great displeasure and he resolved not to tolerate this slop any longer than he had to.

“I heard you have a new sergeant. And there should be an inspector coming in as well. Has he arrived? I’d like to speak to him, or the sergeant if he’s not here yet,” he said with the confidence and ease of a man who was used to saying: ‘I want to talk to your manager’.