"Officer!" Tristan called out, too late.

Mrs. Carrington sat in a chair, the top of her body only covered by her chemise, corset and camisole. The bodice had been taken off and hung over another chair so that she could reveal her arm for the doctor's inspection. There were indeed bruises where Tristan had indicated

The lady shrieked when the constable barged in. She got up, grabbed her bodice with her good arm, swayed and sank back down into her chair. "Sir!" she cried out indignant.

Tristan came running into the room. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't done treating Mrs. Carrington, sir. I just thought you ought to know the situation."

"Oh, I, well, um, er.." Bert stammered trying to backpedal "What's that sergeant?" He called out loudly in the direction of the back office. "Excuse me." Bert answered beating a retreat faster than the Horseguards at Buckingham Palace. The question was fake, made up on the spot to remove himself from the room.

"Sir!" Tristan rushed after him again.

Albert would never have peace.

"Can I treat Mrs. Carrington's injuries? Will you need to take any further evidence of the injuries themselves?"

"I've sent for a photographer, Doctor. It might help with evidence, shouldn't be long now. Then ye can treat Mrs Carrington." Bert jerked his head in the direction of the room he had just hurriedly left. He wouldn't be going back there for a while.

Tristan went back to the room and treated Mrs. Carrington's injuries. The photographer came, but Albert was mercifully kept away from the scandalously exposed arm, and when Tristan came out at last he announced: "Mrs. Carrington is decent again, sir, and her injuries treated. I'll leave you to it."

Albert nodded and cautiously approached the door, this time weary of what new thing he might find on the other side. He tapped the glass with a knuckle.

"Mrs Carrington, is there any further evidence about ye of your husband's attack? Loose threads, a torn button. You said he had been drinking, is there a glass? Perhaps you can recall what he drank?"

Anne looked up and swallowed. "There is a rip here at my shoulder, sir." She stood up and turned so that Albert could see. Indeed, there was a rip in the delicate black fabric where the sleeve met the bodice. Anne turned again and sat back down. "I suppose if you were to go there, you would find my husband still inebriated. He threw a glass tumbler... I don't recall where it hit and scattered. I was too afraid, sir... But it must be somewhere on the floor in the library, unless the servants have cleaned it up." Her lip trembled. She drew a long shaky breath as if to fortify herself.

"If you'll excuse me, Ma'am." Albert said, leaving the Carrington woman to herself, before heading upstairs.

"The situation is like this, sir...." Bert recounted a few minutes later to the duty inspector. Tonight, it was an officer by the name of Raglin. Bert would need official sanction to apprehend Whitby's most influential citizens. Raglin was, in Bert's opinion, hardly a model officer. Raglin had fleshy jowls and a beard gave him a passing resemblance to a walrus; his cheeks flush with cheap scotch, his known tipple of choice.

"Can't this wait until morning Constable?" Raglin asked sleepily, yanking a trouser brace over his shoulder. Bert had apparently intruded on a quiet snooze.

"There is strong evidence that Mister Carrington has committed a crime, sir. If we don't apprehend him now, 'e may destroy evidence or leave town."

Raglin glanced briefly at the statements Bert provided from Mrs Carrington and Doctor Wells. He did not want to be dealing with this.

"Magnus Carrington is one of this town's most prominent citizens. I'm not arresting him."

"Sir?" Bert blurted out. His tone betrayed the fact he thought Raglin was a moron.

"Don't try that tone with me Constable. If you must talk to him, invite him down here to the police station to assist us in our inquiries. He is to be treated with the utmost respect. Now leave me alone."

Anne sat waiting for the officer, silently growing angrier by the moment. What absolute amateurs the Whitby police were. Not only had that idiot walked in on her when she was half-dressed. He also clearly didn't know what to do and it all took ages. She had wanted them to go down to the manor to question her husband, or even arrest him. But by this time the boar might have sobered enough to be clever about it and come across and sane and decent - rather than the drunk ogre he really was.

Damn them. If Anne were a man, she'd go into local government and reform the police department top to bottom. Of course, she wasn't a man, and if her husband was anything to go by, the influential men in town could hardly wipe their own arses, let alone improve the world around them. She hated all of them. She hated depending on them even more. Yet she would play the game and cherish what little power she could obtain by it. And so she was ready to put her handkerchief back to her mouth and look distraught the moment she heard someone approach.

Bert's shoes made heavy steps as he walked back to the room where Anne Carrington was still waiting. Raglin could be such an arse at times. There was the vaguest of human outlines behind the pebbled glass. Albert knocked, and hearing permission, entered.

"Mrs Carrington. I've spoken to my superiors and they would like me to discuss this matter with your husband. Is he still at the manor?"