"Yer wife, Mrs Carrington, came to the station sir. She said there had been an altercation here at the house this evening. Involving yerself and she." Bert began.

His language was official, yet circular. The enunciation of his letters deliberate, precise. The copper was dancing around the truth, expertly beating around the bush. No direct accusation of guilt. After all, Magnus Carrington was a person of import in this town, to be treated as Raglin had said like a delicate flower.

"I think it best if ye come down to the station, sir. To assist us in our inquiries."