It was a cold day. It was a rainy day. It was a miserable day. It was the kind of day that Clive Golding liked best.
He sat in his main parlor, fiddling with the spoon leftover from this morning’s tea. Clive checked his pocket watch for the third time in three minutes, hoping that the hour wouldn’t pass more quickly than it already was.
“Lunch, sir?” asked Dorian, Mr. Golding’s butler. Clive shook himself back into reality, preparing an answer, when he looked closer at Dorian’s collar.
“No, I’m fine, thank you. Have you seen the constable, today?”
Dorian shook his head. “No, I don’t believe I have, sir.”
“Mmm,” Clive replied, crossing to the gargantuan fireplace. In one swift movement, he pulled out the red poker and waved it in front of Dorian’s nose. “Your collar is turned up, my dear friend, which leads me to believe that you dressed in a hurry!”
”’Tisn’t a crime, sir!” He exclaimed.
“No, the crime is sitting upstairs on the guestroom floor,” Clive smiled ruefully. “Darling, Dorian.”