Rex fancied he could almost smell the pomade. A murmur of recognition rose from the audience. “Dashed curious,” agreed a taller man in morning dress, lounging by a fireplace to the left of the stage. He screwed a monocle into his eye socket to better examine a gilt-framed portrait that hung above the mantelpiece. “All the more curious for me,” riposted a man seated in an armchair and holding a meerschaum pipe; a deerstalker cap perched on his knee. “It seems I precede you all, chronologically speaking.” “Indeed, your reputation precedes you, my dear Holmes,” said the man by the fireplace, removing his monocle and bestowing a bow. “The rest of us merely follow in your disquisitive example.” Why not just say investigative? Rex asked himself. “I’m delighted to be included in such illustrious company,” tinkled a voice in the far-right corner, where a white-haired lady in a blue silk frock sat placidly knitting on a Chesterfield. Behind the sofa loomed a folding Chinese screen, a plumed fern in a bronze urn beside it adding a touch of greenery to the set. “Will this take long, I wonder?” A stumpy village priest in a long, black, buttoned coat and white collar stood looking out a painted window, a large round hat in his hand. “I left Flambeau fishing at the lake and now it is pouring down,” he lamented. The elderly woman lowered her knitting. “I expect Lady Naomi Grove and her solicitor are hoping the five of us can put our heads together and solve this most perplexing mystery with all speed.” “Well, where in deuce are our hosts?” enquired Sherlock. “I need to get back to London by three to meet with Watson.”
3