BOOK 3
Iris¹
“For I thought that the dead had peace
But it is not so . . .”
One
Colonel Race turned into the doorway² of New Scotland Yard. He filled in
the form that was brought forward and a very few minutes later he was
shaking hands with Chief Inspector³ Kemp in the latter’s room.
The two men were well acquainted. Kemp was slightly reminiscent of
that grand old veteran, Battle, in type. Indeed, since he had worked under
Battle for many years, he had perhaps unconsciously copied a good many
of the older man’s mannerisms. He bore about him the same suggestion of
being carved all in one piece—but whereas Battle had suggested some
wood such as teak or oak, Chief Inspector Kemp suggested a somewhat
more showy wood—mahogany, say, or good old-fashioned rosewood.
“It was good of you to ring us, colonel,” said Kemp. “We shall want all
the help we can get on this case.”
“It seems to have got us into exalted⁶ hands,” said Race.
Kemp did not make modest disclaimers. He accepted quite simply the
indubitable fact that only cases of extreme delicacy⁷, wide publicity⁸ or su-
preme importance came his way. He said seriously:
“It’s the Kidderminster connection. You can imagine that means careful
going.”
Race nodded. He had met Lady Alexandra Farraday several times. One
of those quiet women of unassailable position whom it seems fantastic to
associate with sensational⁹ publicity. He had heard her speak on public
platforms—without eloquence¹⁰, but clearly and competently, with a good
grasp of her subject, and with an excellent delivery.
The kind of woman whose public life was in all the papers, and whose

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