Charles watched Thomas through the haze. His younger brother, unlike himself, had kept his hair with the onset of years and had turned into quite the distinguished looking gentleman.
“Bastard.” said Charles to no one in particular.
“Were you talking to me?”
Charles refocused his eyes, arguably a difficult feat after the two bottles of 1897 La Fayette he had consumed. Slowly, a slightly rotund, short, distinctly normal looking man came into focus next to him.
“What?” Charles snapped drunkenly.
“Did you just call me a bastard?” The man replied. It was meant to sound menacing, but Charles was so drunk that the sentiment was lost on him.
“Course not, you bloody fool, never met you before in my life, can’t go calling chaps bastards for no reason. I’m Charles, this is my house, who are you?”
Charles reached out his hand.
“Detective Inspector Deacon of the Metropolitan Police Force.” He replied, omitting to accept Charles’ outstretched hand.
“The Met hey, bit out of your jurisdiction here aren’t you old chap? London’s 200 miles away.”
“I’m investigating a missing person, from quite some time ago. We’ve had some new evidence come to light, so I’ve come to take a look.”