There is no need to notify your boss that you will be delayed because you are the possessor of a comfortable independence. You solve the case after a lot of walks through attractive countryside, chats with servile cottage holders and innumerable cups of tea and plates of scones and jam. You return to London weighing no more than when you left and with the satisfaction of a job well done. You stop in at the local pub for a pint and a round of darts with a few of the local men. Despite the fraternal nature of the local, you, as the laird, are treated with just a bit more deference.
Someone comes in with the latest newspaper from Edinburgh.
All the lads are interested in the front page story about an unpopular businessman who, while a member of a shooting party at an estate not far from here, was found foully murdered. The suspect, his beautiful young wife, is at large. A glance at her photograph in the paper shows an innocent pair of eyes set in a heartshaped face. You wonder if such a woman could possibly commit so hienious a crime. While on a walk through the hills the following day, you discover the frightened young woman herself hiding in a cave in the heather.