The Shattered Teacup

“Newbury! Thank God you’re here.”
Sir Maurice Newbury swept into the hallway, his overcoat billowing open behind him as he marched across the marble floor towards his friend. His expression was serious. “Don’t thank God, Charles. Thank the cabbie who agreed to take my fare this close to Christmas.” His face was ruddy from the biting cold and his breath was shallow with exertion.
He began removing his black leather gloves, one finger at a time, eyeing the older man for any clue as to why he’d been called from his bed at such an early hour of the morning. Sir Charles Bainbridge, his grey moustache twitching with irritation, glanced over Newbury’s shoulder as if he were expecting someone else.
“Miss Hobbes?” He looked flustered.
Newbury shot his friend a stern look. “Charles. It’s Christmas Eve!”
Bainbridge nodded in acknowledgement, as if the date had only just dawned on the Chief Inspector. He glanced at his pocket watch. “Quite so, old man. Quite so.” He shook his head. “Well, Christmas or not, I’m afraid the situation here is rather grave.”

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