The Summer of Sir Lancelot

beastly couple had gone and killed his best friend.
    ‘Ye gods,‘ he muttered brokenly, ‘what is the world coming to!‘
    Five minutes later he was clattering across his front hall shedding fishing tackle.
    ‘Maud!‘
    His tears were dried in the flames of anger. He grabbed the telephone as though drawing a sword.
    ‘I want Evans,‘ he barked to the exchange.
    ‘Evans the milk or Evans the telly?‘
    ‘The solicitors.‘
    ‘Oh, Evans the law. Just a minute, love.‘
    ‘Evans, Evans, Evans, Evans,‘ came a sombre voice up the line, ‘and Evans.‘
    ‘Caradoc? Spratt here—‘
    ‘Oh, good morning to you, Sir Lancelot. I believe I observed you making for the river earlier. Did you have any luck?‘
    ‘No, I did not have any luck! You are to come to my house instantly.‘
    ‘Goodness me, man! What‘s the matter? You sound as though you‘d committed murder.‘
    ‘That is precisely what I hope your professional opinion will prevent.‘ Sir Lancelot slammed down the telephone. ‘Maud! Maud!‘
    He stormed through the hall, making the very fish tremble in their glass cases. He strode into the garden. He came to a halt. His wife and niece were emerging from the shrubbery with a stranger.
    ‘Oh, Lancelot, I‘m so glad you decided to return for lunch,‘ smiled Lady Spratt. ‘This is Mr Finnimore, who‘s come all the way from London. I quite forgot to tell you about the appointment. One gets utterly amnesic embalmed here in the country,‘ she apologized to her guest.
    With Mr Chadwick and Dr Tolly, Sir Lancelot felt he had witnessed sufficient unpleasant sights for one day. But apparently this was not to be. He found himself facing a pale slim young man in a silk suit and a pair of glasses with rims like bus tyres.
    ‘I‘m from The Countess,‘ the young man explained, offering an apparently filleted hand.
    Sir Lancelot‘s eyebrows shot up. ‘The Countess of Mull and Islay? Did her bladder a couple of years ago. If there‘re any complications see Mr Cambridge in Harley Street. I‘ve retired.‘
    ‘No, no, The Countess magazine,‘ explained Lady Spratt.
    The cold front moved back on Sir Lancelot‘s brow.
    ‘As you know,‘ amplified the silk-suited man, ‘we run a photographic feature every issue on Famous Faces.‘ He gave a little laugh. ‘All slightly off-beat, naturally. Last week we had Cecil Fleury in his new ballet, and this week we‘ve that absolutely side-splitting comedian, Jimmy-‘
    ‘Thank you. I have thought it necessary to have only two photographs taken in my life. One was for my passport and the other for my obituary. I regret that I am unable to invite you to stay for lunch. Good morning.‘
    ‘Really, Lancelot!‘ Lady Spratt now shook like a soufflé on a trampoline. An orange one, too — she was pretty indignant. ‘Perhaps you don‘t realize that half London society is fighting to get into Mr Finnimore‘s viewfinder? He is quite as famous a photographer as Lord — ‘
    ‘If I require any photographs I shall call at Studios Williams in the village in my own good time. He does excellent studies of fish and funerals and makes no damned fuss. Has this country come to regard privacy as lightly as it regards morality?‘ he demanded loudly in general. ‘I go out this morning to discover my neighbour blatantly poaching my water, and I come home to find photographers overrunning the place like rabbits. It is altogether too much. Good morning.‘
    He turned and strode back to the house. He slammed the door of his downstairs study. He sat and exchanged glances for ten minutes with another stuffed fish.
    ‘Evans!‘
    Sir Lancelot threw open the study window as the solicitor‘s little black car came crunching hurriedly up the drive.
    ‘Evans, I wish you to institute proceedings instantly against this despicable scoundrel Chadwick.‘
    Mr Caradoc Evans, a thin white-haired man with the air of a dyspeptic undertaker with an overdraft, approached between the flower-beds.
    ‘You mustn‘t talk like that, Sir Lancelot,‘ he chided, ‘or you‘ll be fighting a slander action instead. I understand Mr Chadwick is a most respected figure in the City of London.‘
    ‘I have not the slightest doubt of that, if he extends his total disregard for other people‘s property to his commercial activities.‘
    ‘He‘s Beaulieu‘s Marmalade, you know,‘ explained Mr Evans, leaning on the windowsill.
    Sir Lancelot nearly vomited up his breakfast.
    ‘And Peregrine‘s Pickle and