Ripping Time by Robert Asprin & Linda Evans

Malcolm turned to Spaldergate’s stable master. “Stoddard, you have the gloves that were found when poor Mr. Catlin disappeared from his hotel?”

“I do, sir.” He produced a small cloth bag, inside which nestled a gentleman’s pair of kid gloves. Relatively fresh blood stains indicated that they had, in fact, been on Catlin’s person when the shootout at the Piccadilly Hotel had occurred and Catlin had rendered life-saving first aid, just as the wounded driver had described via telephone before losing consciousness.

Malcolm nodded briskly. “Very good. Shall we give the dog the scent, then? I’m anxious to begin. Poor Miss Smith,” and he bowed to Margo before returning his attention to the Shannons, “is understandably distraught over her fiancé’s absence and who can blame the dear child?”

Margo was doing a very creditable job, in fact, of imitating someone in deep distress, shredding her own gloves with jerking, nervous movements and summoning tears through God-alone knew what agency. “Please, can’t you find him?” Margo gasped out, voice shaking, one hand clutching at Mr. Shannon’s ill-fitting jacket sleeve.

His granddaughter spoke, not unkindly. “Now, then, get ‘old of yourself, miss, wailin’ and suchlike won’t do ‘im a bit o’ good an’ you’re like t’give yourself a fit of brain fever.”

“Maeve,” her grandfather said sharply, “the lady ‘as a right to be upset, so you just give Alfie the scent an’ mind your tongue! Or I’ll give yer me German across yer Hampsteads, so I will.”

“You an’ what army, I’m wonderin’?” she shot right back, not cowed in the slightest by her grandfather’s uplifted hand. “Give Alfie a sniff o’ them gloves, now,” she instructed Stoddard briskly.