The White Room by Fergus Hume

Coleridge Lane, Hampstead, was named after the great poet, who had once resided in the neighbourhood. If he lived in this special locality, he could not have found it congenial to his Muse, for the crooked, winding, sloping passage could hardly be called a lane, much less a road. Also, it was damp by reason of the ancient trees that nearly met overhead. On either side were small cottages standing amidst weedy gardens, the survivals of a far-off age, when a wide view and careful drainage were not considered as necessary to any human habitation. An air of melancholy hung over the place, and only because the rents were low did the cottages contain tenants.

Before the gate of one of these cottages stood Inspector Derrick one summer's morning. He was in private clothes, and looked, as usual, smart and alert. With a sharp look on his stern face he stared at the damp, discoloured walls of the cottage, which matched with a moss-grown thatched roof. Yet, in spite of the apparent decay of the house, there was evidence that the occupier had some idea of tidiness and comfort. The garden was well weeded, and filled with homely cottage flowers now in full bloom. A green-painted fence divided the garden from the lane, and there was a narrow gate which bore the name "Fairy Lodge. " The windows were draped with lace curtains tied with smart pink ribbons. The brass door-knocker was well polished, and the step thoroughly whitewashed. Apparently the landlord would not, and the tenant could not, renovate the cottage, but much had been done to render it a little less melancholy than the neighbouring houses.