In the Teeth of the Evidence by Dorothy L. Sayers

muttered something and banged his way out of the bar, nearly colliding in the doorway with another young man, who scowled angrily at his retreating back.
        ‘Did you see that?’ said the newcomer. ‘I’d like to teach that young – manners. Him and his – old father are a pair, the dirty—!’
        ‘Now then, Hughie!’ protested Mr Bowles. An elderly man, who had been reading his paper by the fire, got up and went out with a look of disgust. ‘I can’t allow that sort of language in my bar. You’ve driven that gentleman away, and him a stranger to the town. A nice idea he’ll get of Twiddleton. And in front of Mr Charteris, too. I’m surprised.’
        ‘Sorry, Mr Charteris. Sorry, Mr Bowles. But I’ve had about enough of Robbinses. The old man’s got his knife into me, all right. Dropping me for that fool Benson, against the Swallows! I don’t mind standing aside for a better man – but Benson! Him keep goal – keeping chickens is all he’s fit for. It’s a damned insult. And young Edgar charging into me like a clumsy great goat and never saying so much as “Pardon,” the insolent lout!’
        ‘Steady,’ said Mr Bowles. ‘’Tisn’t the first time you’ve stood up to a charge, Hughie. Young Edgar’s had one over the eight. And he’s a bit put out. His dad left a message he was going up to the Mills and wanted to see him there, and Mr Edgar wasn’t having any. Told me to say he hadn’t been in and didn’t get the message. Spot of trouble there, I wouldn’t wonder. Maybe the old gentleman’s on to some of the ways he spends the money.’
        ‘Time, too,’ said Hughie. ‘Half of old-an’-mild, Mr Bowles, if you please. Young Edgar’s too much of a gentleman to work at the Mills, but he’s not too grand to take the cash and spend it on skirts. Be damned to the lot of them! I haven’t finished with old Robbins yet.’
        ‘The less you have to do with Mr Robbins the better,’ said Mr Bowles, severely. ‘You’ll let that temper of yours get the better of you once too often, and say something you’ll be sorry for. What’s the time? Quarter to. Your chop’ll be just about ready now, Mr Egg, if you’ll kindly step through to the parlour?’
        ‘I must be getting along, too,’ said Charteris. He picked up his clubs, bestowed a pleasant farewell upon the company and went out, leaving Hughie Searle alone before the bar, his dark eyes glowering, and his bullet head humped sulkily between his broad, square shoulders.
     
    At half-past eight, Mr Egg, having consumed his chop and chips, strolled back into the bar. Hughie Searle had gone, but the room had filled up and Mr Bowles, assisted now by a barman, was doing a brisk trade. The Eagle was the only hotel of genuine importance in the little town, and all Twiddletonians of any standing passed through its hospitable door most evenings in the week. Mr Egg had not been working that district of late, but he rediscovered several patrons and acquaintances who remembered him from six years back and were glad to see him. He was deep in conversation with Mr Harcourt, the bank manager, when the door was hastily flung open and a man rushed in breathlessly, his eyes starting out of his head.
        ‘Help! Murder! I want the police!’
        Every head turned; every mug and glass hung suspended; Mr Bowles, grasping the handle of the beer-engine, let half a pint of bitter overflow the pot and go frothing down the pipe.
        ‘Why, Ted, what’s up?’
        The man staggered to the settle and dropped down, panting. Eager faces bent over him.
        ‘Anything wrong up at the Mills?’
        ‘Mr Robbins – lying in his office – with his ’ead bashed in – all of a mask of blood. Get the police! It’s murder!’
        ‘Old Mr Robbins!’
        ‘Yes, the boss. A dretful sight it was.’
        ‘But ’oo done it?’
        ‘Think I stopped to see? I come off, fast as me legs could carry me.’