“Coleridge,” Moon said mysteriously.

“Is there some significance?”

“Are you a poetry-lover, Inspector?”

“Not seen a word of the stuff since school.”

“Then at least you’ve learnt one valuable lesson today.”

“What’s that?”

“Read more.”

Later that evening, lulled by the rhythmic snoring of his wife, just as he was about to go to sleep, Inspector Merryweather would think of rather an amusing retort to this. But he would know that the moment had passed, and would roll over instead and hope for pleasant dreams.

The Somnambulist