Excerpt: Murder in the wings

Detective Sergeant Robert Felgate looked critically at the crisp white shirt and the stubborn crick in the collar.
“It is almost enough to make a man think of starch. Or even cleaners,” he said with a sigh as he deftly applied a few splashes of water and lifted the hot iron. Despite the sigh Felgate was actually quite fond of ironing, and not unduly satisfied with his abilities in the field. Of course his landlady thought it was madness for a young man like Mr. Felgate (she would never consider Detective a proper title) to spend his Saturdays ironing, but even she would have to concede he was quite immaculately kept. Of course to her that only made it all the more suspicious that Robert Felgate didn't have a nice wife to do his ironing for him, but she had the good business sense not to bother her tenant to much with that fact.
However before Robert managed to decisively win the battle with the shirt the phone interrupted. This time his sigh was more heartfelt, as he knew the only people likely to call him at this time on a Saturday morning would be The Yard. Duty literally calls in this modern age. He set his hot iron aside and answered:
“Detective Felgate speaking.”
“Constable Clarke here. I'm sorry to interrupt your morning, sir, but I'm afraid you're at the top of the roster. It appears a dead body has been found at the Lyceum Theatre, and that the circumstances require the presence of a detective, sir. It shouldn't be too much out of your way, sir,” said the ((young)) policeman with only a faint hint of actual apology.
“I hadn't planned on going to the theatre this morning, but I can hardly resist an invitation like that can I Constable. I'll be there presently,” replied Felgate in good humour and hung up. Iron and board was quickly packed away, the last tea swallowed and the newspaper tucked under the arm as Felgate headed for the Underground.