"Balancing carefully on the rim of the sewer hole to keep his shoes from getting dirty, the Bomb-Disposals man, a vision of resplendence in carefully pressed, positively gleaming British Army uniform, gazed down into the muck and the trogs inhabiting therein. Under his peaked cap, he had a face like a pained prune.
The Bomb-Disposals man said in an upper-class accent so clipped it could cut watercress sandwiches at a single slice, "Who are you?"
One of the trogs moved. It was the Auden trog. Trog Auden had an English accent too. It was the sort of accent that could call cows in from the filthy fields. Auden said, "Auden."
He winced and looked even more pained. The BD man said with something on his face that was supposed to be a smile, "Captain Hetherington-Smith, Army BD." He looked at the other trog.
He had a nice accent. Spencer, looking up, said with a smile, "Bill Spencer, Royal Hong Kong Police."
The look on his face became a smile. It became a nod. The BD man said with a sight of relief, "Ah, good morning, Bill--Captain the Honorable Roger Hetherington-Smith, bomb-tinkerer and all that." He kept smiling at Spencer. He ignored Auden completely. "Fella up in the office says you've got yourselves a little whiz-bang or something stuck down here in the jolly old mud.""
Nightmare Syndrome, by William Marshall (copyright 1997; quote is from pages 37-38 of the Warner Books/Mysterious Press hardcover edition, 1997).