Twelve people sat down for dinner at Strontfield Park, William Fent’s ancestral home. Thirteen would have been most unlucky. For the host, however, the evening could not have been unluckier. By midnight he was dead—killed instantly when his motorcar smashed into another on a bad bit of road. The problem for Detective Inspector C. D. Sloan was the autopsy. The victim, it seemed, was about to die in any event. Along with the cold cucumber soup, crown of lamb, raspberry crémets, and a fine aged port, someone served the lord of the manor a dose of deadly poison. But which of the surviving eleven had the opportunity… and who had the motive to want him dead?
How do you feel?