Murder.

Last night was spent in the very fine company of my fiancee, her uncle (Lord Hogg), a fine an upstanding American, his companion (a Nun who had joined him on several Safaris) and a French maid. And a jolly good time would have been had by all, except for one rather pertinent factor.

Lord Hogg's butler was murdered.

We were rather fortunate I suppose, as the most eminent of private detectives, Shylock McClue, was also present. We discussed and debated this, the most shocking of crimes, over a rather luvverly slapup Chinese takeaway.

Throughout the course of the evening it transpired that I had not only some fairly serious gambling debts, but had also been doing a bit of pocket picking as well. The Nun was not what she seemed either, as she had been, um, faking it all along (much to the American's surprise) and the French maid had been having an affair with the deceased (prior to his death, of course). The most shocking of all was the revelation that Lord Hogg had a an absolute hatred for all of his servants, and had so far topped four of them over the years.

Needless to say, it was my dear fiancee who shot the poor butler (at my behest) although it was the goodly non-nun that put him out of his misery. The American had forged a suicide note hoping to claim his insubstantial worldly belongings. The French maid had attempted to kill her former lover with arsenic, while her uncle had attempted to knock him off his lifely pedestal using Rasputin's Revenge - usually a most potent poison, but in the right situation can also act as a rather effective antidote to arsenic.

Shortly after, Shylock escorted us all to Scotland Yard where we were undoubtedly locked up by a careless guard who immediately threw away the key.

And it's all true.