Apparently the hardest part of writing detective fiction is contriving a way for a detective to be present at a murder scene. Which is why so much detective fiction has implausible coincidences to frame the story: detectives who just happen to be invited to the country manor when a murder happens, detectives that happen to have a relative in trouble, detectives who just happen to be visiting the village fair as someone is shot, and so on.
@dpiponiDan Piponi (1/2)
A hush had fallen over the Drones Club smoking-room, a circumstance which, in itself, was nearly as shocking as the thing which had caused it. There, in the wingback chair by the fire, lay the Hon. Alby "Biffy" Bassington-Fitch, cold as yesterday’s mutton, and with a most definitive paper-knife protruding from his back.
By his side, on the occasional table, sat a half-finished whiskey and soda and a neatly addressed envelope containing an I.O.U. for a sum that would have made a tax-collector blanch.
"Murdered!" breathed Freddie Littlehorn, with a sort of ghastly relish. "Struck down in his prime! A mystery!"
"A dashed outrage," agreed Cyril Ponsford-Smythe, peering at the deceased as a critically-minded horticulturalist might regard a disappointing melon. "Who on earth could have done it?"
"The butler, what?" suggested someone from the back.
"We haven’t got a butler," Freddie pointed out, rather deflating the theory.
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