A Mysterious Affair of Style

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When, prompted by your enthusiasm for The Act of Roger Murgatroyd, you proposed that I write a sequel, I immediately rejected the idea on the grounds that I’ve always made it a point of honour never to repeat myself. Later, however, it occurred to me that I had never written a sequel before (to one of my own books, at least) and hence, applying what I acknowledge is a slightly warped species of logic, to write one now would represent another new departure for me. So if, to adapt Hitchcock’s metaphor, fiction can also be a slice of cake, I hope you’ve left room for seconds.

Gilbert

‘Great Scott Moncrieff!!!’

That voice!

Chief-Inspector Trubshawe – or, if one is to be a stickler for accuracy, Chief-Inspector Trubshawe, retired, formerly of Scotland Yard – had just stepped into the tea-room of the Ritz Hotel in quest of repose for his feet and refreshment for his palate, and it was while endeavouring to attract the eye of a waitress that he heard the voice which caused him to stop dead in his tracks.

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