The Gong of Doom

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It was a normal evening in the Hades Club and the members were, as usual, enjoying the peace and quiet of their surroundings. In the great oak-panelled room, the gentle hum of discreet conversation could barely be heard above the crackling of the flames in the hearth. Crossed swords hung above the imposing black marble mantelpiece, on which stood a bust of the Greek god who had given his name to the club: the meeting-place of a select circle of prosperous Londoners devoted to the discussion of puzzling mysteries, criminal and otherwise. But the peace was suddenly shattered by a strange noise…

As one, the members turned to stare reproachfully at Horace, the servant who had had the misfortune to drop a large silver tray and was frantically trying to gather up its contents.

“That’s strange,” said Superintendent Charles Cullen. The senior Scotland Yard official, a straight-backed man clearly in the prime of life despite graying hair combed carefully back, was sitting close to the fire in the company of his old friend, the eminent criminologist Dr. Alan Twist. The learned doctor, advanced in years but still sporting a splendid ginger moustache beneath a pair of gentle but shrewd eyes, behind a pince-nez, had frequently helped the Yard over the course of his career.

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