In honour of #MysteryWeek, here’s a story in just five sentences.
Orlando Coppersmith felt better once the room had stopped spinning, an unusual habit it had taken to adopting whenever he imbibed more than a pint; why had he let himself be talked into a third glass of stout, and why was there a dead body on the floor of his study?
He wasn’t so sozzled that he’d have forgotten committing a murder, so which rotten swine had done the deed and left the corpse for him to – literally – trip over, splitting his trouser seam and an infinitive in the process?
The arrival of Jonty Stewart, with a, “Sorry, mea culpa,” did nothing to ease Orlando’s distress, given the possibility his partner had turned murderer.
“Tailor’s dummy, new suit for the adjusting of,” Jonty continued, hefting the thing off the floor, “Lavinia’s idea, so blame her.”
Orlando, jaw working up and down although nothing but beer fumes coming out of it, was left to curse the combined powers of Lavinia, Jonty and a quart and a half of Guinness.