For fans of Agatha Christie, Anthony Horowitz, and the golden age of detective fiction.
December 1938. Snow seals a Mayfair townhouse - and traps eight people with a killer.
Reginald Hargrove has survived Burmese rig fires, jungle fevers, and thirty years of boardroom knives. Tonight should be nothing more than brandy and cigars. Instead, Julian Blackwood steps out for a cigarette. Minutes later, he's found strangled in the cloakroom with his own crimson scarf.
The police are fighting through the storm. Until they arrive, there's only Hargrove - and a dining table full of people with secrets worth killing for.
Because this wasn't rage. It was arithmetic. And Hargrove can feel it - something at the heart of the company is rotten, and Julian died because he knew too much.