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examined it, then tucked it into his breast pocket.
    “It is quite a mystery,” Edward Simpson said. “A stranger murdered in the wine cellar of a country inn.” He paused. “I hear he was stabbed.”
    “I believe Rudley saw a knife,” Thomas said.
    “It could have been a mob hit,” said Miss Miller.
    Thomas took out a cigarette and a gold lighter. “Surely you don’t think Mr. Rudley is involved in organized crime.”
    “According to the brochures, the Pleasant was built by the mob.”
    “I doubt if Rudley is involved in anything untoward,” Thomas sniffed. “Except being chronically miserable.”
    “Tim told me the wine cellar is always locked and nobody has the key but Rudley.”
    “Mr. Rudley doesn’t seem the homicidal type,” Simpson said.
    “All sorts of people who turn out to be murderers don’t seem the homicidal type,” said Miss Miller. “What do you think, Mr. Thomas?”
    “Perhaps he committed suicide.”
    “Perhaps the maintenance man did it — that sinister young man who was lurking in the bushes when I arrived.”
    “I imagine he was trimming the hedge, Miss Miller.”
    “He looks capable of murder and he certainly has the tools at hand.”
    Tim sailed out onto the veranda, balancing a tray of coffee and hors d’oeuvres.
    “We were discussing the murder,” Miss Miller said. “A murder committed in a locked room.”
    “Rudley thinks he may have left the door unlocked by mistake,” said Tim.
    “Then the murderer must be someone who knew Mr. Rudley left the door unlocked,” said Simpson.
    “Or,” said Miss Miller, “the murderer was pursuing the victim. The victim ran into the inn and raced from door to door until he found one that was unlocked. He ducked in, but not in time. The pursuer saw him. He followed him in and savagely murdered him.”
    Thomas smiled. “You should write that one up, Miss Miller.”
    “The problem with that theory, Miss Miller,” Tim said, “is that the back door is locked at ten and isn’t unlocked again until six-thirty.”
    “Then it must be an inside job,” said Miss Miller.
    Thomas raised his brows. “I think we have a Miss Marple among us.”
    Rudley was at the front desk, trying to sort out the mess he had made with the drawers, when Peter Leslie checked in. Leslie was a tall, handsome man with an expensive wardrobe and a twinkle in his eye.
    “I see you’re a bear for security,” he said, nodding toward Officer Ruskay.
    “Intrusive boob,” Rudley muttered. He pulled himself together and turned the register for Leslie to sign. “Here’s your key, Mr. Leslie. May I escort you to your cottage?”
    “Oh, no need. I’ll follow the map in the brochure.”
    “Low Birches,” Rudley repeated.
    Rudley didn’t tell Leslie about the murder. He knew the other guests would fill him in soon enough and in a more entertaining fashion. He was embarrassed about the incident. Besides, it was hard to work the topic into conversation: “Here’s your key, Mr. Leslie. Meals are served at the hours posted. Refreshments are available up until 10:00 pm. If you wish a picnic lunch, please let the kitchen know the evening before. If you want extra towels, ask at the desk. If you plan to walk in the woods, we can offer several excellent repellants. If you wish to explore the neighbouring villages and environs, we have brochures in the lobby, listing points of interest and upcoming events. Lloyd will help you with your suitcases and, by the way, there’s been a murder in the wine cellar. No one we knew. And since most victims are known to their murderers, the murderer is probably no one we know either. Although, given the six-degrees-of-separation theory, that logic doesn’t necessarily hold. The murderer could be someone we know, although not someone we like. Still, statistically, Mr. Leslie, it is unlikely you will be murdered at the Pleasant by someone you don’t know.”
    Rudley threw the remainder of the papers into the bottom drawer and gave