They all wanted him dead...but which one turned hatred into murder? Slumped on a seat under an oak tree is local solicitor Sampson Warrenby, stone cold dead, with a bullet in his brain. And everybody in the village seems ready to tell Chief Inspector Hemingway who murdered him. Could the killer have been the dead man's niece, who found him in the first place? The couple at the farm had a guilty secret―what was it? And why is it someone else actually wants to be the prime suspect? Detection is unlimited when everyone in the tiny village has a theory about who murdered the socially pushy newcomer. With no shortage of motives and means, it's up to Chief Inspector Hemingway to uncover which of the villagers is guilt of the crime. A classic country house mystery, perfect for readers of Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers! Georgette Heyer's novels have charmed and delighted millions of readers for decades. English Heritage has awarded Georgette Heyer one of their prestigious Blue Plaques, designating her Wimbledon home as the residence of an important figure in British history. She was born in Wimbledon in August 1902. She wrote her first novel, The Black Moth, at the age of seventeen to amuse her convalescent brother; it was published in 1921 and became an instant success. Heyer published 56 books over the next 53 years, until her death from lung cancer in 1974. Her last book, My Lord John, was published posthumously in 1975. A very private woman, she rarely reached out to the public to discuss her works or personal life. Her work included Regency romances, mysteries and historical fiction. Known as the Queen of Regency romance, Heyer was legendary for her research, historical accuracy and her extraordinary plots and characterizations. She was married to George Ronald Rougier, a barrister, and they had one son, Richard. From Chapter One Mr Thaddeus Drybeck, stepping from the neat gravel drive leading from his house on to the road, found his further progress challenged, and, indeed, impeded, by the sudden onrush of several Pekinese dogs, who bounced and barked asthmatically about his feet. Repressing a desire to sweep them from his path with the tennis-racquet he was carrying, he used this instead to guard his ankles, for one of Mrs Midgeholme's Pekes was known to bite. 'Shoo!' said Mr Drybeck testily. 'Get away!' The Pekes, maddened to frenzy by this form of address, bounced and barked more than ever; and one of them made a dart at Mr Drybeck's racquet. 'Peekies, Peekies!' trilled a new voice, in loving reproach. 'Naughty! Come to Mother at once! It's only their play, Mr Drybeck.' Three of the Pekes, feeling that the possibilities of the situation had been exhausted, abandoned their prey; the fourth, standing four-square before Mr Drybeck, continued to bark and growl at him until snatched up into the arms of her owner, who dealt her a fond slap, and said: 'Isn't she a pet? This is Mother's eldest little girl, aren't you, my treasure? Now, say you're sorry to poor Mr Drybeck!' Mr Drybeck, perceiving that the animal was being thrust towards him, recoiled. 'Oh, you've hurt her feelings!' said Mrs Midgeholme, kissing the top of the Peke's head. 'Wouldn't he shake hands with you, Ursula? Never mind!' The expression in Ursula's indignantly bulging eyes appeared to be one of loathing rather than of hurt, but this reflection Mr Drybeck kept to himself, merely saying in his precise way: 'I fear I am not fond of dogs.' 'I'm sure you are really,' said Mrs Midgeholme, unwilling to think ill of a fellow-creature. Her eyes, which, from their slight protruberance, bore a resemblance to those of her dogs, ran over him appraisingly. 'I expect you're off to the Haswells',' she said sapiently. 'You're a great tennis-player, aren't you?' Mr Drybeck disclaimed, but felt the description to be just. In his youth he had spent his every summer holiday competing in tournaments, and to his frequent success the row of trophies upon the mantleshelf in his diningroom bore testimony. His style of play was old-fashioned, like everything else about him, but the young men who considered him a desiccated exponent of pat-ball nevertheless found him a difficult adversary to beat. He was by profession a solicitor, the last surviving member of a firm long-established in the neighbouring town of Bellingham. He had never married, was extremely precise in all his ways, and disliked nearly every form of modern progress: a circumstance which possibly accounted for the sadly diminishing numbers of his clients. The older members of the community amongst which he had lived all his life remained faithful to him, but the younger men seemed to prefer the methods employed by his rival and bête noire , Mr Sampson Warrenby, an upstart of no more than fifteen years' standing in the district. Sampson Warrenby's rapidly expanding business, at first a small thorn in Mr Drybeck's flesh, was fast assuming the proportions of a menace; and since the day, just after t