'Mr J. J. Connington is a name revered by all specialists on detective fiction' Spectator When Oswald F. Preston is shot dead on the 10.35 local train from Horston, two obvious suspects are immediately in the frame: his wife's lover and an employer with a grudge. With red herrings a-plenty, and a number of other contenders for murderer, including a young heiress, Superintendant Ross has his work cut out for him.

When Chief Constable Sir Clinton Driffield goes to stay with his friend Wendover, mysterious goings-on in the boathouse he owns soon attract the duo's attention. Lights go on and off, strangers come in and out, and a game warden is found murdered nearby. And as they work to solve the crime, a second body is dredged up from the lake ... 'Mr J. J. Connington is a name revered by all specialists on detective fiction' Spectator

Nine men formed a sweepstake syndicate. One man died. To forestall legal argument they agreed that only living members should share any winnings. They won £241,920. And then the deadly arithmetic began. Nine less one left eight shares worth £30,240; Eight less one left seven shares worth £34,560; Seven less one left six shares worth £40,320; Six less one left five shares worth £48,384. Who was killing for profit? And who would be left to collect?

It was at the hidden stone wall in the spinney that Johnnie Brandon, rabbit shooting with a party of guests, was instantly killed by a shotgun charge. That day he had attained his majority, but the night before he had been discovered in a compromising situation with the wife of the man who had been his mentor. The inquest ruled 'accidental death' but Inspector Hinton was soon to discover that it was murder that was the motive ...

Hubbard made his money in blackmail, most detestable blackmail at that. A wealthy, lisping butterfly collector, there were no special regrets when he was found dead at his desk in his own home. Yet Colonel Sanderstead felt it his duty to probe the affair, since his nephew's best friends had very good reason to wish Hubbard dead. His investigation, as it turns out, would never have solved the case, but it leads to an amazing confession ...

Philip Castleford was more than worried. Were all those years he had spent attending to Winifred's whims, enduring her habits, to count for nothing? He hadn't minded it too much for he thought that his daughter Hilary would have security - but now he found her shabbily treated and his own position undermined by his wife's grasping brothers. Such were the affairs at Carron Hill one fine morning when Winifred was discovered murdered in the deserted summer house ...