"You don’t believe me, do you?" asked Henry. "That I might have killed somebody." Well, really. The genuine murderer--the real pro--tends to keep track of that sort of thing. And he wasn’t dressed for murder. The tweed jacket, the checked waistcoat, and above all the yellow bow tie…they would have enabled Henry to audition as an extra in a 50s costume drama--a dodgy bookmaker, say, or a ne’er-do-well younger brother destined for exile to one of the more obscure colonies. They were not clothes that you would risk wearing for a murder. Which is fine, since there isn’t actually a body. And yet there are an awful lot of red herrings, just begging to be pawed through by the hapless Ethelred and Elsie, his chocolate-chomping agent.