19 November 2025
Wednesday. Eleven ladies arrived at the hotel tonight in matching sashes. One of them was getting married on Saturday. All of them wished to be accused of murder together, as a treat.
Six is the most the hotel will take in one party. Madame the lift will hold no more, and the suite will stand no more, and frankly neither will I. So the party divided: six of them for the hotel, and the other five for another room down the corridor, both at the same hour, so that they could meet afterwards and compare their evenings. They did. Loudly.
The bride-to-be, Tamsin, asked me whether being framed for murder was a bad omen for a wedding. I said I had been to a great many weddings and it was by no means the worst thing that had happened at one.
Birthdays, weddings, Christmas parties, the end of the financial year: the hotel takes them all, six at a time. For anything larger, the management has people who arrange such things. I merely arrest them.
— Insp. A. Brochard, Gendarmerie
