26 March 2025
Wednesday. A party of six turned up this evening with name cards, a seating plan and, I am almost certain, a soup. They thought they had come to a murder-mystery dinner.
I had to explain. Nobody here is handed a script or a character to play. Nobody reads a clue aloud between courses. They are put in the hotel, alone, with the clock running, and they search the suite with their own hands, open what is locked, puzzle out what is written and argue about it like real detectives, which is to say loudly and in corners.
Is it an escape room, then, they asked. In its manners, yes: a private hour, a locked set, puzzles and a gamesmaster with hints. But the doors are not the point. The point is the name. They must tell me who did it, and be right, before the hour is out. Opening the last lock and shrugging does not impress the gendarmerie.
They left the soup with me. It was a very good soup. I have entered it in the casebook as evidence of nothing.
— Insp. A. Brochard, Gendarmerie
