KENT · SATURDAY EVENING · OCTOBER 1954
Dr. Henry Latimer arrived at Larkspur Cottage a little after seven on Saturday evening, and by twenty minutes to eight his cousin Rupert was dead at the foot of the cellar stairs.
It had not been difficult. Rupert Vane was a large, careless man, already two whiskies deep when Henry arrived, and quite happy to lead the way down for another bottle — still talking, as he always talked, about the five hundred pounds Henry was going to pay him. About what the Medical Council would say if they learned how the late Mrs. Ashby had really come by her prescriptions.
One firm push at the top of the steep wooden stairs settled the matter.
Henry worked quickly and without emotion, as he did in surgery. He arranged the body, splashed whisky across Rupert's shirt front, set the empty bottle rolling on the flagstones — and drove back to London through the dark, rehearsing his masterstroke. At five to ten, in front of his housekeeper, he lifted the telephone…