I bid you welcome to the most unsettling afternoon tea party in an English rose garden of which, I hazard, you will ever partake.
An afternoon tea, in an English rose garden, unsettling? Why in the name of heaven how?
Why? Well there’s a killer at the table of course. Helping themselves to custard creams and sweet Ceylon no doubt.
You see ever since Great Aunt Agatha fell off the end of the twig as it were and of decidedly unnatural causes – unless you regard strychnine as a ‘natural tonic’ that is – suspicion has simply swirled around the village.