----Death toll- 3. The Vicar's wife, Frost, Hyacinth Bucket
---2 persons engaged in passionate lovemaking
---2 persons locked in a closet
The drawing room was dark, lit only by a large gothic fireplace and candles arranged on occasional tables throught the room.
The group assembled once again and settled themselves on the large comfortable chairs and sofas. Daisy wedged herself next to Onslow on the sofa. "Onslow," Daisy whispered into his ear, "d'you think maybe WE could engage in some, passionate lovemaking?" Onslow grimaced and replyed, "not now Daze I've got headache." Nonetheless he reached around the back of the sofa and grabbed a most fortunately placed can of lager. He popped the top and a spray of lager foam hit Poirot directly in the face, soaking his mustache into a droopy mess. The amazingly ferocious little Belgian attacked Onslow, swearing at him in Flemish.
The others in the room politely looked away while the little Belgian throttled Onslow.
Elizabeth twiddled her thumbs nervously until she came up with a conversation starter. "Isn't that Flemish he's speaking?" She elbowed Emmit for a reply.
"Oh yes!, yes I say how interesting," replied Emmit. The conversation once again had an awkward pause. Richard bravely saved the conversation, saying "Wasn't the vicar's wife Welsh?"
Elizabeth beamed, grateful of the distraction from the increasingly violent fistfight in the corner of the room. "Yes! She was, she spoke it as well you know."
"Oh did she?", replied Richard. "How terribly interesting."
Finally the fight subsided and Poirot emerged victorious. And, to the others surprise, he had emerged with a perfectly restored moustache. Daisy however was not impressed with Poirot's lightning fast facial hair repair, seeing as how Onslow was now dead, and anyway she had a feeling that the furry appendage was fake. She though of attacking the snooty little detective herself, for killing her night in shirtless armor, but she had a far more cunning plan. "Mrs. Fletcher," she called. "Could you come over here for a moment?"
"Of course," replied Mrs. Fletcher, "You probably want to know who killed your husband, I think I've figured it out you know."
"Oh for heaven's sake," sighed Emmit, "We ALL know who killed him, just do as Daisy asks!" So Mrs. Fletcher approached Daisy and Poirot. She hadn't yet come within two feet of Poirot when he keeled over onto the floor.
"Okay STOP!" yelled Daisy, who herself was edging herself over to the other side of the room, staying as far away from Mrs. Fletcher as possible.
She settled herself behind Violet, who whispered to Daisy out of the corner of her mouth, "You know this Yank Fletcher is far too dangerous to have around, and I think I know how to take care of her."
Violet rummaged around in her handbag and quickly drew out a small makeup mirror. She held it up and aimed it at Mrs. Fletcher, who, upon seeing her reflection, dropped dead on the spot.
The remaining people, Richard, Daisy, Violet, Emmit and Liz cheered and decided to adjourn to their rooms for the night. They were about to ascend the front stairs together when Violet said "Are you all getting the feeling that now would be a good point in the story for us to split up?"
"Ah yes," exclaimed Emmit, "We'll go this way, you go that way, eh wot? The good old British mystery plot device."
So, Emmit and Richard decided to go find the back stairs and head up that way, while Violet, Liz, and Daisy headed up the front stairs.
---Death toll 6. The Vicar's wife, Frost, Hyacinth Bucket, Onslow, Mrs. Fletcher, and Poirot.
---2 persons engaged in passionate lovemaking
---2 persons locked in a closet
