It is an ordinary summer's day in old London town. The sunlight is shining on the smog and glistens on the scum of the Thames. Flies dance like pixies in the effluent in the streets and decorate the corpses in the slums like raisins on a spotted dick. The shuttle of industrial looms in the factories is punctuated by the screams and squelching of the child-workers too slow to remove a hand or a leg, and the hue and cry of hawkers in the marketplaces is counter-timed by the cry of stop, thief! Meanwhile, luncheon is served in the lavish gentlemen's club, The Pink Whistle. Once a stately home in the prestigious Vine Street, it is now home to numerous bellicose bachelors and widowers, as well as those married men from public schools and the military who never felt at ease around women anyway. It is also the headquarters of a select group of gentlemen, chosen to solve particularly irksome puzzles and counter the most dastardly threats to the empire. Today's order of business: the theft of a tiara worth over two thousand pounds, and the incidental murder of a manservant in the same house.