At the country house of the Considine family, a young man called Geoffrey Prescott is brutally murdered in the middle of the night. His body is found in the billiard-room, sprawled across the billiard table. A dagger, an artefact from a collection belonging to the party's host, Sir Charles Considine, has been driven into his neck; but it is determined that he was dead before this was done, strangled with his own shoe-lace. When it is discovered that Lady Considine's famous pearls have been stolen, it is assumed that Prescott stumbled into the burglary and was killed by the thief; although the circumstances of his death hardly support that theory. It is what everyone wants to believe, however---because otherwise the killer must be sought amongst the Considines' house-guests... This 1927 mystery is the first of an astonishing 54 novels by Brian Flynn to feature amateur detective, Anthony Bathurst. That being the case, I can only hope that the later ones are toned down a bit, since - as was not uncommon at the time - Bathurst is a walking bundle of annoying, post-Peter-Wimsey affectations. (Though to be fair, when he speaks for himself in the final chapter, tying up loose ends, Bathurst is less annoying than when being narrated by his friend and fellow-guest, Bill Cunningham, who becomes his "Watson"). There are other dubious choices here, too: Bathurst's qualifications for the job consist of nothing more than his own calm assumption of mental superiority, a total-recall memory, and the feeling that he might be good at this sort of thing; nevertheless, we subsequently find an experienced police inspector allowing this officious amateur to butt into his investigation, not only on first acquaintance, but at a point when, realistically, Bathurst should be considered a potential suspect. All that said, The Billiard-Room Mystery does offer a pretty good story, with some interesting plotting and clues: this is one of those mysteries where two different crimes get tangled up, and the investigation must determine how far they are connected. On the other hand---you may imagine my indignant astonishment when it slowly dawned upon me that Brian Flynn had lifted the dénouement of his plot wholesale from another, and ultimately much more famous, mystery published not long before: I'm guessing that Flynn badly underestimated that book's eventual popularity and staying-power. While the final stages of the story were unfolding, it actually occurred to me to wonder whether Flynn was playing that particular game---but I concluded that he wouldn't have had the nerve. More fool me...

"When we were called to this room at seven o'clock that morning by Marshall, the three balls were in the pocket then. I can recall them distinctly---Prescott's body was lying across the bottom of the table. He was partly on his right shoulder, and his right arm was hanging over the side---very near the pocket where I've found the I.O.U. I can remember looking at the limp arm there---and then looking into the pocket and seeing the balls. I can---" He stopped suddenly. "But there's something wrong somewhere, there's a difference---there's a---" he thrust his hands into his pockets and paced the room. When he turned in my direction again I could see that his eyes were closed. He was thinking hard. "It will come to me," he muttered. "There was the arm---there were the three balls---there was the dagger---"