The Saint Valentine's Day Murders by Ruth Dudley Edwards

Manager arrived and instituted thorough search. Still no fire. Nor anyone admitting to having sounded the alarm.
    6:30 All head back towards bedrooms. Beat the rush to a bathroom. Have cause to regret this as loo-brush holder full of water falls on head as enter. Shout of pain and rage echoed by others around block: Tiny, Melissa and Charlie have suffered similarly, though Charlie has quicker reflexes and has escaped most of the deluge. All non-sufferers have fits of giggles except Horace, who is distressed.
    6:45-7:45 Get dry and doze a little. Dress and leave room. Notice large tea-urn on table near exit. Remember this is supposed to arrive at 7:30 each morning so conclude it’s probably too stewed for me and go for walk.
    8:15-8:55 Breakfast. Outbreak of sneezing. Turns out someone has laced the sugar on all the tables with sneezing powder. After a few chortles, everyone decides it’s not funny.
    8:59 Enter seminar room. Only self, Charlie and two PD1 chaps present. Horace arrives ten minutes late complaining of stomach upset. Turns out that’s a euphemism for diarrhoea. Others roll in by degrees announcing same problem. Next hour spent in post-mortem on breakfast food interspersed with sufferers running in and out to bogs. Process of elimination demonstrates that the morning tea must have been responsible. None of four unaffected had sampled contents.
    At my suggestion, seminar disbanded until 11:30 and Horace and self go to discuss with manager question of tea-urn. Manager says someone in block must have added laxatives. Sounds reasonable. Manager getting pissed off.
    11:30 Reassemble, though four still absent. Horace shaky but determined to carry on. Distributes questionnaires about aspects of PD work that could be improved. All commence writing and Horace cleans blackboard preparatory to leading brainstorming, chalk in hand. Suddenly begins to scratch hands and arms furiously. You’ve guessed? Yes. Itching powder on blackboard duster. Horace goes out to wash hands and returns upset. Blackboard now unusable until major cleaning job is done. I suggest analysis of questionnaire be undertaken by him and self in bedroom and other ranks excused until after lunch. Point out that absentees will probably be well enough to participate then. Horace unhappy at waste of valuable time but gives in.
    12:15-1:00 Read dreary answers to questions. Try consoling Horace for negative nature of same by saying people still not 100% and will probably amplify answers and be more positive after lunch. Interrupted by loud knocks on door. Distraught manager. Doors to recreation rooms have been glued up and TV indoor aerials are all missing. Maniac at large. Obviously from PD. No trouble during last two weeks with technicians. Won’t take any further responsibility for us. We can all get the hell out as soon as we’ve eaten.
    Horace in despair. Begs. Pleads. No avail. Tries pulling rank. Manager contemptuous. I eventually suggest Horace ring Shipton on sick-bed and ask for ruling on whether to fight or quit. He rushes off and comes back with the news that Shipton says quit. I always thought he was intelligent under all that fat.
    1:00-2:00 Unhappy lunch. Several still toying with clear soup only. People glancing covertly at each other. Horace makes stumbling speech. I really feel for the poor bastard. He put so much work in. I had expected a farce but not a fiasco.
    2:15 Enter car-park to find Tony and Tiny uttering little cries and wringing their hands over their cars. Turns out someone has let the air out of most of the tyres, motor bikes not exempt. Hardly anyone taking it philosophically. If it takes fifteen men – Melissa included – with three footpumps two hours to inflate forty-seven tyres, how long did it take one nutter to let them down?
    Nightmare journey home with Horace. Steering wheel quivering under his hands.
    And that, my sweet, is the full story. One of our little band has flipped. Horace spoke wildly about plots against