On Saturday night, at quarter to ten, Alan Duncan murdered Howard Fletcher. The murder was impeccable. Howard Fletcher had been seated in his leather armchair by the fire, smoking a cigar and reading The Times. He had been listening to the fireworks outside and giving thought to pouring another glass of sherry, when a well-dressed stranger in a dark suit and tangerine tie appeared in his drawing room holding a gun. “Who in the blue blazes are you?” Fletcher had demanded. “Alan Duncan.” A bullet went through the startled man’s forehead. Alan thoughtfully picked up Howard’s dropped cigar and extinguished