It is funny to think, though, that only a few days ago I was determined not to be a detective this holiday at all.Yet again another fabulous novel about Daisy Wells and Hazel Wong and their Detective Society. I am quite all right with being afraid for a while, if it means that we catch a murderer. I am older than I was in April-and much older than I was last November-and I can decide for myself whether or not I want to be in danger. I know they are simply trying to keep us safe, but I wish they wouldn’t. Daisy says, Daisy-ishly, that they are simply jealous of our superior intellect. This is supposed to be for our own good-like eating vegetables and going for walks in January-but that, of course, is nonsense. Infuriating obstacles have been put in our way by grown-ups who want to ensure that the Detective Society is not able to detect at all. Curtis, it may well be the most difficult to solve. You see, although this murder does not seem as though it will be as upsetting for us as the cases of poor Miss Bell or awful Mr. And we will succeed, whatever my father tries to do to stop us. So although we are sorry that one of them is dead (at least I am, and I hope Daisy is too), more importantly we are detectives on the case, with a puzzle to solve and a murderer to bring to justice. With one exception, everyone who might possibly have been involved in this crime was a perfect stranger to Daisy and me two days ago. Naturally, murder is always rather dreadful, but all the same, after our last murder case (at Daisy’s house, Fallingford, in the Easter holidays), when every suspect was someone we knew, this seems rather separate to us, and that is a relief. This murder would always have happened, whether Daisy and I had been here to detect it or not, so how can we be blamed for investigating it? If we did not, what sort of Detective Society would we be? And as for Daisy and me being detectives-why, it is just who we are. First, holidaying on a train was his idea-and inviting Daisy too.

Of course, this is not true in the least. From the way my father is carrying on, anyone would think that the murder which has just taken place was our fault-or rather, that it was Daisy’s.

First Class Murder by Robin Stevens