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It's 1936, and Foxdene Park is hosting the kind of weekend the county discusses all winter: a shooting party, a formal dinner, an announcement expected over the port. Then the gong goes unanswered, the study door stays locked, and somebody at Foxdene has played a very old game in deadly earnest. The head of the house, the moneyed American, the butler who sees everything: each of them has a timetable, and each timetable has one gap. Dinner is served. The truth will keep until the cheese course, but not a moment longer.
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Welcome to Foxdene Park, 1936. The house is the last thing the family owns outright, and this weekend is meant to fix that: the American money has been invited down, and an announcement is expected over the Saturday port. The weekend runs to an iron rhythm: guns at nine, tea at four, the dressing gong at seven, dinner at eight. Learn the register: one "dresses" for dinner (it needs no object), "the season" is London's and "the twelfth" is grouse, "quarter-day" is when the mortgage falls due, and the green baize door is the line between the family's world and the servants' hall, which knows everything first. Etiquette: precedence into dinner is not negotiable, guns are never carried loaded through the house, and what one hears through the green baize door one did not hear. The mood is orderly, autumnal, and quietly lethal: teacups and timetables, and one guest playing to win.
Count your guests only — not yourself, anywhere from 6 to 32. Want to play too? There's an option below once you pick a number.