What a buncha’ buffons. Distractions. All around. There was so much intrusion. So much that the normally unflappable Inspector contemplated for a moment whether he should just pull out his service revolver and at the very least, threaten to fire it. The chaos was coming from so many sources that he could barely hold a thought with the intention of developing it, before it evaporated. Scanning past a multitude of bodies, the movement of waiters carrying things and loads of screaming being performed by various guests, his eyes eventually arrived at Mrs. Pall, who was on the main table smack in the centre of the reception area, holding a silver fork, one of many carefully selected items for the wedding, against the throat of a youngish, spiky haired fellow who was pinned to the table, his face and shiny vest covered in dollops of the pink and white wedding reception cake.