Each prompt opens a case at the moment it stops making sense: a ransom note in a hymn book, a canal boat with the kettle still warm, a parrot that keeps repeating a phone number. You get the detective, the suspect and the deadline.
You play a puzzle champion with no detective training at all. A tearoom on the high street serves the best scones in the county and keeps a ledger of everyone's debts. A stage-door keeper who has seen forty years of first nights — whom you keep running into at the scene of things — asks you to find a missing cat, then pays you ten times too much for it. What you don't yet know: the cat's collar hides the combination to a safe nobody else knows is there. By the time the last post goes, two other people come looking for the cat, though neither of them likes cats, and you have to decide how far you'll go. Keep the mood slow-burning and suspicious.
Tap any underlined part to roll it again; lock parts in the list below to keep them.
Mystery prompts work when there's a fair puzzle under the strangeness. The hidden information is the solution, or the first real piece of it: the accident was rehearsed three times before it worked; the number rings a phone box that someone answers every night at nine. Whoever plays the other character should know it from the start and leave clues towards it.
The crimes stay off the page. Most cases are thefts, disappearances, forged labels and odd behaviour, which keeps the focus on questions, alibis and the person who flinched at the wrong moment.
The pack runs from the cosy end to the noir end, and the tone tells you where you are. “Small-town and gossipy” suits the village fete and the allotment shed that burned down the night before judging. “Noir, clipped and rainy” suits a private detective two months behind on the rent and a club owner who pays in cash and favours.
Snowed-in country houses, sleeper trains and grand hotels shutting for winter give you a closed circle of suspects, which is ideal for a group: everyone is stuck, and everyone has a reason to lie.
Play it in rounds. The detective asks one question per suspect, the suspects answer in character, and after each round anyone may reroll a single part they think gives the game away too early. Locking the clock (before the inquest opens on Monday, before the papers go to print) keeps the questioning from drifting.
Writing alone, try rolling the secret first and then working the story backwards, planting each clue before you reach the scene where it matters.
You play a vicar with a gift for noticing things. Half the village has the same cold, and the other half has the same alibi. A grieving widow with a rehearsed alibi — whom you have never quite trusted — hires you to prove a death was an accident, then flinches when you agree. What you don't yet know: the accident was rehearsed three times before it worked. Before the inquest opens on Monday, whoever rehearsed it leaves on the first train out and takes the proof with them, and you have to decide how far you'll go.
You are an amateur sleuth with a podcast and six listeners. Snow has stopped the sleeper train north of Perth, and the guard swears there's one more passenger than tickets. A Scrabble champion who has never lost at home needs you to look after a parrot that keeps repeating a phone number, and they're someone you met on a train ten years ago. The catch: the number rings a phone box on the edge of town that someone answers every night at nine. By first light, whoever answers at nine comes asking for the parrot by name — so choose now.
You play a private detective two months behind on the rent. The police station clock in this wet grey city has run ten minutes slow since the new inspector arrived. A club owner who pays in cash and favours, someone you owe a great deal of money to, telephones at midnight to ask whether you've told anyone about Thursday. But nothing happened on Thursday that you know of, so someone has been using your name. Before the papers go to print, whoever is using your name has an appointment and means to keep it. What do you do?
You play a librarian who notices what people borrow. A small-town library has had a book returned forty years late, with a train ticket and a pressed violet inside. A sweet old neighbour with an alarming memory, someone you send a card to every Christmas, brings you a library book with every seventh word underlined in pencil. But the underlined words make directions to somewhere you know well. By the time the tea goes cold, someone else is following the same directions in a second copy of the book. What do you do?
You play a police sketch artist who draws what witnesses miss. A jazz club below a Soho dry cleaner's keeps a table reserved for a singer who stopped turning up in March. A stage-door keeper who has seen forty years of first nights — whom you were warned about by your old mentor — offers a full confession in exchange for one hour alone in the evidence room. What you don't yet know: the confession is false, and the hour is to swap one exhibit for a careful copy. Before the inquest opens on Monday, the real exhibit leaves the building in someone's coat pocket, and you have to decide how far you'll go. Keep the mood cosy and wry.
You play a locksmith who opened the wrong door. Snow has stranded a coach of wedding guests at a motorway services, and the groom stepped out an hour ago. A twin who claims to be the other one — whom you arrested years ago — turns up at your door with a diary that ends in the middle of a sentence. What you don't yet know: the last page was torn out by the person who wrote it, to keep you out of it. Before the inspector's train gets in, the missing page is about to be sold to the papers, and you have to decide how far you'll go. Keep the mood melancholy and smoky.
You play a theatre prompter who knows every line by heart. A museum's new Egyptian gallery opens on Monday, and one label has been rewritten in somebody's neat handwriting. A first-year student who found the empty room, someone you were best friends with until last summer, asks you to prove that a respected judge cheats at the pub quiz. But the judge is being fed answers by someone who wants a far bigger favour in return. Before the guests sit down to dinner, the judge delivers the favour, a verdict in a real trial. What do you do? Keep the mood noir, clipped and rainy.
You are a retired inspector pulled back for one favour. A ferry takes the post to the island every Tuesday, and this week the mailbag arrived already opened. A witness who confesses to everything asks you to work out which of six dinner guests moved the salt cellar, and they're someone you were warned about by your old mentor. The catch: the salt cellar was a signal, and the person it was meant for has already left. Before the church clock strikes midnight, the signal is answered, so whatever was planned goes ahead — so choose now. Keep the mood cosy and wry.
You play a black-cab driver who remembers every fare. Rain hasn't let up for a week in the docklands, and the only lit window belongs to a pawnbroker who never sleeps. A cellist who walked out of the orchestra mid-tour — whom you swore you'd never work with again — insists a painting has been swapped, though nobody else can see a difference. What you don't yet know: they're right, and they swapped it themselves years ago to cover a debt. By the time they realise you know, the insurers send an investigator who will find the swap and something worse besides, and you have to decide how far you'll go. Keep the mood nosy and quietly funny.
You are a theatre prompter who knows every line by heart. A tearoom on the high street serves the best scones in the county and keeps a ledger of everyone's debts. A grieving widow with a rehearsed alibi wants to find whoever has been leaving them envelopes of money, and they're someone you lost a bet to. The catch: the money comes from the account of someone who vanished in 1999. Before the guests sit down to dinner, the bank freezes the account, so the next envelope will be delivered in person — so choose now. Keep the mood cold, careful and patient.
You play a dog walker with keys to half the street. A night bus runs its last route across the city, and the driver keeps stopping where there are no stops. The understudy who has finally got the lead, someone you met on a train ten years ago, offers a full confession in exchange for one hour alone in the evidence room. But the confession is false, and the hour is to swap one exhibit for a careful copy. Before the papers go to print, the real exhibit leaves the building in someone's coat pocket. What do you do? Keep the mood melancholy and smoky.
You play a black-cab driver who remembers every fare. A canal boat drifts into the lock at dawn with the kettle still warm and nobody aboard. A jeweller who mends watches for the whole street — whom you swore you'd never work with again — asks you to mind their house for a week and gives you every key but one. What you don't yet know: the missing key opens the room where they keep everything they've taken from other people's houses. Before the inspector's train gets in, a neighbour calls the police about a light in the locked room, and you have to decide how far you'll go. Keep the mood witty and a little wicked.
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