Christmas in Victorian London. Snow, gas lamps, snow ball throwing ragamuffins in woollen scarves wrapped as tight as tight can be, purveyors of hot roasted chestnuts and more carol singers than you can pack into St Pauls just roaming the streets trilling about the joys of the season. Only the most miserly would hate this time of year. It is, as they say, the season to be jolly, fa la la la la, la la, la la. The problem is… despite the festivities and the warmth of Christmas cheer abounding in the streets it seems someone had murder on their mind. Barley was dead to begin with…. There’s no doubt whatsoever about that. The question is – who killed him?