On the morning of Sunday the 10th of August, 1969, Victor Ford Lloyd yawned, he staggered down Eaton Place, still feeling

a little bit tipsy as he chuckled to himself at the night he just had.

Looking rough after a long hot night, at about 9 a.m., Sir William's butler returned to 69 Eden Place.

...wereagh. Hello?

I'm at Sir William Akroyd residence.

There's a body upstairs.

I think it's Sir William's Butler. But as he stood, staring at the corpse of Frank Hocking, his best friend, his lover, and the man he owed his life to, Victor

knew that everything which was good about his life had been stolen from him in an instant.

Victor was nothing without Frank, and he knew it.

It didn't take long for Detective Chief Superintendent Ivor Reynolds to assess and dismiss

the myriad of possible motives for Frank's brutal murder.

This wasn't a robbery as nothing was stolen.

This wasn't a burglary as the outdoors and windows were intact.

This wasn't mistaken identity, as over the bed hung Sir William's portrait.

And this wasn't a homophobic attack, as Frank hadn't been threatened.

Judging by the trail of detritus that Frank had left in his last moments alive, he had

undressed in a small bedroom, placing his clothes on an armchair and a pile of underwear on the

floor. But having already been assaulted, with his shirt cuff stained stained with blood. Someone had let him change

into his night attire of blue pyjamas and white socks, only then to kill him.

Prior to his death, a bitter argument had taken place. As the bedroom door was forced open, a white

lamp had been broken, and a clump of Frank's hair had been ripped out at its roots. At some

point, Frank had voluntarily entered Sir William's bedroom. He had got into bed and lying face up and straight.

...