Hurry up the lady says to her husband. We’re going to be late, let’s go. The lady is wearing a blood-red dress with a bright red beret. She fastens a string of pearls around her pale neck and looks at the man lying on the couch. He reads a newspaper, clearly uninterested in the night’s upcoming affairs. Seeing her glares, he hurriedly rises and the couple walks to the door.

In the next house, this one located next to the parliament building, a lady’s maid dresses the lady of the house, an upright woman with poofy white hair. With her maid’s help, she squeezes into a baby blue ballgown, taking up half the room it seems. Her husband walks in through the door and hands her a blue brooch. The woman greedily snatches it up and pins it to the lapel of her dress. They walk to the door, the woman slightly dragging the man.

The house two doors down belongs to Mrs. and Mr. White. Ms. White is a plump woman and Mr. White the opposite. They walk hand in hand to the door the footman holds open for them.

In a grand mansion next to the embassy, a young woman admires herself in the mirror. Her husband walks in a light purple suit, and his eyes rake over her plum-colored dress. You look beautiful, Madam Plum, he says with a thick french accent. The lady in the mirror curtsies and they walk hand in hand out the door.  

All at once, the 8 partygoers step out into the cold night air, not knowing the evening that lies ahead. 

Mrs. and Mr. White step out of the large motor car and walk slowly up the steps of the building. They pay their respects to the host and sit down at a wooden table just as a woman with a red beret fastened in her hair and her husband sit down. At the end of the table, a couple dressed in blue discusses the menu. They nod politely at each other. The room is filling up now, full of laughter and good humor. Just as an orchestra begins to play, a couple dressed in shades of purple is ushered into the room by an exasperated-looking butler. The couple complains loudly about the unreliability of motorcars and takes a seat at the table next to the couple dressed in blue. A few minutes later, a waiter comes over and makes his way around the table. First to Mrs. and Mr. White and then the lady with the red beret and her husband. Finally, he attends to the lady wearing the blue ballgown and her partner and then the woman with the thick accent and her husband. He places glasses of champagne in front of them, however, they go untouched as the orchestra strikes up a livelier tune and the couples begin to dance. The man in blue swings his wife around, they look like a blue tornado, their extravagant clothes twirling wildly. The woman in red laughs giddily while her husband shrinks away from the commotion. Mr and Mrs. White hang back from the festivities, instead admiring the younger dancers. The couple in plum and purple dance not to the tune the orchestra is playing, but to a tune they seem to be humming. Perhaps French? 

After the couples begin to drift back to the tables, champagne is poured and the small talk begins. 

Mr. White talks of his law business and Mrs. White nods along contentedly. Just finished a case last week he says. Very strange one too. The man on trial had been charged with first-degree murder, voted guilty of course. Can’t trust people these days he says shaking his head. 

The man in the blue suit says, Last month, I was doing work at the office, some work of national importance, you understand. He stresses the words, national importance. I was, he lowers his voice, and goes on, I was establishing a trade deal between France and England. People were bound to be hurt in the process, but, that’s business he sighs exasperatedly. I received a telephone call a week later, and a voice, thick with an accent, mind you, he says, was saying I’d pay for what I did when I signed the trade treaty. Funny, how some people can get so annoyed, he says and takes a sip of his champagne. All of a sudden, small choking sounds come from him, and he gasps for air. Mr. White slaps his back, but it’s too late, the man is dead. The 8, now 7 people, at the table are silent, as they stare at the limp body. Other guests scream, but the 7 at the table cannot hear them, they are too stunned. Minutes later, the room is empty, the butlers hurrying the guests out, save for the ones at the table. 

10 minutes later, the chief investigator arrives. He examines the body and then waves his arm and two men carry it out. Now listen up he says, though his words are futile. None of the guests speak. This man, Mr. Scarlet, has died due to a lethal dose of arsenic. Now, you’re the only ones that could’ve slipped something into his drink, so we’re going to sit here until the murderer comes forward. Mrs. White says angrily Well, I know I, nor my husband, has any blood on our hands. This whole situation is preposterous. Exactly! Cries out the man in blue. Haven’t got time for this foolishness. Mrs. Scarlet sobs quietly into her handkerchief but says clearly, I agree with the constable. My husband’s murderer will be found. She buries her face back into her handkerchief. All right, says the constable, stop this babble. Each person will have 10 minutes to explain their guilt or innocence. Does this sound fair? He glances around the table. Everyone nods, some more vehemently than others. Mr. Peacock, you start, he commands motioning to the man in baby blue.

Mr. Peacock looks taken aback and says hesitantly, Look, I don't really know what to say, except that a man was murdered, but I wasn’t his killer. Very well the constable says. Mrs. Peacock? He motions to the woman in the blue dress I, I, I agree with my husband she says at last. We are not killers. Mrs. Scarlet, the constable motions to the woman sobbing into a handkerchief. My husband was just killed, how dare you accuse me! She buries her face back in her handkerchief flushed from her recent outburst. Mr.Plum says quietly, I know my wife and I aren’t killers, Constable.  It was me! Mrs. Plum stands up and launches herself at Mr. White. Mr. White looks up astonished. Do you know what you did? There is no doubting the thick French accent she speaks with. You signed a deal disrespecting my country and my country’s people. You are a horrible man. You deserved to die. I put arsenic in that glass, but when we sat down again after dancing, we sat down in different seats. So, instead of you dying, Mr. Scarlet dies. Shocked by her outburst, but satisfied, she sits back down. Her husband looks at her in shock, mouth open, as the Constable leads her away. 

The 6 of them step out into the cold night air, each reflecting the night’s events.