Robert Amiss is persuaded by his friend Detective Sergeant Pooley of the CID to take a job as a waiter in ffeatherstonehaughs (pronounced Fanshaws), a gentlemen's club in St James. The club secretary has allegedly jumped to his death from the gallery of this imposing building. Against most of the evidence, Pooley believes he was murdered.
Amiss finds himself in a bizarre caricature of a club, run by and for debauched geriatrics, with skeletons rattling in every cupboard. Why are there so few members? How are they financed? Will Amiss keep his job despite the enmity of the ferocious, snuff-covered Colonel Fagg?

The British fondness for tradition is no secret, but some members of London's ffeatherstonehaugh's club (pronounced Fanshaw, naturally) seem to be taking things a bit too far, bumping off officers of the club who threaten their ordered, if highly eccentric, way of life. After the club secretary allegedly jumps to his death from the club's gallery, Robert Amiss, conveniently unemployed at the moment, agrees to help his friends at the Police Department get to the bottom of things. Hiring on as a club waiter, Amiss finds himself caught up in a bizarre caricature of a club, run by and for debauched geriatrics, with skeletons rattling in every closet. The portraits are of roues, the library houses erotic literature, and the servants are treated like Victorian lackeys - on a good day. Why are there so few members? How are they financed? Will Amiss keep his job - and his cover - despite the enmity of the ferocious, snuff-covered Colonel Flagg? The answers lie in this ingenious, uproarious mystery that will keep you guessing - and laughing - until the very end.