It was All Soul's Day, the Day of the Dead ...
In a luxurious hotel, six people sat down to dinner at the table in the alcove, a table laid for seven.
In front of the empty place was a sprig of rosemary - in memory of Rosemary Barton who had suddenly sprawled dead across that same table exactly a year before.
George Barton raised his glass of champagne. 'I don't want to recall past sadness, but I ask you to drink a toast. To Rosemary, my wife, for remembrance.' They drank. There was a pause - then one of the party slumped down in his chair, his face turning purple as he fought for breath.
It took him a minute and a half to die.