At a round table in the Luxembourg nightclub, six people sit down to dinner at a table set for seven. In front of the empty place is a sprig of Rosemary – in solemn memory of Rosemary Barton who died at the same table exactly one year previously. No one present would ever forget the woman’s face, contorted beyond recognition – or what they remembered about her astonishing life. But who present has the murder of Rosemary Barton on their conscience?