August is the month when everyone decides to take a holiday – after all nothing ever happens except for a constant state of sweat and damp armpits (I am not speaking from personal experience AT ALL). In Death at the Seaside, PI Kate Shakleton feels the same and she decides to take a well-earned break and visit her childhood friend Alma in Whitby. Whitby has bittersweet memories for Kate and when she passes the jewellers where her long-ago fiancé bought her ring from, she doesn’t think anything will come of the visit other than seeing Mr Philips, the proprietor and the man who served her all those years ago. Instead she finds him murdered on the floor.

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What is better: to pretend to feel guilt for something you did as a way of coming to terms with what you did or to cheerfully admit that you are a murderer and feel no guilt at all? This was what the BBC’s adaptation of Agatha Christie’s And Then there Were None eventually boiled down to. Over three nights, as people were being murdered it became less of a whodunit and more of an examination of guilt and the various ways people handle their guilt.

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