By Gilbert Adair
London 1946. An actress is murdered, not only on digicam yet in complete view of a crowded movie set. purely six humans had a chance to manage the poison but no longer one among them had a feasible cause. As Evadne Mount, bestselling crime novelist, discovers, even though, all six did have a purpose for committing one other, prior, nonetheless unsolved homicide but, on that get together, no longer certainly one of them had the opportunity...
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Extra info for A Mysterious Affair of Style (Evadne Mount, Book 2)
A heron wades in the shallows. Dozens of geese dot the water. Sinking into the river upstream is the last of a fiery sun. Only downstream are there a few boxlike buildings peeking over the top of Belle Isle, intruding upon the illusion of wildness. Would you like the address of the shelter? No, I don’t think that will be necessary. I head downstream until the trail gives out, then make my way to a small island by hopping rock to rock and wading across a shallow channel, my shoes hanging from my neck and my pants rolled up to my knees.
I slip the watch into my pocket, walk across the road, and get into his automobile. The inside smells like machine oil and cigarettes. “Tim Binder,” he says. ” He holds up a battered, grimy hand. His fingers tremble slightly. “I’m Peter Kropotkin,” I say. “Nice to meet you,” he says, not looking at me, and we start moving down the road. “I was lucky you came along,” I say. “Yeah,” he says, his eyes on the road, and I wonder why someone so unsociable would stop and offer a ride. We’ve gone at least four or five blocks now, and still he hasn’t asked me where I’m going, though he seems intent on some destination ahead of us.
I wake to the sound of geese overhead calling to one another, and open my eyes. The sky is overcast; the sun lies just below the horizon at my feet. I sit up and scrub my face with the dew from my beard, stand and give my clothes a shake to wake whatever boarders I may have taken in overnight. There’s a bit of a chill in the air now, but it’s going to be another hot, humid one, I’m guessing, and this is only April. What must the summers be like here? The kindling I set aside last night is damp, but I manage to get a fire going with the cardboard from the flashlight package and the receipt from the thrift store.