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“I think you’re tempting fate when you say that you will never go back to Danesborough.”
Chloe laughed, suddenly, frankly.
“It’s a fate I don’t mind tempting,” she said.
Why can no-one stay at the Dower House?
Ten years! He had been dead ten years!
“I hate him worse than I hate snails, and worms, and slugs, and spiders with hairs down their legs…”
“They are letting me say good-bye. I’m to be shot to-morrow. It will be over by the time you get this…”
“I don’t know…no one knows…nobody knows but me…and they’re the finest emeralds in the world…the Van Berg emeralds…and nobody knows where they are but me…”
She was looking at the place where the mirror had hung. It didn’t reflect anything because the glass was gone. Instead there was a blackness, a dark hole full of shadows. There was a shuffling and a sighing, and a deep and dreadful groan. Then something moved.
“Anybody could have told you what Ross was like.”
“They did tell me,” said Mavis tearfully. “That’s why I did it.”
“I wouldn’t like to make you really angry, darling. You know, the only time I did you nearly scared me dead. I believe if you were really roused you might do something rather frightful.”
The parcel was addressed in sprawling capitals to “Antony Rossiter, Esq. By hand.” There was no more address than that.
‘Like any good cocktail, this book brings together tasty ingredients in a delicious mix.’ Boston Herald
“You mustn’t go to Meade House. I’ve heard…”
“How would you like to die for your country?” asked Benbow Smith languidly.
“Beware – walk with care,
Or mumbo jumbo will hoodoo you.”
“You talk of him as if he were alive.”
“He is alive,” said Benbow Smith.
“And you think he would do murder?”
“I am quite sure that he would do murder, Captain Loddon.”
“Do you want to make 500 pounds? If you do and are willing to earn it, write to...”
“I went down to the pool, and he was lying half in and half out of it with his head bleeding and the tide coming in. The water was up to his shoulders.”
Ice is still. Death is still. But no living flesh should be as still as this…
“Sylvia had on the wrong stockings for her dress, and her lipstick was all crooked, so I think things are pretty grim.”
“You told me a lot of things,” said James grimly. “Most of them weren’t true.”
“How would you like to be a rocket? A stranger for a week, an heiress for a week, then down with the stick and a stranger again.”
The D.D.I. recognized him and smiled. “That was a great case you brought us. You’ll be interested to hear that it is a case of mur-r-der!”
In the hall he found the body of his maidservant, Helen Dunn, aged about fifty, lying on the floor near the telephone. She had bled profusely from a wound in the head and her body was cold.
“The late Miss Clynes, sir? How dreadful. It must have been very sudden.”
He flung open a drawer and took from it a heavy dagger in a sheath with blood-stains upon it. On the blade were engraved the words, “Blut und Ehre!”
“I’m writing to you about the death of Mr. Dearborn. You bet the murderer’s laughing up his sleeve now that he’s got away with it.”
“There’s one thing which I daresay you noticed—that pair of slippers half kicked under the bath were of men’s size.”
“Yes, I noticed that, too, and they were sprinkled with blood.”
“What are you looking for, sir?” he said.
None of the other guests could explain what she was doing in Crooked Lane during the night…
“I never used any other drug but the clear cocaine and I believe that I am the only living person in the world to-day who ever took two hundred grains in twenty-four hours and survived.”
‘I love Walton’s work for its deftness in combining high culture with demotic allusions. Michael Douglas, the Simpsons and Dolly Parton jostle Schopenhauer, Sophocles and Adorno in his pages.’ Felipe Fernandez-Armesto, The Times