Agatha Christie, Margery Allingham, Ngaio Marsh, Dorothy L. Sayers, Patricia Wentworth
Christopher Bush was born Charlie Christmas Bush in Norfolk in 1885. His father was a farm labourer and his mother a milliner. In the early years of his childhood he lived with his aunt and uncle in London before returning to Norfolk aged seven, later winning a scholarship to Thetford Grammar School.
As an adult, Bush worked as a schoolmaster for 27 years, pausing only to fight in World War One, until retiring aged 46 in 1931 to be a full-time novelist. His first novel featuring the eccentric Ludovic Travers was published in 1926, and was followed by 62 additional Travers mysteries. These are all to be republished by Dean Street Press.
Christopher Bush fought again in World War Two, and was elected a member of the prestigious Detection Club. He died in 1973.
“Have you heard the news, sir?” the waiter said.
“I’m afraid I haven’t. What is it?”
“Plumley’s dead, sir. Henry Plumley. We just got the news over the ’phone. Suicide they say it was. Anything else you want, sir?”
I am going to commit a murder. I offer no apology for the curtness of the statement.
“And that’s not all. Somers is dead too … He poisoned himself … in the lounge!”
Somebody at that very moment might be watching from behind the hedge! Melodramatic perhaps—but the fact remained that one murder had been committed and a second seemed more than likely.
However thorough your search was, I’m convinced the murderer, or the burglar—call him what you will—is still in the house.
“If you don’t think I’m taking a liberty in saying so, my opinion is that he was knocked down first and hanged after!”
Travers looked down at the face. On the collar was a red patch and a long streak. Across the throat was a gash.
“It was some sort of sudden death?”
Travers made a face. “It certainly was sudden. I’ll say it’s ten to one it was murder.”
“Let us know when you’re dead!”
Old Hunt slithered in the most amazing way and then fell to the floor. He lay between the seats, face upwards.
“Send someone here quick. There’s been a murder!”
Travers turned to Wharton. “I ask you, George, as a man of the world—do schoolmasters and mistresses have souls full of glamour and passion and intrigue? Are they torn by the same emotions that rend people like us?”
“Murder is easy. It’s child’s play to commit murder and get away with it.”
Murder on Mondays! Greatest prophecy of the century! T.P. Luffham was murdered!
“It’s terrible. It’s a body . . . the head cut off . . . and the hands.”
Travers looked down at the thing that sprawled. The head gave a last movement, and there was a faint sound like a tired moan. The time was eight minutes to eight.
“You needn’t look impatient, sir. He’ll be finished with you long before dinner.ˮ
‘I judge him to have been dead just about twenty-four hours. Suicide, almost certainly.’
Palmer saw him out, and gave that little deprecatory cough.
“If you’ll pardon me, sir, is it another murder?”
“Looks like it,” Travers told him from the door.
“George Wharton said he hoped I’d have a nice murder for you.”