Whodunit, British Library, Crime Classic, Agatha Christie, Ngaio Marsh, Dorothy L. Sayers

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“Owing to the sudden death of Miss Charmian Karslake this theatre is closed until further notice. Money for tickets already booked will be refunded.”

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Description

“Owing to the sudden death of Miss Charmian Karslake this theatre is closed until further notice. Money for tickets already booked will be refunded.”

Who killed Charmian Karslake, the famous American actress, on the night of the ball at Hepton Abbey? Who was the mysterious Peter Hailsham who had been present at the ball and had since vanished into thin air? What was his connection, if any, with the respectable County family of Penn-Moreton at whose house the murder had taken place?

How Inspector Stoddart and his assistant Harbord solve these questions, and the surprising discoveries they make in the course of their Investigations, form the basis for one of their most devilish mysteries.

Who Killed Charmian Karslake? is the third of Annie Haynes’ Inspector Stoddart Mysteries. First published in 1929, it was out of print for over 80 years until this new edition, which also features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.

Praise

“A model detective story... a good mental exercise for the distracted reader who has just received his Super-Tax Demand. (The publishers) have again produced a good book.” LONDON MERCURY

Bibliographic Data

Category: Crime Fiction
Publication Date: October 2015
Territories: World
ISBN: 978 1 910570 77 7 (ebook) / 978 1 910570 78 4 (paperback)

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“Nobody would have murdered him,” Miss Lavinia cried. “Everybody liked John!”

“I’m afraid it is evident that someone did not.”

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The body lay face downwards in a foot of water at the bottom of the ditch. Up to the present it has not been identified. But a card was found in the pocket with the name of –

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“Early this morning a gruesome discovery was made by a gardener employed at Holford Hall in Loamshire...”

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“A crime of a peculiarly mysterious nature was perpetrated some time last night in a block of flats called Abbey Court.”

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Protruding from the dead woman’s breast was the gold and jewelled dagger she had shown them half an hour before. And, looking horribly incongruous among the laces of her fichu, a deep stain was spreading.

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“I cannot understand why Mr. Bechcombe apparently offered no resistance. His hand-bell, his speaking-tube, the telephone—all were close at hand. It looks as though he had recognized his assassin and had no fear of him.”

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“He had his tea as usual; when I knocked at the door with the tray (he always had afternoon tea), I found him—like this.”

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“There’s no dirty trick he wouldn’t play—it’s my belief that he wouldn’t even stop at murder!”

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“Who knows if he didn’t make away with her here? Those things found in the Home Coppice show that she was made away with plain enough, I say.”

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Glancing at her more closely, he noticed dark stains on her white gown. Horror-struck, he bent over her for a moment, and realised that it was unmistakably a corpse.

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“As for books,” Sir Oswald said, “I don’t care for them. Unless I get hold of a good detective story. The tracing out of crime always has a curious fascination for me.”

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