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

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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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Description

“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.”

Frank Carlyn quarrelled with his gamekeeper Jack Winter, and then appeared agitated. Soon after, Winter was found shot dead with his own gun. Suspicion was primarily aimed at the late man’s wife, seen rushing to catch a London train, and then vanishing.

One year later, the enigmatic governess Elizabeth Martin arrives to take up her duties at Davenant Priory. Her appearance means nothing to the almost-blind Sir Oswald, though others in the household note her dyed dark hair and the smoked glasses she habitually wears. But what is Miss Martin’s secret and how is it connected to the sinister slaying committed twelve months earlier?

The Master of the Priory (1927) is a classic of early golden age crime fiction. This new edition, the first in over eighty years, features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.

Praise

“The story is written so brightly that it almost reads itself.”EVE

Bibliographic Data

Category: Crime Fiction
Publication Date: March 2016
Territories: World
ISBN: 978 1 911095 30 9 (ebook) / 978 1 911095 29 3 (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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“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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“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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