Mystery crime fiction written in the Golden Age of Murder
"Better and better!" cried Verity, chuckling and rubbing his hands. "A corpse in a blood-soaked room; a locked door and a locked window; a masked man; a beautiful girl trussed inside a wardrobe; and now a pretender to the throne! This is superb!"
The little Sussex town of Amnestie had not known a death so bloody since the fifteenth century. And certainly none more baffling--to all except Mr Verity. From the moment he appears this bearded giant--ruthless inquirer, devastating wit and enthusiastic collector of the best sculpture--has matters firmly (if fantastically) under control. Things are certainly complicated, but this is hardly enough to deter Mr Verity. As he himself observes: "when the number of suspects is continually increasing, and the number of corpses remains constant, you get a sort of inflation. The value of your individual suspect becomes hopelessly depreciated. That, for the real detective, is a state of paradise."
Mystery crime fiction written in the Golden Age of Murder
"Better and better!" cried Verity, chuckling and rubbing his hands. "A corpse in a blood-soaked room; a locked door and a locked window; a masked man; a beautiful girl trussed inside a wardrobe; and now a pretender to the throne! This is superb!"
The little Sussex town of Amnestie had not known a death so bloody since the fifteenth century. And certainly none more baffling--to all except Mr Verity. From the moment he appears this bearded giant--ruthless inquirer, devastating wit and enthusiastic collector of the best sculpture--has matters firmly (if fantastically) under control. Things are certainly complicated, but this is hardly enough to deter Mr Verity. As he himself observes: "when the number of suspects is continually increasing, and the number of corpses remains constant, you get a sort of inflation. The value of your individual suspect becomes hopelessly depreciated. That, for the real detective, is a state of paradise."