Plaster Sinners (The Flaxborough novels, Book 11)

Plaster Sinners (The Flaxborough novels, Book 11)

Colin Watson

Language: English

Pages: 86

ISBN: 057125618X

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Detective Sergeant Love would be the last to admit having an informed opinion about "valuable antiques", yet it is his critical appraisal of Lot 34 that earns him a nasty bang on the head and the lead into a genteel but chilling murder mystery.

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the colonel. “Brace—would you mind?” Her voice was restrained, cross. The colonel shrugged and ambled off. Purbright watched him walk past the rosewood bureau. “What a pity,” he said, when the colonel had gone, “that such a nice piece of furniture should get damaged.” Mrs Moldham-Clegg had resumed her pea-podding. “Do you often come into the country, Mr Purbright?” she inquired evenly. “Not as often as I would wish, ma’am. The only occasions nowadays, I’m afraid, are afforded by crime of

his own side. He got out with athletic haste, as if bearing dispatches from a battle. Purbright looked past him to see Wilkinson twist round and slip the magazine among some newspapers on the back seat. “Whole lot of good prints,” announced Pook. He spread a hand in eager indication of steering wheel and facia. “All done. All in the can, sir.” “Good,” said Purbright, without making it sound like praise. “What about blood?” Pook looked bewildered. Wilkinson, who had come round to stand beside

knob.” “Indeed.” The chief constable was silent a moment. “I think that it would be politic, Mr Purbright, if some alternative could be found. As a point of reference, so to speak.” Purbright agreed. There was Scoggins, or Priest, or Cavendish. His own favourite was Dean Francis O’Dwyer, which happened also to be the choice of the North London police who had had most to do with the man. “Sounds like a Dublin clergyman,” said Mrs Chubb, preparing to disengage. She put a hand on her husband’s

Harrap. The porter gave him a scowl. An ambulance arrived in less than five minutes. Love, much embarrassed and growing increasingly resistant as his head cleared, found himself escorted from the hall like a common drunk by two uniformed attendants with bespectacled, rather motherly faces, who smelled of tobacco and disinfectant and kept using wrong names. Before suffering the final indignity of being thrust into the ambulance, Love managed to twist around and address the dozen or so people

again. “Lot of oil, isn’t it, four litres?” “I’d have thought so.” Johnson had turned his main attention to the bunch of violets. “Looks as if he splashed some around here. Filthy sod.” Fastidiously, he picked out two of the little flowers and threw them away, Wilkinson put the receipt into his notebook and made another survey of the ground. He nodded once or twice. “Black,” he said. “Must have been leaking from the engine.” When they got back to the house they found Purbright standing outside

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