I just wrote a lengthy review of a 1994 Andrew Taylor mystery, An Air That Kills, much more lengthy than my typical post about the books I've been reading. Typepad promptly erased it.
So I'll ask you to imagine a charming post about an unusually good mystery taking place immediately after World War II in a town on the border of England and Wales where newly arrived and newly promoted Detective Inspector Thornhill is assigned the task of identifying some tiny bones found in an old box in the foundations of an old (very old) inn. With the bones are a Victorian silver pin and a bit of a newspaper clipping.
Now imagine a witty description of the characters in this somewhat insular town, Lydmouth, and the problems the new detective is having fitting in. Picture an irascible boss and an untried assistant, an annoyed wife and a town butinski and a series of burglaries with something in common that leads our hero to a local criminal. But this guy doesn't do burglaries. It must be someone else.
Add a newspaperwoman from London who has given up her successful career for no reason her friends can discover and picture the negative electricity between this arrogant Londoner and the arrogant detective. Then mix in a possible murder and off you go. Oh, and assume that I recognized the title as a quote from a famous poem cycle that they are reading over at Cornflower Books.
It was a great review. Too bad Typepad lost it on me.
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