By P. D. James
Whilst the quiet Little sacristy of St. Matthew's Church turns into the blood-soaked scene of a double homicide, Scotland backyard Commander Adam Dalgliesh faces an interesting conundrum: How did an upper-crust Minister come to lie, slit throat to slit throat, subsequent to a local derelict of the bottom order? Challenged with the research of against the law that looks to have never-ending causes, Dalgliesh explores the sinister net spun round a half-burnt diary and a violet-eyed widow who's pregnant and whole of malice--all the whereas hoping to fill the distance of good judgment that joined those disparate males in shiny crimson loss of life. . . .
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Additional info for A Taste for Death (Adam Dalgliesh Mysteries 7)
He was used to seeing relief, ap-prehension, dislike, even hatred; but now, for a moment, 105 he saw in her eyes naked fear. It passed almost at once and gave place to what seemed to him an assumed and slightly truculent indifference, but it had been there. She turned her back on them, saying: 'Lady Ursula is expecting you, Commander. ' The words, spoken in a high, rather forced voice, had the repressive authority of a nurse-receptionist greeting a patient from whom she expects nothing but trouble.
My great grandfather lost a fortune because he was fas-cinated by a subject for which he had absolutely no talent -finance. Someone told him that the way to make money was to buy when the shares were low and sell when they were high. A simple enough rule which struck his rather undeveloped mind with the force of divine inspiration. He had absolutely no difficulty in following the first precept. The problem was that he never had the opportunity to follow the second. He had a positive genius for picking losers.
She was snorting gently, small guttural sounds as if there were phlegm in her throat. Her eyebrows had been plucked in the manner of the thirties, thin arches high above the naturalline of the brow They gave the face, even in sleep, a look of clownish surprise, enhanced by the circles of rouge on both cheeks. On a chair beside the bed was a large jar of Vaseline, the lid open, a single fly gummed to the rim. The back of the chair and the floor were strewn with clothes and the top of a chest of drawers which served as a dressing table under an oval mirror was crowded with bottles dirty glasses, jars of make-up and packets of tissues.