Lord Peter Wimsey bent down over General Fentiman and drew the
Morning Post gently away from the gnarled old hands. Then, with a
quick jerk, he lifted the quiet figure. It came up all of a piece, stiff as a
wooden doll . . .
But how did the general die? Who was the mysterious Mr X who fled
when he was wanted for questioning? And which of the general’s heirs,
both members of the Bellona Club, is lying?
‘I admire her novels . . . she has great fertility of invention, ingenuity and a
wonderful eye for detail’ Ruth Rendell