By Ellis Peters
While the tomb of Jan Treverra is opened to bare lately lifeless our bodies, neither of that is Treverra's, Detective Inspector George Felse, on vacation within reach, steps in to enquire the murders. Reprint.
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Detective Inspector George Felse is named upon to enquire the disappearance of 2 participants of a musical gathering
Singers and musicians are accumulated for a weekend path in people track on the remarkable neo-Gothic state mansion Follymead. such a lot come simply to sing or to hear, yet one or have nonmusical ratings to settle. while brilliantly gifted Liri Palmer sings “Black, black, black is the color of my true-love’s heart,” she truly has a message for somebody within the viewers. And as passions run excessive, there's homicide brewing at Follymead.
one of the song scholars are Dominic Felse and his female friend, Theodosia. whilst now not one, yet , contributors of the gang cross lacking from the corridor, Dominic calls upon his father, Detective Inspector George Felse, to aid him resolve this so much complicated mystery.
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Additional info for A Nice Derangement of Epitaphs (Felse, Book 4)
I felt as though I were observing someone else doing this. Then I turned to Izabela. ‘Go and sit outside at one of the tables,’ I told her. My voice was surprisingly calm. I spoke firmly too; the fear that Izabela might drop some incriminating words into the waiting ears of the customers was enough to give me a little courage for once. ‘I’ll come out,’ I added, seeing her hesitate. Still she did not move, so I gave her a gentle push, and then she stumbled slowly back outside as though sleepwalking.
Between that straining belly and the wall there was so little clearance that I fully expected I would be squeezed through the gap like a lump of dough going through the rollers of a pastry machine. I thought about trying to push past Achim and the inevitable necessity of coming into actual contact with him. I also thought about my mother, waiting impatiently behind the counter, and of my father leaning out of the kitchen with his brown hair turned salt-and-pepper by the dusting of flour in it, wanting to know where the devil Steffi had got to.
You’re joking,’ I said. Klara Klein – the folk singer – was the local celebrity, or had been, when our grandparents were young; she seemed to have been around forever, and indeed she still drew ageing fans to the town from all over Germany. The idea of wishing her dead was something akin to cursing the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny: faintly sacrilegious and almost certainly ineffective. ‘No, no, it’s a great idea,’ cut in Jochen. ‘It’d be a public service,’ he went on in the rapturous tone that meant that he was deep in the clutches of an entirely new idea.