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BY RATCLIFFE BARNETT
MR Oliver Tait?” the policeman said as he and his companion were shown into the charming sitting-room of a suave man in his thirties or thereabouts. “I’m Detective Inspector Wragge and this is WPC Moo
Sibyls , the book born of Ruth Fainlight’s poems and Leonard Baskin’s prints, became a memento of friendship, beauty and sorrow for its author
Sylvia was bored to tears. She almost wished she’d gone with the others to the garden centre. But she’d had it with garden centres, and what was the point when the gardens here were looked after by pr
BRUCE peeked through the curtain, watching the commotion as the new neighbours moved in next door. He heard Iris’s voice in his head. “Two women! Well, I never!” One of the women was heavily pregnant
I LIFT my head to the weak sun and give thanks for having survived another winter. It’s good to see the lane is passable, even if there are ruts and puddles. However, I can still see the bones of icy,
THE small wooden sign that read “Kinlochbay Station” swayed in the winter wind. Elspeth MacKenzie hurried along the platform, her father’s pocket watch clutched in her gloved hand. Five minutes to the