Murder comes to venice

MICHELE RUSPOLI felt a little less agitated, now that he was inside the library, but all around was evidence of the flood. Books had been laid out haphazardly on pieces of matting, all leather-bound,

Helen Harris always enjoyed her afternoon tea with Martha Evert, and as she knocked on the door carrying a treat of two chocolate muffins, she looked forward to an hour or two of catching up with her

VENITA FITZALAN-BLAKE had never liked dancing. And after treading the length and breadth of Bond Street, Mayfair and Piccadilly, fruitlessly seeking employment, she had good cause to remember why. If

POLICE CONSTABLE FLEUR GRAY stood outside Chief Inspector Ferguson’s office. She nervously brushed her hands over her uniform before lifting her hand to knock. She paused, reflecting on how far she’d

THE buildings on either side of the street seemed to bend in upon Meg Talbot. Their upper windows were looming as she picked her way through the slime and detritus. She could hardly see the September

GAVIN and I turned to look at each other on the sofa as the television credits rolled. “I know we’ve agreed for a long time that ‘Inspector Bletchley’ is our favourite programme,” I said. “But that wa