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

Clare had theories about her friend’s disappearance. Could she prove them to be true?

IN the rear of her stationary motor-taxi, a young milliner reached up a careful gloved hand to pat her black-felt cloche, snug on her smart, fair curls. Constance Smart had been sitting patiently for

I WAS lonely. Papa was a preacher and we lived and travelled in a painted wooden wagon, pulled by Jessie, a large and docile shire horse. We had few possessions; there was no room for what Papa called

MARIE peered out of the front room window, wondering if people would be on time. And not only that – what if nobody showed? She let the net curtain drop, listening to the kettle whistling in the kitch

STAY still,” a strong, male voice commanded from the gloom. The autumn sun was setting on Wildwood Cottage, silhouetting its undulating structure dramatically against a charcoal and orange sky. “Well,