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Murder at Midwinter

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Preface

The village of Midwinter had never cared much for ostentation. Not for it the fripperies and trifles of an Easter parade, nor anything so vulgar as participating in the annual ‘Villages in Bloom’ competition that had so many of its neighbouring hamlets chomping at the bit come June of every year. No, Midwinter and its denizens (many of whom had resided there so long that the local public house had been the site where they had mourned the death of Queen Victoria) prided themselves on a sense of understated propriety and studiously maintained self-possession. It was a village in which net curtains were never twitched, the post office queue confined itself merely to inconsequential commentary on the weather, and pleasantries exchanged were of the most pleasant and, therefore, forgettable nature.

The sole exception to this insistence on avoiding, as Mrs Hardy at number 19 called it, ‘unnecessary showiness’, was at Christmas.

For Christmas in Midwinter was the time when, bedecked with baubles and mistletoe, aglow with the light of candles and the merriment of children hurling snowballs, the village threw caution and modesty to the (invariably frosty) wind. Like a hitherto coy caterpillar, the village shed its cocoon and indeed its reticence at merely existing and hurtled headfirst into the vertiginous sky above.

During the month of December, the post office queue was abuzz with conversation about the parcels being sent to nieces in Lowestoft and second cousins who had emigrated to Australia. (All agreed that the price of sending a simple card there was a scandal, and surely something that Mr Chamberlain could, and ought to, do something about.) The butcher’s played host to discerning customers engaging in earnest debate about the merits of sage vs horse chestnut stuffing for turkey crowns (earnest debate often became heated debate on this particularly thorny topic), while at the greengrocer’s, the chart tallying orders for Brussels sprouts grew faster than the list of appointments made by local families for Santa’s Grotto at the Christmas fair. And Midwinter’s Christmas fair was no modest affair; it was not a couple of hours’ work thrown together to keep the children happy. No, the Midwinter Christmas fair encompassed an entire weekend: on the Saturday there would be the craft stalls, the

trinkets and the foodstuffs sold as stocking-fillers. And the games stands for those in need of some diversion. And the Sunday, oh the Sunday would be the culmination of the affair: the inaugural ceremonial switching-on of the newfangled electric lights festooning the tree.

In short, Midwinter not only embraced Christmas, it positively thrived upon Christmas. And the Christmas of 1937 was no exception.

Simple evergreen garlands were hanging in the windows of the houses, paper lanterns perched here and there on the windowsills. At those houses with wooden planters that had lain hitherto dormant over the winter, cyclamens of red, pink and white had burst forth in recent weeks and strident Christmas hyacinths were making their presence known with daubs of purple and splashes of blue.

Although it was only the second week of December, there was a perpetual tinkling and twinkling of bells and chimes in the air – whether it was the Patersons out walking their energetic golden retriever, Dibley, or the handsome young man lodging at Mrs Taylor’s (who, it was whispered in the post office queue, was something of a bohemian and had recently entertained a troupe of Belgian dancers in his room), or the octogenarian Mrs Scrimley, who specialised in singing French chansons in a wavering voice every morning at six thirty. All residents,

regardless of their business or leisure, seemed to be accompanied by a jolly jingling all day, every day. It lent the entire village the air of a set at a Hollywood studio, where, at any given moment, one would not be surprised to find a fellow resident bursting into song. One half expected Ginger Rogers to give a how-do-you-do whilst perusing the root vegetables at the greengrocer’s.

In the village square, a large and intricately decorated Christmas tree stood. The local school children had been preparing decorations for it – paper snowflakes and baubles, tiny socks filled with candy canes, papier mâché snowmen that were, more often than not, proudly misshapen. In the mornings, those same children were bundled in scarves and coats, their fists shoved haphazardly into mittens that were, to their parents’ perpetual chagrin, found strewn in a hedgerow by the end of the day. The Reverend John Humble had been leading his choir for some weeks now in their festive rehearsals. Debates had been conducted in measured tones (some would say unproductively so) about the hymns to be performed at the annual Christmas fair. These debates rarely led to a consensus, and thus the list had expanded to an unwieldy twenty-three songs: there was only one day to go until the commencement of the fair on Saturday afternoon, so Father John found himself in a state of tension most at odds with the jollity surrounding him.

Were one to follow the holly and ivy garlands festooned hither and thither along the village’s main thoroughfare, one would surely doff one’s cap to Stanley, the milkman, whose pallor periodically occasioned concern amongst the members of the knitting society. One might also cross paths with Iris, the betweeded woman whose primary occupation appeared to be restoring every imperceptible chip on the red paint of the post box.

Having paid one’s respects to Stanley, Ivy and any number of other locals out for an afternoon stroll or on their way for an early evening preprandial at the Cat and Whistle, one might continue down the narrow road. This was flanked on one side by a wooden fence demarcating the field belonging to the Stevens family (its overseer at that time, Jim, renowned for his somewhat lackadaisical approach to sheep-shearing), and on the other by a modest woodland. Following this road for some ten minutes would lead one to an abrupt corner. And, upon turning this corner, one would find oneself confronted with an unexpected vision in an English village: a sprawling and somewhat austere paean to a very English kind of education.

In December 1937, Midwinter Academy for Girls stood in the crisp and cold air as formidable and impressive as when it first was built in 1878.

Its ivy-clad stone walls were weathered and grey.

Bespeaking the architectural fashions of the Victorian era, the building was a sprawling and, to the outside eye, inestimably convoluted structure with tall, narrow windows that seemed to watch the world outside. A wrought-iron gate, slightly ajar, creaked on its hinges, inviting the curious and unnerving the cautious.

Venturing forth along the driveway, our notional explorer might find themself at the main entrance to the Academy, admiring the Christmas tree standing proudly outside the building, gold and red baubles dangling here and there, tendrils of festive lights currently lying dormant, awaiting guests. Peering inside, one would be able to make out that the hallways were dimly lit, with flickering lamps casting dancing shadows on the faded wallpaper. Away from the bells and the ebullient hubbub of Midwinter village, the silence was only broken by the faint sound of dripping water echoing from somewhere in the depths of the building, adding an eerie undertone to the empty corridors.

The doors locked, one might indulge in idle speculation as to what lay within. It was December 10th, a Friday. The Christmas holidays had begun, and so the classrooms were abandoned, their wooden desks lined up in neat rows, some still holding tattered exercise books and ink-stained pens. The chalkboards might, if one were in a particularly inventive mood and thus partial to

elaborate conjecture, be covered in ghostly remnants of recently terminated lessons, half-erased algebra mingling with the occasional scrawl of an example of pathetic fallacy located within Wuthering Heights. This seasonably spectral line of imagination might lead one to perceive an unsettling stillness hanging in the air, broken only by the occasional flight of a crow swooping through the courtyard outside, where gnarled trees twisted and turned as if caught in a silent and secretive conversation. An old stone fountain, frozen in the chill, also stood within the courtyard: a figure playing a pipe, its limbs now victim to a noticeable and creeping crumbling.

Peering in at the school door, one might picture the headmistress’s room at the far end of the main corridor, perhaps. A room where punishments had been doled out, injustices righted and consequences met, the heavy oak desk and shelves crammed with dusty tomes witness to years of weighty conversations between scandalised parents, sheepish students and exasperated teachers. Listen closely enough, and one might be able to hear the faint sound of whispered voices: some recalling former glories, joyous escapades with friends long gone; others bitterly bemoaning the persistence of unhappy memories that haunt and refuse to be sated.

Indeed, one ghostly figure was standing there, at the doorway to Midwinter Academy for Girls.

As twilight descended, alone in the early evening chill, they stood besieged by memories of the past. And consumed by plans for the future.

Plans which would stain the village of Midwinter with a mark so indelible that the Christmas of 1937 would become a time only discussed in hushed tones, and even then, only fleetingly – for fear of conjuring up unwelcome spirits with rancorous intentions.

This person knew all that was to be unravelled in the days that would follow. Knew the secrets that were to be uncovered, the past actions that were to be revisited.

The justice that was to be served.

‘Justice? I says, I says justice my backside. You want justice, you get yourself down to Billingsgate Fish Market, you see what old Harold Carpenter serves up when he’s miffed. Half-cooked scallop that’ll keep you indisposed until lunchtime the next day. That, dear colleagues, is what I call justice.’ Martin Halliday, editor of the Daily Chronicle, let out a bark and adjusted the paper crown that had slipped over his eyes during his latest anecdote. Even by his standards, the story had taken its time: various tangents and cul-de-sacs explored at unwarranted length, minor characters allowed far more time in the spotlight than their questionable contributions to proceedings might have suggested.

Nonetheless, Halliday was a raconteur who was exceedingly familiar with his audience. His audience being the newspapermen of Fleet Street who sniffed out scoops and doggedly followed up leads – some that led to frustration, a binned notebook and a pat on the

back accompanied by a derisory comment from Halliday; others that resulted in front-page splashes, hearty backslaps and a bottle of whisky being ostentatiously plonked down on a desk. Yes, these newspapermen knew which side their bread was buttered, and were all too aware that said butter would, and could only, be applied by Martin Halliday.

The Christmas party for the Daily Chronicle had been under way for some three hours now. Pens had been downed at three o’clock, typewriters had ceased to clatter. A tray of mince pies had been ceremoniously carried into the newsroom by the latest assistant reporter on the team (a pimply, monosyllabic young man named Alan, who nodded profusely during meetings and had a habit of tugging his earlobe somewhat violently when any questions were directed at him), and Martin Halliday, ever the showman, had struck a large gong that he appeared to have procured for this purpose alone.

At that, the festivities had commenced. Ales had been brought forth from the office storeroom, along with a crate of lukewarm white wine, and, most extravagantly of all, a dozen bottles of champagne.

Daphne King watched Halliday, allowing a flicker of wry amusement to pass across her face. It was an expression that would, undoubtedly, be perceived as enjoyment of this latest anecdote. An anecdote which Daphne

estimated she had now listened to approximately eight times in her employment at the newspaper. She leant against the filing cabinet, twirling her champagne mug in one hand (for, despite the provision of refreshments, the supply of vessels for said refreshments had been regrettably overlooked), and flicking an unfortunate hangnail with the other. The Daily Chronicle Christmas bash was an occasion that, in years gone by, she had tolerated with a grimace and a clenched fist, approaching it as one might a necessary but unpleasant trip to, for example, one’s dentist. Yes, in years gone by, Daphne had skulked in a corner of the office, arms folded across her chest, a tight smile fixed upon her face whenever someone happened to look her way – eyes rolling subtly whenever she knew herself to be unobserved. Two years ago, it had been cold tongue sandwiches and unbearable innuendos from her stablemates: her long-time colleague Jamie Jenkins and his cronies. Last year, Daphne had allowed herself four glasses of mulled wine, only to find that the glasses had not only failed to ameliorate the company in which she found herself, but had in fact served to actively enhance the regret and low spirits she experienced the following day.

This year, however, Daphne had recourse to neither grimace nor cold tongue nor an overabundance of mulled wine. For this year, Daphne King found herself with nothing to prove. This year, Daphne had uncovered the

identity of a blackmailer targeting trade union leaders, who had been threatening to reveal false and unfounded information from their past (the culprit was a disgruntled aristocrat named Wellwyn-Smythe, a man ill at ease in the emerging social mores of London in 1937). This year, Daphne had also been instrumental in the police’s handling of the case of the Piccadilly Circus Kidnapper (who, it transpired, were in fact the Piccadilly Circus Kidnappers, a gang of ne’er-do-wells led by a certain Ace Carruthers, a one-eyed ex-convict with a penchant for vermouth and tripe). Yes, it was also this year that Daphne had decided that the only way to discover the truth about the ring of smugglers importing opium via the South Coast was to disguise herself as a fisherwoman from Hastings. For three months she had lived in a shack on the beach, gutting bass and smoking sprats. Arduous though it had been, it had resulted in Daphne leading the police straight to the gang of international smugglers intent on flooding the south of England with their nefarious wares.

Granted, there were those who had escaped the law. Those who, regardless of Daphne’s dogged determination and impeccable investigative nous, had somehow fled or gone to ground before the police could cuff them. Those malefactors who had been uncovered by her reports, names in black-and-white in the Chronicle thanks to Daphne. Scoundrels who, her colleagues never

tired of teasing, might come knocking any day now to get their revenge on the famous Daphne King.

In any case. Yes, one could certainly say that this year, Daphne King would not skulk into the party. Nor would she cower in the corner, sourly nursing a sherry and a bruised ego.

No, this year, Daphne had resolved that she would stride through the party, and would maintain a stance of casual insouciance for the entirety of the time she chose to remain there.

In the days leading up to the party, she had felt a queer and unprecedented sensation. Was she, Daphne King, feeling excited about attending the annual Christmas drinks at the Daily Chronicle ? Was she (no, surely she couldn’t be . . .) looking forward to the event?

She had worn her second-best blouse for the occasion, had willingly downed her writing implements at the very first intimation of the gong, and had affected what she knew to be a highly convincing air of nonchalance and, dare she say it, indifference to the proceedings. Martin had been holding court for some time now, as expected. The reporters had been making a strong show of being rapt by his stories, as expected. The champagne was flat and the mince pies had a consistent ratio of four parts stodgy pastry to one part indeterminate candied fruit, as expected. Jamie Jenkins – once a bitter rival,

now a deskmate upon whom she occasionally lavished a patronising pat on the back when his story led to naught – and his cronies were sweaty of brow, sloshing their ale clumsily, as expected.

Daphne surveyed the scene as if she were a phantom floating above a seance populated by an assortment of bland guests hoping to be described as ‘colourful characters’. She could see the beer stains that would still be on the men’s ties come Monday of next week. The sausage rolls that would be found in a drawer in the New Year, the paperwork that would be misplaced tonight only to resurface next Wednesday having been doodled on with what appeared to be a crayon.

She could also see herself. Her brown hair, once unkempt and unthought of, now styled about her shoulders in a fashion if not de rigueur, then, at the very least, en existence. Her corduroy trousers were a chestnut brown pair that she had bought just last week; her previous pair of chestnut brown corduroy trousers having worn away somewhat at the knees, in a way quite unbecoming of an investigative reporter at London’s most widely circulated newspaper.

‘Isn’t that right, King?’ came Halliday’s bellowing voice.

Daphne looked up enquiringly, and she took a sip of champagne as Halliday loosened the tie that was already struggling to remain knotted about his neck.

‘Come again?’ Daphne asked brightly. She was suddenly aware of not just Halliday’s eyes upon her (eyes which, she noted, were bloodshot already); the group who had jostled for space close to him had all turned her way. This time last year, Daphne inwardly reflected, there would have been arch smirks playing across some of those faces, while others would have been blankly uninterested in her. Now, however, she was regarded with the expressions that she had come to be habituated to: from some, a look of vague curiosity that one might find when inspecting a rare breed of butterfly at the Natural History Museum; from others, an eager yet mildly off-putting enthusiasm, as though they had chanced upon a fortune teller at a fair and were now awaiting some gnomic proclamations.

Jamie Jenkins, a slippery stoat of a man, had previously led the charge in derision and condescension. But he now eyed Daphne with a mixture of intrigue and, could it be, a soupçon of respect?

‘I says to the lads,’ Halliday continued, hoisting up his trousers as they sagged about his waist (Daphne had known since September that Halliday really ought to invest in a new pair of braces), ‘I says you want to know the real cut and thrust of crime reporting, get to the pulpy, beating heart at the centre of it all – you could do worse than having a natter with Daphne King.’

Halliday took three unsteady strides towards her, twiddling his moustache as he did so. With a pride and familiarity that Daphne had only truly witnessed once in Halliday (and that was the occasion upon which his nephew, Henry, had been brought into the office to visit, and Halliday had insisted on telling all and sundry about the six-year-old’s recent tin whistle performance at school), he now swung an arm around Daphne’s shoulders, nearly knocking over the miniature Christmas tree atop the filing cabinet as he did so.

One of the younger members of the news desk (George, was it? Possibly Nicholas? To Daphne they were an amorphous mass of enthusiastic but irritating presences in the office) was midway through a mouthful of mince pie as he spluttered, ‘How the bloody hell do you do it, King?’

At least, those were the words Daphne estimated he was emitting, along with several crumbs.

How the bloody hell did she do it? she wondered. Determination, yes. Doggedness, of course. A certain degree of luck, perhaps. Then there was that sensation that often nagged at her when she suspected, no, when she knew, that something was bubbling away beneath the surface of things. When she could look someone – a stranger, more often than not – in the eye and, with no doubt in her mind whatsoever, know that this person

was hiding something. Or embellishing the truth, sprinkling some half-lies and obfuscations here and there. Or that, perhaps, this stranger was underplaying the truth: dodging and weaving in what they deemed to be skilful evasion, but what looked to Daphne like the increasingly frenetic zigzagging of a bumblebee who, drunk on pollen, had become lost.

How did she do it? By, as her lover Veronica had put it, being as ‘tenacious and bloody-minded as a bloody bloodhound’. Veronica in her most passionate of moods was a Veronica bereft of the eloquence that usually characterised her utterances. Was it, as Veronica had also put it in one of these impassioned outpourings, because she was occupied to an almost violent degree by her career?

Daphne glanced at her watch. She was going to be late if she continued to loiter here in the office nursing her mug of champagne.

‘Feminine wiles play some part in it, I should say,’ one of the old guard, Dennis Pollard, scoffed, nudging Jamie Jenkins, who remained unmoved and, to Daphne’s pleasant surprise, unsmirking. ‘Bat those eyelashes a little, show a bit of ankle.’

‘Oh come now, Dennis, I should say that we all know I’m neither particularly feminine nor, to my eternal disappointment, wily,’ Daphne returned insouciantly.

‘Although, now you come to mention it, it does rather

come in handy if, when trying to wheedle information from, say, an East End laundress who might, just might, know something helpful . . . well, let’s say it helps to speak to her as though she’s a sentient being. Oh and to not turn up in a shirt with a mustard stain on it. Laundresses really do judge one by one’s mustard stains.’

Halliday let out another bark. ‘She’s on to something there, Dennis. Your missus really ought to do something about those mustard stains.’

Daphne placed her mug on the cabinet and removed the paper crown that had been precariously balanced on top of her head since the outbreak of the revelries.

‘Now, as much as I’d love to stand here dispensing pearls of wisdom, I’ve another engagement to get to,’ Daphne announced gaily. ‘Martin, give my best to Sylvia when you finally get home – tell her that I told you brandy after midnight is a terribly unwise choice.’

Daphne made her way to the coat stand, throwing one final look back at the party.

It was to be the first Christmas party of her weekend. And by far the most innocuous. Ahead of her lay an interlude that would, come Monday, have all of the employees of the Daily Chronicle exchanging suppositions and hypotheses. And she would not be there to confirm, deny or clarify.

Before that, however, to Soho.

The Soho pub was, as usual, packed to the gills with revellers. The bar stools were occupied by a hotchpotch of raconteurs and roués, glasses sloshing and brandy swilling perilously. The atmosphere was gregarious to the point of rowdiness, convivial voices raised in competition with the frequent hoots and cackles of laughter. Occasionally, a group in the corner burst out with ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’, accompanied by the enthusiastic barks of Rusty, the landlady’s elderly cocker spaniel.

Daphne King pulled off her scarf as she manoeuvred her way through the crowd, her path to the bar peppered with claps on the back and raised glasses from her fellow regulars.

As she leant on the bar, careful to avoid the various spillages and suspicious puddles on its surface, she glanced about the place and sighed in contentment. The walls were crowded with paintings, newspaper clippings and photographs of clashing styles, periods and

propriety. Here, a delicate pencil drawing of Covent Garden. There, a photograph of a vaudeville star winking at the camera in suggestive playfulness. A portrait of Rusty hung beside a gilt-framed mirror, while a poster for a 1908 production of Hamlet was peeling off the wall beside it.

‘Red or white tonight, my love?’ came the landlady’s hoarse voice.

‘In fact, I might start with something a little stronger tonight, Shelley,’ Daphne replied, attempting to shove her scarf into her satchel. ‘Whisky and ginger, I think.’

The landlady obliged, and while handing over the drink, remarked jovially, ‘Reshuffled the walls, didn’t we? Have a gander over there, just beside that godawful daubing that Francis insisted we stick up there. Don’t tell him I said that, mind. Anyway, you look very fetching up there, my lovely, putting the world to rights, banging up the crooks. Well, not all the crooks, mind – we do have a pub to run and a livelihood to earn.’

With a cackle and a conspiratorial pat on the hand, Shelley turned her attention to another eager patron. He somewhat slurringly requested a gin before announcing to any who would listen that all he wanted for Christmas was a pair of socks and a guarantee that Arsenal would win the 1938 First Division title next year.

Daphne would have chipped in and reassured her

fellow patron that the odds were looking favourable for his team (John on the sports desk at the Chronicle enjoyed spouting his prophecies with unwavering gusto), but she was still reeling from Shelley’s remark about the new configuration on the walls. She felt her cheeks reddening. Shelley hadn’t really gone and done it, had she? A glance towards the wall at the opposite end of the pub told her that Shelley had indeed really gone and done it. She had framed the interview.

LONDON’S LADY DETECTIVE DAPHNE KING: THE QUEEN OF CRIME- BUSTING

Although it had been published nearly two months ago, the bombastic headline still made her cringe. Lady detective. A moniker of extremely questionable accuracy. The more precise alternative – investigative reporter – had less of a glamorous ring to it, she admitted. Daphne had worked at a newspaper for some ten years now, and was alert to the need for eye-catching, audience-pleasing copy. But lady detective ? The discomfort made its way from the base of her spine to the nape of her neck. Veronica had had to strong-arm her into agreeing to the interview in the first place. A lark she had said. No, in fact more than a lark. An illuminating dive into the murky waters of crime-solving, the hitherto unheard

tale of one of London’s most celebrated journalists. Daphne had grumbled and harrumphed, but, as usual, Veronica’s powers of persuasion were unparalleled and irresistible. And so it was, that two months ago, Daphne King had sat down with Patrick Hillary, correspondent from The Times. Over the course of a rather extravagant lunch at the Ritz, Patrick had, with varying degrees of success, winkled secrets and anecdotes from Daphne that she thought would never see the light of day – never mind appear in black-and-white on the front cover of a newspaper.

She took a gulp of her wine. The headline aside, she had to admit that it really was a rather flattering spectacle. From across the bar, the haze of cigarette smoke imbued her photograph with a glamour that didn’t appear by daylight. Veronica had, of course, assisted her with the choice of blouse: a dusky pink number that went terribly well with her brown blazer. There had been talk of wearing a tie, but Daphne had baulked at that particular idea, preferring a more uncluttered silhouette and the simpler ensemble. Yes, the more she looked at the photograph and the headline, the less uncomfortable Daphne felt. If her career continued at its current pace and trajectory, she would have to grow accustomed to this level of public exposure and renown. This year alone, she had managed to pull the carpet out from underneath

the feet of various high-profile figures in the financial world, men of power and clout who had underestimated this, in the words of one of them (Sir Henry Carrington, she believed), ‘mousy little shrew from Fleet Street’. At this purported insult, Daphne had raised her eyebrows and questioned the fellow’s redundant mention of two types of rodent. After that she had gone hammer and tong after Carrington and his band of merry embezzlers, seeing to it that they were royally tarred and feathered. Justice was one thing, comeuppance for a lazy jibe quite another. Daphne took another sip of her wine. It had been another year of travails and suspicions, murkiness and immorality. And there was still Christmas to come.

Her reveries were interrupted by a braying laugh coming from the back corner of the bar.

‘Here she is! Miss Daphne King! Chronicler of the extravagances of human conduct, no stone left unturned in her mission to rid the capital of criminality and dodgy dealings!’

Although she couldn’t yet see him, Daphne knew that the voice belonged to Alfred Burford. The brother of Veronica, his enthusiasm for Daphne’s career never waned. In point of fact, he took an excessive and endearing level of pride in Daphne’s escapades. She wouldn’t be surprised, all things considered, to find a scrapbook of her articles nestled amongst the many books about

stagecraft that littered the floor of his tiny one-bedroom flat in Holborn.

Alfred had risen from his wooden chair and was bounding towards her, his guileless smile and cheery demeanour meaning that he was instantly forgiven by the patrons he haphazardly elbowed and trod on to get to her. Daphne could smell the beer from Alfred as he extended an arm around her, and delivered a sloppy kiss to her cheek.

Having navigated her way to the table, a brief glance told her that the entire gang was here: Veronica, Alfred, four of their theatrical friends, and Alfred’s new sweetheart, a pleasingly witty young woman named Eileen.

‘Brother dearest,’ Veronica began, ‘you’ve known darling Daphne for two years now: when do you suppose you might greet her in a way that doesn’t reference her, admittedly, immense talents and stratospheric career?’

She winked at Daphne, gesturing for her to join her at the end of the table.

‘Well, it’s something I’ve considered,’ Alfred said thoughtfully. ‘But my conclusion is thus: never! Daphne King, scourge of ne’er-do-wells, foiler of nefarious plots, envoy for peace and justice from the alleys of Camberwell to the hifalutin townhouses of Islington. Why on earth would I ever grow tired of reminding all assembled of her towering status?’

9781787304321

MURDER at MIDWINTER

ADA MONCRIEFF

ADA MONCRIEFF

Murder at Midwinter

Preface

LONDON’S LADY DETECTIVE DAPHNE KING: THE QUEEN OF CRIME- BUSTING