By Hazel Holt
Author Sheila Malory, visible earlier than in Mrs. Malory Investigates and different mysteries, visits the once a year Taviscombe pageant, which has been appropriated and aggrandized by means of Adrian Palgrave, a poet and biographer of little renown. Palgrave, who has been named literary executor for author and man-of-the-world Lawrence Meredith, a number one literary determine of the Twenties and 30s, is located crushed to demise through the first functionality of the pageant, and suspects are throughout. television documentary-maker Oliver Stevens fears disclosure of an affair. younger Robin Turner, treasurer for the pageant, have been criticized often via the lifeless poet different deaths and an try to wreck Meredith's papers lead Sheila to go looking for long-held secrets and techniques that bred deadly results.
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Extra resources for Mrs. Malory and the Festival Murder
Example text
Shall we all sit together? ’ The meeting went on and on, as meetings do. Every item was discussed, turned inside out, and discussed all over again. I suppressed a yawn and looked surreptitiously at my watch, looked up and caught Will’s eye. He winked at me. Various people expressed surprise that various other people didn’t agree with them. Umbrage was taken. My thoughts drifted away and I found myself wondering how anyone, even Enid Palgrave, could have actually chosen a blouse in that relentlessly unbecoming shade of mustard.
I glanced at his face, scarcely visible in the dim light and was astonished to see that he was silently weeping. ‘All our pride is but a jest; None are worst and none are best. ’ The lights were switched on and I came back reluctantly into the world again. Will muttered something about having a word with Eleanor and hurried away and I slowly rose to my feet and moved towards the far door, easing my way through the crowds of people all making for the refreshments. A great feature of the Festival opening concert was the elaborate cold buffet, subsidized by Eleanor and mostly cooked by Jessie, though other excellent women did contribute flans and gateaux, quiches and the inevitable Coronation Chicken.
No,’ I replied soothingly, ‘there’s no need. I’ll find Roger – Inspector Eliot – he is a policeman and a friend of mine. ’ Jessie glanced once more at the dead man, an almost casual glance, one more of curiosity than of horror. I wished I had her stoicism. As I closed the door behind us, a thought struck me.