Christmas has come early…

… courtesy of the British Library. Two more sleeps before opening though.

John Sladek: Invisible Green

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Where else, Major, might one find a London bobby, a solicitor’s clerk, a baronet, an ex-Army chap, a greengrocer’s daughter and a – a bohemian eccentric, not to mention a chemistry student – all gathered in one room to discuss … Continue reading →

Agatha Christie: And Then There Were None

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If this had been an old house, with creaking wood, and dark shadows, and heavily panelled walls, there might have been an eerie feeling. But this house was the essence of modernity. There were no dark corners – no possible sliding panels – … Continue reading →

Stein Riverton: The Iron Chariot

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‘I am, in fact, something of a poet. A poet of fear.’

Lois Austen-Leigh: The Incredible Crime

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Men with brains and ability can be found all over the world, moreover there are always others coming on to fill their places, but such Jacobean rooms as this are not to be found all over the world, nor are … Continue reading →

Cameron McCabe: The Face on the Cutting-Room Floor

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Now listen: you must cut out that Estella girl, every scene with her, I can’t have her, the picture’s too long. You must cut it down to seven thousand feet. I’ll send Robertson to help, and between the two of … Continue reading →

Josephine Tey: The Daughter of Time

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Buy The Daughter of Time at Amazon.com (US visitors) Everything in that history had been hearsay. And if there was one word that a policeman loathed more than another it was hearsay. Especially when applied to evidence.

Elisabeth Sanxay Holding: Miasma

‘Doctor Dennison, if I were you, I wouldn’t stay here,’ she said. Because he was so simple and direct himself, he was not inclined to impute subtle motives to other people. He saw in her grey eyes only an honest … Continue reading →

Elisabeth Sanxay Holding: Lady Killer

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It was the first time she had encountered the full force of the world’s laissez-faire. People, by and large, weren’t cruel, weren’t heartless; it was simply that they couldn’t believe anything would happen. A shot in the night was a … Continue reading →

J. Jefferson Farjeon: Thirteen Guests

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Every station has its special voice. Some are of grit. Some are of sand. Some are of milk cans. Some are of rock muffled by tunnel smoke. Whatever the voice is, it speaks to those who know it, sounding a … Continue reading →