Lord
Peter Wimsey’s crypt-like London club encourages a death-like calm. And then one
death-like calm turns out to be genuine: ninety year-old Fentiman is dead in his
chair, and has been for quite a while, says Dr. Penberthy. Why, then, is his
rigor so odd? And what of Fentiman’s surly heir, the shell-shocked George, and
his ominously hearty brother Robert? Can anyone lay hands on the elusive Oliver? Wimsey,
in magnificent fashion, pulls it all together, and you’ll enjoy every minute of
it. A perfect evocation of an era we’ll never know: a 5 by the incomparable Sayers.
Comments
Post a Comment
Love to hear from you. Tell me about an author I might be missing!