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.
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