By Georgette Heyer
Who might kill the best gentleman?
When Ernest Fletcher is located bludgeoned to loss of life in his examine, everyone seems to be surprised and mystified: Ernest was once good loved and revered, so who might have a cause for killing him?
Superintendent Hannasyde, with consummate ability, uncovers one soiled little mystery after one other, and with them, a bunch of individuals who all have purposes for short of Fletcher useless. Then, a moment homicide is devoted, giving a ugly twist to a truly strange case, and Hannasyde realizes he is up opposed to a killer on a mission...
"Ranks along such incomparable whodunnit authors as Christie, Marsh, Tey, and Allingham."--San Francisco Chronicle
"Given the opportunity i may fortunately eat a stack of her novels one after the other."
-A paintings In Progress
"A few issues that you're assured if you happen to decide up a Georgette Heyer novel of any type are special characters and a fast moving plot."
-We Be Reading
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Extra resources for A Blunt Instrument
Inquired Neville, mildly interested. ‘He may have a kind of brain, but I’ve yet to hear of him putting himself out for anyone, or behaving like an ordinarily nice person. ’ ‘ The dripping of water on a stone,’ murmured Neville. ‘Well having taken it on, I do think you might have put your back into it. ’ ‘Why? ’ ‘Not so much furious as astonished. So was I. You ought to have seen me giving my impersonation of a Nordic publicschool man with a reverence for good form and the done-thing. I wouldn’t like to swear I didn’t beg him to play the game.
Well, I wouldn’t have thought it, that’s all. And he’s the heir? What did I tell you? ’ ‘I’ll remember it if I draw a blank on that unknown visitor,’ promised Hannasyde. ’ The Sergeant came to the desk, and looked over Hannasyde’s shoulder at three slips of paper, all signed by Helen North. ‘IOUs,’ he said. ‘Well, well, well, she did splash money about, didn’t she? Know what I think, Super? There’s a nasty smell of blackmail hanging round these bits 48 Y A Blunt Instrument of paper. ’ ‘My name is not Ichabod, Sergeant, but Malachi,’ said Glass stiffly, from the window.
You thought you saw him! ’ Neville said gently. ’ 41 Y Three Y W ell, it doesn’t look such a whale of a case to me,’ said Sergeant Hemingway, handing the sheaf of typescript back to his superior. ’ ‘ True,’ agreed Hannasyde. ’ ‘ That’s right, Superintendent,’ nodded Inspector True. ‘ That’s what I said myself. What about them footprints? ’ ‘Housemaid, saying good-night to her young man,’ said the experienced Hemingway. ‘Hardly,’ said Hannasyde. ’ ‘No, nor there wasn’t anything like that going on,’ said the Inspector.