By Georgette Heyer
Who could kill the suitable gentleman?
When Ernest Fletcher is located bludgeoned to loss of life in his learn, everyone seems to be stunned and mystified: Ernest was once good beloved and revered, so who could 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 in need of Fletcher useless. Then, a moment homicide is dedicated, giving a gruesome 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'll fortunately consume a stack of her novels one after the other."
-A paintings In Progress
"A few issues that you're assured should you decide up a Georgette Heyer novel of any variety are specific characters and a fast paced plot."
-We Be Reading
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Additional info for A Blunt Instrument
It isn’t exactly a polite story, but I find he has a lovely dirty mind. ’ The reminiscent grin which still lingered on the Sergeant’s face vanished. A dusky blush mounted into his cheeks, and he gave an imploring cough. ‘I daresay,’ replied Hannasyde. ’ said Neville engagingly. ’ ‘I expect it’ll save time if I say no,’ answered Neville. ’ Hannasyde asked bluntly. ‘Oh, one doesn’t know people. Mothers say they know their children through and through. Fallacy. Rather disgusting, too. ’ said Hannasyde, who had followed this rapid and telegraphic speech with some difficulty.
We’re none of us saints. ’ ‘It is true. It is said that he was a man of pleasing manners, filled with loving kindness. ’ ‘Yes, that’s all very well, but where do you get that fornication idea? ’ ‘No. ’ ‘He did, did he? ’ said the Sergeant briskly, and turned towards the house. He entered it through the study window, and found his superior there, with Ernest Fletcher’s solicitor, and Neville Fletcher, who was lounging bonelessly in an armchair, the inevitable cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth.
If not, it’s mere waste of time. Do stop it, Helen! ’ Sally regarded him with disfavour. ‘You don’t seem to be much upset,’ she said. ‘You didn’t see me an hour ago,’ replied Neville. ’ She sniffed, but merely said: ‘You’d better tell me all about it. ’ said Neville. ’ ‘I’ve always wanted to be in on a real murder,’ remarked Sally thoughtfully. ’ ‘He had his head smashed,’ replied Neville. Helen gave a moan, but her sister nodded with all the air of a connoisseur. ‘A blow from a blunt instrument,’ she said.