Deborah Crombie > Quotes

“We late-lamented, resting here, Are mixed to human jam, And each to each exclaims in fear, ‘I know not which I am!’ ” —Thomas Hardy, “The Levelled Churchyard,” 1882”
― Deborah Crombie, To Dwell in Darkness

“summit of Notting Hill, across the street from the faded elegance of St. John’s Church. Once Dawn had loved this Victorian house with its pale yellow stucco, its superbly proportioned rooms and beautiful appointments, and for a moment she mourned the passing of such an innocent pleasure. Tonight the windows were dark as she turned into the drive, the blank panes mirroring her car lights. She had managed to beat Karl home, then; she would have a few minutes’ respite. Turning off the engine, she reached for her parcels, then paused, squeezing her eyes shut.”
― Deborah Crombie, And Justice There Is None

“After a moment, Callery shrugged. “We’ll go in, then, the two of us, with Weeping Myrtle here.” He nodded towards the café. “It’s Moaning Myrtle,” Kincaid corrected, feeling a flicker of surprise at Callery’s Harry Potter reference. He didn’t seem the fantasy type. And somehow he couldn’t imagine that this man had kids.”
― Deborah Crombie, To Dwell in Darkness

“She watched as he put a few ice cubes in a heavy glass, then expertly curled a strip of grapefruit rind from one of the fruits in a bowl on the bar top. "This must be a favorite," she commented, nodding at the supply of grapefruit nestled in the bowl along with the usual lemons and limes.
He poured a generous measure from the black bottle and handed it to her with a cocktail napkin. "See for yourself."
Gemma wasn't in the habit of drinking gin neat, so she sniffed, then took a tentative sip. The flavors exploded in her mouth- coriander and juniper and lime and... grapefruit. "Oh, wow," she said, when her eyes stopped watering. "That is amazing. I'm converted.”
― Deborah Crombie, A Bitter Feast

“But if you read Christie or Allingham or Sayers, the detective always got his man. And you’ll notice that the detective always operated outside the system—the stories expressed a comforting belief in the validity of individual action.”
― Deborah Crombie, Leave the Grave Green

“I’ve always thought that exceptional beauty was as great an affliction as any physical handicap—perhaps more so. It is so difficult for the beautiful person, male or female, to develop a good character, isn’t it? The odds are stacked against them from the start.”
― Deborah Crombie, Kissed a Sad Goodbye

“You can only do things one day at a time, sport. Sometimes life is so bloody that's the only way you can get through it. But the good bit about living one day at a time is that when nice things happen, you enjoy them more than people who are always thinking about the past or the future.”
― Deborah Crombie, Kissed a Sad Goodbye

“It’s fashionable these days to pooh-pooh the Golden Age crime novel as trivial and unrealistic, but that was not the case at all. It was their stand against chaos. The conflicts were intimate, rather than global, and justice, order and retribution always prevailed. They desperately needed that reassurance. Did you know that Britain lost nearly a third of its young men between 1914 and 1918? Yet that war didn’t physically threaten us in the same way as the next—it stayed safely on the European Front.”
― Deborah Crombie, Leave the Grave Green

“They made Caesar salad with Cashel Blue cheese. They made Irish lobster confit in Kerrygold butter. They made black pudding the way Fergus remembered it from his childhood, and lamb sausages so delicate they almost melted in your mouth. Everything they put on the menu got raves.”
― Deborah Crombie, A Bitter Feast

“Friends come and go, Lewis, but the things you learn will always be yours, to use as you will.”
― Deborah Crombie, Kissed a Sad Goodbye

“empty”
― Deborah Crombie, Leave the Grave Green

“You knew,” Kincaid said, thinking of Childs’s increasingly sallow skin over the past few years. Of course. He’d been jaundiced. And he had been losing weight for at least a year before his sudden leave. “The slimming. I thought it was for your health.” “It was for my health,” Childs agreed, “although perhaps not in the usual sense. Excess weight complicates any surgery and recovery.”
― Deborah Crombie, Garden of Lamentations

“A rose on a steel stem,”
― Deborah Crombie, Now May You Weep

“Attractive, too, in a sleek, bony way, if one cares for women who look intelligent.”
― Deborah Crombie, A Share in Death

“Cream of mushroom. Come and taste." When Gemma came to stand beside her, Viv dipped some soup into a tasting spoon and handed it to her. "We've a local farmer growing mushrooms for the markets, so I buy whatever he has on hand. This has brown mushrooms, shiitake, and some dried porcini, for depth of flavor."
Gemma took a little sip from the spoon. "Oh, I see what you mean," she said in surprise. "It's delicious, but it's somehow more- mushroomy."
"It's not balanced yet. It needs more salt." Viv added a generous palmful from a dish by the hob and stirred the pot thoroughly. Grabbing two more spoons, she tasted it herself, then handed a spoonful to Gemma. "Now try."
Obediently, Gemma tasted. This time the flavors seemed to pop on her tongue. "Oh, my goodness. It's not salty- it just tastes... I don't know... brighter?"
"That's what salt does. It's a flavor enhancer. You have a good palate.”
― Deborah Crombie, A Bitter Feast

“His father, who had rebelled early against his Scots Presbyterian upbringing and declared himself an “intellectual agnostic”—or had it been “agnostic intellectual”?—had protested, but his mother insisted that the human animal had a need for structure, for ritual and discipline, for the ties with the community that the church provided, and for a sense of something larger than itself.”
― Deborah Crombie, Water Like a Stone

“Have a cider. It’s a gift from my friend with an orchard up Stow way. Presses and bottles it himself every year.” When Kincaid accepted, Cain clicked his bottle against Kincaid’s. “Cheers.” Taking a long swig, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned against the work top. Kincaid drank. The tart, fresh, green-apple taste seemed to explode in his mouth and made his eyes water. “Bugger, that’s stout stuff,” he said when he’d managed to swallow and blink back the tears. Cain grinned. “No alcohol percentage regulations on homemade cider. More than two of these will make you sorry the next day.” The smile faded. “What did you want to talk to me about, then?”
― Deborah Crombie, A Bitter Feast

“The small glass jars filled with a spread made from local smoked trout were packed into a cool box. Earlier in the week, Grace had helped her make the labels for the jars, as well as for the two puddings which she would serve the same way. The guests would be encouraged to take home any that were left, as well as the larger jars of pickled vegetables. She'd fermented cabbage with radishes, and cauliflower with haricots vests and carrots. The spice mixtures were not as hot as traditional kimchee- a concession to the bland English palate- but still had a good bit of pop. The spicy, crunchy veg made a perfect counterpoint to the soft creaminess of the smoked lamb and beans.
Those she was serving together, in individual camping tins, to be warmed just before lunch in the Beck House warming ovens. It was all a bit precious, the jars and the tins, but she wanted the meal to be something people would remember.
She'd made a seeded crispbread for the potted trout course, and flatbreads to serve warm with the lamb and pickles. In between the trout and the lamb she planned a salad course- fresh greens, topped with roasted pear halves she'd done the previous day, a local soft blue cheese, and a drizzle of caramel.”
― Deborah Crombie, A Bitter Feast

“The road snaked as it rose, and within a few miles the landscape had changed entirely. To Gemma, the moors seemed wild and desolate, alien as the moon—and yet she found them unexpectedly, searingly beautiful. The scene touched something in her that was both new and ancient, awakening a longing she hadn’t known she possessed. For the first time, she wondered how Hazel could have borne leaving.”
― Deborah Crombie, Now May You Weep

“realized he wasn’t the one”
― Deborah Crombie, Water Like a Stone

“suspected more than a hint of narcissism in those who chose physical mirror images of themselves as mates.”
― Deborah Crombie, A Share in Death

“Childs sat back and finished the dregs of his tonic. Then he slid out of the booth with surprising grace for a big man. He stood for a moment, as if hesitating, then, with a last nod at Kincaid, made his way out of the bar.”
― Deborah Crombie, Garden of Lamentations

“All”
― Deborah Crombie, And Justice There Is None

“… to the great Spirit and Fountain of life, all things, in both space and time, must be present … action, once begun, never ceases … thus the past is always present, although, for the purpose of fitting us for this mortal life, our ordinary senses are so constituted as to be unperceptive of these phenomena.
—CATHERINE CROWE,
FROM THE NIGHT-SIDE OF NATURE”
― Deborah Crombie, A Finer End

“Gemma searched for a moment, then gave a laugh”
― Deborah Crombie, Water Like a Stone

“think that Claire did her grieving for Alastair Gilbert a long time ago, when she discovered that”
― Deborah Crombie, Mourn Not Your Dead

“When Gemma took the phone, she saw that the screen was slightly cracked. Even though the phone was obviously not new, she had to wonder at parents buying such an expensive gadget for a twelve-year-old. Just this year, they’d bought Kit a cheap phone with a limited number of texts, and he was fourteen.”
― Deborah Crombie, To Dwell in Darkness

“Melody shifted from one foot to the other, then added reluctantly, “He didn’t have a car. So if he’d disposed of her body, it would have had to have been in the immediate area, and no body was found.”
― Deborah Crombie, A Killing of Innocents

“Booth shook his head. “I’ll check the bathroom.”
― Deborah Crombie, A Bitter Feast

“Even with the quirky presentation, the food, Gemma had to admit, had been divine. From the creamy, smoky trout spread, to the delicate salad with roasted pears, caramel, and a local blue cheese, to the meltingly tender lamb and white beans served in camping tins, it had been of absolute star quality. What, Gemma had to wonder, was a chef so talented doing in this tiny village?
She nibbled at the last bit of her pudding. The little jam jar she'd chosen had held a mixed berry crumble with a tangy layer of creme fraîche- a dessert she suspected she'd find herself dreaming about. All round her, spoons were being laid down and empty jars examined in hopes of finding a smidgen more.”
― Deborah Crombie, A Bitter Feast