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296 pages, Paperback
First published September 1, 2005
Thursday was another sunny day, but Friday brought a dank and dismal grey mist that left droplets beading everything it touched. Before dawn, Daisy’s dreams were haunted by the mournful howl of a foghorn.
Halfway back to Westcombe, they could see ahead a solid-looking mass of fog lying in wait, crouching between the hillsides, “Like a big grey cat waiting to pounce,” Belinda said.
“But why should they think it was murder, not an accident?”
Puckle looked at him in surprise. “Acos of I told ’em you was here, sir. Stands to reason. If ’tweren’t murder, why would a detective chief inspector from the Yard be on the spot, like?”
“I’m sure you would have made an apt pupil if he were not a fictional character.”
Unoffended, the medical student grinned. “Julia thinks I’m an absolute ass, but I do think I’d make a better pupil than Jervis. He’s definitely not too swift in the uptake. It seems to be the fashion to give the top detectives rather thick assistants. Look at Dr. Watson. And do you know this new chappie, the Belgian detective? Same thing—he has the bumbling Colonel Hastings to crow over.”