British mystery novels used to be filled with nostalgia for the aristocracy; now (that is, by 1978) they’re full of contempt for the nouveau riche. I hate to ruin a book’s plot, but once you notice that the pretentious antique dealer who’s just moved into Middlehope, in the “border country” near Wales, is Arthur Everard Rainbow, and remember that the book's title is "Rainbow’s End," the only question is whether Arthur will die or his beauteous gypsy-type wife, Barbara, whose every costume change is recorded by Ellis Peters with meticulous precision (and I use the word “costume” advisedly). She first appears in
"a long, billowing skirt built in three tiers, in three different shades of red and three different flower-prints; a black, embroidered blouse that spilled low to leave her shoulders bare, and half her high breasts into the bargain, while shrouding her arms to just below the elbow. A lot of beads, heavy, tangled and bright, a lot of bangles in a dozen colors. And what looked like a new dishcloth twined round her hips and knotted on the left."