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Chapter 1
‘Will somebody start me at five hundred?’
A card with a number was raised near the front.
‘Thank you. Five-fifty. Six hundred. Six-fifty. Seven. Seven-fifty at the back. Eight.’
The bidding was keen by West Country standards. Morton’s auction house in Bath was used to lots being knocked down without much show of enthusiasm. The dealer’s faces were giving nothing away.
‘A thousand.’
Now the increments would be in hundreds. Four or five bidders were still interested and Denis Doggart, the auctioneer, needed the help of his assistants to keep track of the small movements that signified bids.
‘Fifteen hundred. Sixteen. Seventeen on the phone.’
Heads turned. Not everyone in the room had realised bids were being phoned in. This wasn’t a sale of impressionist paintings at Sotheby’s. It was only the regular quarterly disposal of bits brought in to the Bath office for valuation, and most of them were bric-a-brac or tat.
Doggart was unfazed. He had been told to expect two telephone bidders, from New York and Tokyo.
‘Two thousand.’
The opening bidder shook his head. This was beyond his top figure. But the others were still in. The price mounted steadily, in two hundreds now.
‘At three thousand pounds.’
A stifled gasp came from the back where some onlookers had gathered.
Doggart knew who the main bidders were, except one, a dark-haired man in a cream coloured linen jacket and white shirt with a red bow tie. This stranger, more than anyone, was driving the sale. A spark of determination had kindled in his blue eyes. But who the hell was he? He’d obviously registered and been given his number. He’d shown no interest in any of the hundred and twenty-eight lots that had gone before. Doggart would have liked to check with his clerk to learn the name, but controlling the auction demanded total concentration.
After three thousand, the bidding is stepped up by larger amounts.
‘Four thousand in the front.’
Bow Tie Man was in it to win it.
A pause.
‘All done?’
Far from it. A new bidder raised his card, Sturgess, a London dealer who only made the trip to Bath when the catalogue contained something exceptional.
Immediately Bow Tie topped the bid.
The interest from Japan and America had ended somewhere between three and four thousand. Sturgess and the mystery man could settle this between them. And now the bids were coming in with the pendulum precision that auctioneers love.
‘Five thousand, then.’
Who wears a bow tie these days? A few doctors and academics. The occasional eccentric. Certain auctioneers.
After a moment’s consideration, Sturgess nodded for five thousand five.
No hesitation in the response.
‘Six thousand from the gentleman in the front. Are we there yet? A unique item of excellent provenance.’
A new, aggressive voice broke in: ‘Nobody move.’
The shock in the room was unimaginable. When an auctioneer is at work, his voice and his alone is all anyone expects to hear. The bidding is silent. An utterance from anyone else is an outrage.
If “Nobody move” was an order, it was not obeyed. After the collective jerk of surprise, all heads turned to see who had spoken.
A larger shock awaited. The speaker was wearing a black mask that covered his face and was holding a handgun. He must have been standing all the time against the wall within ten feet of the auctioneer. He’d slipped on the mask and produced the gun and spoken his two words while all the attention was on the bidders.
Denis Doggart, on his rostrum, was supposed to be directing the show. He turned his head and said, ‘What’s this about?’
‘Shut up.’ The masked man said, ‘Everyone stay right where you are and nobody will get hurt.’
Doggart said, ‘This is intolerable.’
‘I already told you to shut it.’
If any doubt remained how serious the situation was, it evaporated when two more masked men with guns entered the saleroom by the door facing the rostrum. They marched up the aisle that was kept clear for safety reasons and took a grip on the handle of the wooden dolly supporting lot 129, the object currently under the hammer.
This was too much for the bidder with the red bow tie. ‘You can’t steal that,’ he said in a shrill, appalled voice. ‘Get away.’
‘Shut up, mister,’ the first gunman said. ‘Get on with it,’ he told his companions.
‘It’s under auction. I made the last bid. No one is taking it.’
‘Let them be, sir,’ the auctioneer said. ‘They’re armed.’
‘They’re not having it. It’s too precious.’ Bow Tie was up from his chair and striding towards the men starting to shift the heavy burden. ‘Get your hands off.’
The steady build-up of adrenalin during the auction must have given him extra courage, blind, foolhardy anger at the crime being committed in front of everyone. He was a slight man, no match for the crooks except in strength of will. He grabbed the sleeve of the nearest and succeeded in tugging his hand away from the dolly.
The gunman swung around. He had the automatic in his right hand. He levelled it and squeezed the trigger.
The report echoed through the auction room, deafening everyone.
The force of the bullet sent Bow Tie Man crashing against a walnut table stacked with china. He hit the ground at the same time as a mass of cups, saucers and plates. Pandemonium followed, screams and shouts, some people diving for cover, others heading for the door.
The would-be thieves panicked like everyone else. Any thoughts of stealing lot 129 were abandoned without a word passing among them. All three dashed for the exit, stepping over their wounded victim.
A silver delivery van was waiting in the street outside with rear door open and a ramp in place. Two of the crooks dived in and hoisted the ramp aboard and the third slammed the door, dashed to the front and climbed in. The driver, obviously primed for the getaway, had the wheels in motion before the door closed. With a screech of rubber on tarmac, the getaway vehicle rounded the tight corners of Queen Square and was gone.
Inside the auction room fumes of cordite hung in the air. People were kneeling beside the victim, wanting to assist, but a man shot through the belly needs more than first aid. Blood had seeped through his clothes and dribbled from his mouth. He had turned as grey as the lump of stone he’d been bidding for.
‘Who is he?’
‘No idea.’
‘Doesn’t anyone know who the poor guy is?’
‘He was bidding. He must have signed in.’
‘Good point. We can check.’
‘Someone better phone the police.’
‘I already did,’ Doggart said, down from his rostrum. ‘They’re on their way and so is the ambulance.’
‘Looks like he needs an undertaker’s van, not an ambulance.’
Chapter 2
From saleroom to crime scene: a swift, harsh transformation. A forensics team was already at work in a cordoned area among the array of antique glass, silver and furniture.
There is only so much information you can get from looking at a shot corpse. Peter Diamond, Bath’s head of CID, had now moved past and was taking more interest in lot 129. ‘Someone was killed for this?’
‘I know what you mean,’ Detective Sergeant Ingeborg Smith said. ‘As a motive for murder, this tops everything.’
‘Topped him, for sure.’ He passed his fingertips along the chipped surface. ‘It’s not even in good condition.’
‘It’s antique,’ Ingeborg said and added before realising he wasn’t being serious, ‘There are going to be signs of wear.’
‘As I say when I look in my shaving mirror each morning.’
‘Don’t.’
‘Why would anyone want such a thing? It’s not decorative. Would you give it house room?’
‘Speaking personally, no, but people were bidding good money for it.’
‘Did you find out how much?’
‘Six thousand and rising.’
‘Six grand?’ Diamond said on a high note that startled the CSI team behind him. ‘For this?’
The object in front of them, standing on a wooden dolly, was a slab of weathered stone about one metre in length, half a metre wide and as thick as a mattress. Whoever had lifted it on was probably nursing a back strain.
‘Can you make out what it is?’
‘Isn’t it supposed to be someone on horseback?’ Ingeborg said.
‘Looks to me like a bunch of bananas.’
The face of the slab had been worked by a sculptor at some time in the remote past and any detail had long since been eroded. Thanks to the build-up of centuries of grime in the chiselled areas you could conceivably make out the outline of a horse and rider, Diamond was willing to admit. If so, the horse had thick legs, which was no bad thing. Either the sculptor’s sense of proportion was faulty or the person in the saddle was an XXL.
‘Does the writing give any clues?’ he asked.
Along the base was some damaged lettering: ‘. . . N . . AMB . . RE ES . . Y SHE SAT.’
Ingeborg shook her head. ‘The last two words are all I can make out. I suppose they tell us the rider is female.’
He eyed the carving again. ‘You could have fooled me.’
‘The auction catalogue may throw some light. There must be some about.’
He nodded. ‘See if you can find one while I have a word with the pathologist.’
Bertram Sealy in his blue zip-suit was squatting in a mass of broken china beside the body and speaking into a tape-recorder. He flapped a hand as Diamond approached. ‘Don’t come any closer with your big feet.’
Diamond let go of the do-not-cross tape as if he had never intended to creep under it. ‘I’m not new to this. First impressions?’
‘No great loss,’ the pathologist said.
There was a pause. ‘That’s callous even by your standards.’
‘Bits of a tea service, cheap nineteen-fifties willow pattern. The table may take some repairing, but they’re clever, these restorers. It will take something off the value, even so.’
There is an unwritten law that the professionals hide their emotions, and black humour often comes to the rescue. Sealy’s laborious efforts always put an extra strain on his dealings with Diamond. ‘I was asking about the victim.’
‘Him? He’s beyond repair.’
‘I can see that. What’s your opinion?’
‘I’m not a bal...
Revue de presse :
‘Will somebody start me at five hundred?’
A card with a number was raised near the front.
‘Thank you. Five-fifty. Six hundred. Six-fifty. Seven. Seven-fifty at the back. Eight.’
The bidding was keen by West Country standards. Morton’s auction house in Bath was used to lots being knocked down without much show of enthusiasm. The dealer’s faces were giving nothing away.
‘A thousand.’
Now the increments would be in hundreds. Four or five bidders were still interested and Denis Doggart, the auctioneer, needed the help of his assistants to keep track of the small movements that signified bids.
‘Fifteen hundred. Sixteen. Seventeen on the phone.’
Heads turned. Not everyone in the room had realised bids were being phoned in. This wasn’t a sale of impressionist paintings at Sotheby’s. It was only the regular quarterly disposal of bits brought in to the Bath office for valuation, and most of them were bric-a-brac or tat.
Doggart was unfazed. He had been told to expect two telephone bidders, from New York and Tokyo.
‘Two thousand.’
The opening bidder shook his head. This was beyond his top figure. But the others were still in. The price mounted steadily, in two hundreds now.
‘At three thousand pounds.’
A stifled gasp came from the back where some onlookers had gathered.
Doggart knew who the main bidders were, except one, a dark-haired man in a cream coloured linen jacket and white shirt with a red bow tie. This stranger, more than anyone, was driving the sale. A spark of determination had kindled in his blue eyes. But who the hell was he? He’d obviously registered and been given his number. He’d shown no interest in any of the hundred and twenty-eight lots that had gone before. Doggart would have liked to check with his clerk to learn the name, but controlling the auction demanded total concentration.
After three thousand, the bidding is stepped up by larger amounts.
‘Four thousand in the front.’
Bow Tie Man was in it to win it.
A pause.
‘All done?’
Far from it. A new bidder raised his card, Sturgess, a London dealer who only made the trip to Bath when the catalogue contained something exceptional.
Immediately Bow Tie topped the bid.
The interest from Japan and America had ended somewhere between three and four thousand. Sturgess and the mystery man could settle this between them. And now the bids were coming in with the pendulum precision that auctioneers love.
‘Five thousand, then.’
Who wears a bow tie these days? A few doctors and academics. The occasional eccentric. Certain auctioneers.
After a moment’s consideration, Sturgess nodded for five thousand five.
No hesitation in the response.
‘Six thousand from the gentleman in the front. Are we there yet? A unique item of excellent provenance.’
A new, aggressive voice broke in: ‘Nobody move.’
The shock in the room was unimaginable. When an auctioneer is at work, his voice and his alone is all anyone expects to hear. The bidding is silent. An utterance from anyone else is an outrage.
If “Nobody move” was an order, it was not obeyed. After the collective jerk of surprise, all heads turned to see who had spoken.
A larger shock awaited. The speaker was wearing a black mask that covered his face and was holding a handgun. He must have been standing all the time against the wall within ten feet of the auctioneer. He’d slipped on the mask and produced the gun and spoken his two words while all the attention was on the bidders.
Denis Doggart, on his rostrum, was supposed to be directing the show. He turned his head and said, ‘What’s this about?’
‘Shut up.’ The masked man said, ‘Everyone stay right where you are and nobody will get hurt.’
Doggart said, ‘This is intolerable.’
‘I already told you to shut it.’
If any doubt remained how serious the situation was, it evaporated when two more masked men with guns entered the saleroom by the door facing the rostrum. They marched up the aisle that was kept clear for safety reasons and took a grip on the handle of the wooden dolly supporting lot 129, the object currently under the hammer.
This was too much for the bidder with the red bow tie. ‘You can’t steal that,’ he said in a shrill, appalled voice. ‘Get away.’
‘Shut up, mister,’ the first gunman said. ‘Get on with it,’ he told his companions.
‘It’s under auction. I made the last bid. No one is taking it.’
‘Let them be, sir,’ the auctioneer said. ‘They’re armed.’
‘They’re not having it. It’s too precious.’ Bow Tie was up from his chair and striding towards the men starting to shift the heavy burden. ‘Get your hands off.’
The steady build-up of adrenalin during the auction must have given him extra courage, blind, foolhardy anger at the crime being committed in front of everyone. He was a slight man, no match for the crooks except in strength of will. He grabbed the sleeve of the nearest and succeeded in tugging his hand away from the dolly.
The gunman swung around. He had the automatic in his right hand. He levelled it and squeezed the trigger.
The report echoed through the auction room, deafening everyone.
The force of the bullet sent Bow Tie Man crashing against a walnut table stacked with china. He hit the ground at the same time as a mass of cups, saucers and plates. Pandemonium followed, screams and shouts, some people diving for cover, others heading for the door.
The would-be thieves panicked like everyone else. Any thoughts of stealing lot 129 were abandoned without a word passing among them. All three dashed for the exit, stepping over their wounded victim.
A silver delivery van was waiting in the street outside with rear door open and a ramp in place. Two of the crooks dived in and hoisted the ramp aboard and the third slammed the door, dashed to the front and climbed in. The driver, obviously primed for the getaway, had the wheels in motion before the door closed. With a screech of rubber on tarmac, the getaway vehicle rounded the tight corners of Queen Square and was gone.
Inside the auction room fumes of cordite hung in the air. People were kneeling beside the victim, wanting to assist, but a man shot through the belly needs more than first aid. Blood had seeped through his clothes and dribbled from his mouth. He had turned as grey as the lump of stone he’d been bidding for.
‘Who is he?’
‘No idea.’
‘Doesn’t anyone know who the poor guy is?’
‘He was bidding. He must have signed in.’
‘Good point. We can check.’
‘Someone better phone the police.’
‘I already did,’ Doggart said, down from his rostrum. ‘They’re on their way and so is the ambulance.’
‘Looks like he needs an undertaker’s van, not an ambulance.’
Chapter 2
From saleroom to crime scene: a swift, harsh transformation. A forensics team was already at work in a cordoned area among the array of antique glass, silver and furniture.
There is only so much information you can get from looking at a shot corpse. Peter Diamond, Bath’s head of CID, had now moved past and was taking more interest in lot 129. ‘Someone was killed for this?’
‘I know what you mean,’ Detective Sergeant Ingeborg Smith said. ‘As a motive for murder, this tops everything.’
‘Topped him, for sure.’ He passed his fingertips along the chipped surface. ‘It’s not even in good condition.’
‘It’s antique,’ Ingeborg said and added before realising he wasn’t being serious, ‘There are going to be signs of wear.’
‘As I say when I look in my shaving mirror each morning.’
‘Don’t.’
‘Why would anyone want such a thing? It’s not decorative. Would you give it house room?’
‘Speaking personally, no, but people were bidding good money for it.’
‘Did you find out how much?’
‘Six thousand and rising.’
‘Six grand?’ Diamond said on a high note that startled the CSI team behind him. ‘For this?’
The object in front of them, standing on a wooden dolly, was a slab of weathered stone about one metre in length, half a metre wide and as thick as a mattress. Whoever had lifted it on was probably nursing a back strain.
‘Can you make out what it is?’
‘Isn’t it supposed to be someone on horseback?’ Ingeborg said.
‘Looks to me like a bunch of bananas.’
The face of the slab had been worked by a sculptor at some time in the remote past and any detail had long since been eroded. Thanks to the build-up of centuries of grime in the chiselled areas you could conceivably make out the outline of a horse and rider, Diamond was willing to admit. If so, the horse had thick legs, which was no bad thing. Either the sculptor’s sense of proportion was faulty or the person in the saddle was an XXL.
‘Does the writing give any clues?’ he asked.
Along the base was some damaged lettering: ‘. . . N . . AMB . . RE ES . . Y SHE SAT.’
Ingeborg shook her head. ‘The last two words are all I can make out. I suppose they tell us the rider is female.’
He eyed the carving again. ‘You could have fooled me.’
‘The auction catalogue may throw some light. There must be some about.’
He nodded. ‘See if you can find one while I have a word with the pathologist.’
Bertram Sealy in his blue zip-suit was squatting in a mass of broken china beside the body and speaking into a tape-recorder. He flapped a hand as Diamond approached. ‘Don’t come any closer with your big feet.’
Diamond let go of the do-not-cross tape as if he had never intended to creep under it. ‘I’m not new to this. First impressions?’
‘No great loss,’ the pathologist said.
There was a pause. ‘That’s callous even by your standards.’
‘Bits of a tea service, cheap nineteen-fifties willow pattern. The table may take some repairing, but they’re clever, these restorers. It will take something off the value, even so.’
There is an unwritten law that the professionals hide their emotions, and black humour often comes to the rescue. Sealy’s laborious efforts always put an extra strain on his dealings with Diamond. ‘I was asking about the victim.’
‘Him? He’s beyond repair.’
‘I can see that. What’s your opinion?’
‘I’m not a bal...
Praise for The Stone Wife
Recipient of the 2014 Strand Lifetime Acheivement Award
A Deadly Pleasures Best Book of 2014
“[W]onderful tidbits of Chaucerian scholarship enliven the novel. And whatever you think of Peter Diamond, he proves himself a 'verray, parfit, gentil knyght.'”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Lively, surprise-filled . . . Peter Lovesey is himself a master of historical mysteries.”
—Wall Street Journal
“Diamond's short temper and quirky investigative tactics are pleasing, and readers familiar with English literature are sure to love all the Chaucerian allusions.”
—Shelf Awareness
“As always, this character and his team are sharp, funny, and grab the reader’s attention from beginning to end!”
—Suspense Magazine
"Lovesey once again proves himself a master plotter and one of the most entertaining writers in the field."
—Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
“The characters are brilliantly drawn . . . this entertaining police procedural-style mystery is another example of why this series is so popular with readers.”
—Mysterious Reviews
"Nobody writes better crime fiction than Peter Lovesey."
—Deadly Pleasures
“The Stone Wife is a beautifully written novel that catches you from the very beginning. Putting The Stone Wife down for any length of time is not an option . . . once you start it you have to finish.”
—Fresh Fiction
“This fourteenth in the series is filled with red herrings, plot complications, deception and fascinating characters, all the components which make for a good read . . . humor is rampant throughout. Very highly recommended.”
—I Love a Mystery
“Peter Lovesey's nicely paced British crime fiction takes the old-fashioned taste for classic Agatha Christie, and updates it with quirky humor and just enough staff friction to make Chief Superintendent Peter Diamond tear out a bit more hair. [A] stylish series.”
—Kingdom Books
“One of the great things about reading one of Lovesey’s police procedurals starring Chief Superintendent Peter Diamond of the Bath CID is the natural way Diamond’s cases take the reader into the history of Bath itself. Lovesey’s latest is filled with details . . . riveting. If you’ve never encountered Diamond before, this is a good place to start.”
—Booklist, Starred Review
“This is a 100 per cent win from Lovesey, who proves an embarrassment of authorial riches by managing to keep the plot propulsive, the dialog pithy, the cops’ jokes and good humor strong, and the characters easily identifiable. A great procedural whodunnit with an interesting maguffin. This is the 14th book in the “Peter Diamond” series, and it’s enough to make readers flip back through the previous 13.”
—Library Journal
"Dogged police work, nasty revelations about respectable citizens, dollops of suspense, Chaucerian tidbits—all the pleasures you expect from much-honored Lovesey are here."
—Kirkus Reviews
“[Chief Supt. Peter Diamond] is irascible but endearing.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[P]rovides interesting bits of history about Chaucer, Brunel, Bristol, and Bath...plenty of excitement.”
—Gumshoe Review
“With more violence than we normally associate with Lovesey, this is well up to his high standard of storytelling. It will hold you to the deckchair even if the sun is not shining."
—Daily Mail (UK)
Praise for the Peter Diamond Series
“Peter Diamond is impatient, belligerent, cunning, insightful, foul, laugh-out-loud funny . . . A superb series.”
—Louise Penny
“I’m jealous of everyone discovering Lovesey and Diamond for the first time—you have a wonderful backlist to catch up on. Me, all I can do is wait for the next book.”
—Sara Paretsky
"These erudite and wondrously witty books are unlike any police procedural you've ever read."
—The New York Times Book Review
“Thickly textured, amusing, unpredictably mixing puzzle and procedural . . . One of the best.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Witty . . . A perfectly realized murder mystery.”
—Wall Street Journal
“Extremely stylish, lighter than air . . . utterly surprising.”
—Newsweek
“Lovesey’s books are so beautifully constructed and cleanly written that they could be used as textbooks in a crime writing course.”
—Chicago Tribune
"Ingenious . . . Lovers of good music and a good mystery should not miss this delightful tale."
—Washington Post Book World
"A particularly crafty resolution of the enigmatic mystery shows that this long-running series still has plenty of life."
—Publishers Weekly, Starred Review
Recipient of the 2014 Strand Lifetime Acheivement Award
A Deadly Pleasures Best Book of 2014
“[W]onderful tidbits of Chaucerian scholarship enliven the novel. And whatever you think of Peter Diamond, he proves himself a 'verray, parfit, gentil knyght.'”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Lively, surprise-filled . . . Peter Lovesey is himself a master of historical mysteries.”
—Wall Street Journal
“Diamond's short temper and quirky investigative tactics are pleasing, and readers familiar with English literature are sure to love all the Chaucerian allusions.”
—Shelf Awareness
“As always, this character and his team are sharp, funny, and grab the reader’s attention from beginning to end!”
—Suspense Magazine
"Lovesey once again proves himself a master plotter and one of the most entertaining writers in the field."
—Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
“The characters are brilliantly drawn . . . this entertaining police procedural-style mystery is another example of why this series is so popular with readers.”
—Mysterious Reviews
"Nobody writes better crime fiction than Peter Lovesey."
—Deadly Pleasures
“The Stone Wife is a beautifully written novel that catches you from the very beginning. Putting The Stone Wife down for any length of time is not an option . . . once you start it you have to finish.”
—Fresh Fiction
“This fourteenth in the series is filled with red herrings, plot complications, deception and fascinating characters, all the components which make for a good read . . . humor is rampant throughout. Very highly recommended.”
—I Love a Mystery
“Peter Lovesey's nicely paced British crime fiction takes the old-fashioned taste for classic Agatha Christie, and updates it with quirky humor and just enough staff friction to make Chief Superintendent Peter Diamond tear out a bit more hair. [A] stylish series.”
—Kingdom Books
“One of the great things about reading one of Lovesey’s police procedurals starring Chief Superintendent Peter Diamond of the Bath CID is the natural way Diamond’s cases take the reader into the history of Bath itself. Lovesey’s latest is filled with details . . . riveting. If you’ve never encountered Diamond before, this is a good place to start.”
—Booklist, Starred Review
“This is a 100 per cent win from Lovesey, who proves an embarrassment of authorial riches by managing to keep the plot propulsive, the dialog pithy, the cops’ jokes and good humor strong, and the characters easily identifiable. A great procedural whodunnit with an interesting maguffin. This is the 14th book in the “Peter Diamond” series, and it’s enough to make readers flip back through the previous 13.”
—Library Journal
"Dogged police work, nasty revelations about respectable citizens, dollops of suspense, Chaucerian tidbits—all the pleasures you expect from much-honored Lovesey are here."
—Kirkus Reviews
“[Chief Supt. Peter Diamond] is irascible but endearing.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[P]rovides interesting bits of history about Chaucer, Brunel, Bristol, and Bath...plenty of excitement.”
—Gumshoe Review
“With more violence than we normally associate with Lovesey, this is well up to his high standard of storytelling. It will hold you to the deckchair even if the sun is not shining."
—Daily Mail (UK)
Praise for the Peter Diamond Series
“Peter Diamond is impatient, belligerent, cunning, insightful, foul, laugh-out-loud funny . . . A superb series.”
—Louise Penny
“I’m jealous of everyone discovering Lovesey and Diamond for the first time—you have a wonderful backlist to catch up on. Me, all I can do is wait for the next book.”
—Sara Paretsky
"These erudite and wondrously witty books are unlike any police procedural you've ever read."
—The New York Times Book Review
“Thickly textured, amusing, unpredictably mixing puzzle and procedural . . . One of the best.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Witty . . . A perfectly realized murder mystery.”
—Wall Street Journal
“Extremely stylish, lighter than air . . . utterly surprising.”
—Newsweek
“Lovesey’s books are so beautifully constructed and cleanly written that they could be used as textbooks in a crime writing course.”
—Chicago Tribune
"Ingenious . . . Lovers of good music and a good mystery should not miss this delightful tale."
—Washington Post Book World
"A particularly crafty resolution of the enigmatic mystery shows that this long-running series still has plenty of life."
—Publishers Weekly, Starred Review
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Description du livre Hardcover. Etat : new. New Copy. Customer Service Guaranteed. N° de réf. du vendeur think1616953934
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EUR 51,69
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The Stone Wife (A Detective Peter Diamond Mystery)
Edité par
Soho Crime
(2014)
ISBN 10 : 1616953934
ISBN 13 : 9781616953935
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Description du livre Hardcover. Etat : new. Brand New Copy. N° de réf. du vendeur BBB_new1616953934
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EUR 52,91
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Image d'archives
The Stone Wife (A Detective Peter Diamond Mystery)
Edité par
Soho Crime
(2014)
ISBN 10 : 1616953934
ISBN 13 : 9781616953935
Neuf
Couverture rigide
Quantité disponible : 1
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Evaluation vendeur
Description du livre Hardcover. Etat : New. N° de réf. du vendeur Abebooks544318
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EUR 60,77
Autre devise