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When globe-hopping British First Secretary Peter Darwin returns to his childhood home fo a visit, he is sorry. Waiting for him were long-hidden memories, a string of racehorse deaths and homicide. As Darwin begins to realize that the key to all of it involves his own past, he wishes he'd never come back, because he just might never leave again --- alive....
"One of Francis' most winning novels."
SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE
Selected by the Book-of-the-Month Club
that for the next race they would like to walk down to the fences, as they had seen other people do. I was ready to say I’d go with them when I spotted Ken walking alone slowly, looking at his race card, stopping in indecision. “I’ll be here when you come back,” I said hastily in two languages, “but I have to speak to someone. Please, please excuse me.” I left them in midbow and reached Ken before he moved off, slowing to a stop at his elbow. “I want to talk to you,” I said. “Fire away.” He
silently handed over the keys. The senior policeman handed them to his constable, showing him the key in question and telling him to take it over to the investigators, to wait there, and finally bring the keys back. The constable took the bunch and went away and the senior policeman then asked how many people had a key to the pharmacy. “We all do,” Carey said, sighing. “Including the senior secretary, sir?” Carey nodded. “And the cleaners?” Carey said defensively, “We have to keep the place
Belinda urged Ken to come with her to Thetford Cottage because her mother was a disastrous cook and she, Belinda, had said she would do the Sunday lunch for everyone. “You go on, darling,” Ken said, “I just want to go over a few things with Peter.” She went with bad grace, disliking it, delivering a parting shot about us not being late. Ken waved to her lovingly and walked purposefully ahead of me into the office. “Right,” he said, settling into the chair behind the desk and stretching for a
together in a common mortgage on the burned building, but falling apart in loyalties. All their records were burned, including the backup disks for the computer. Their chief remaining asset, the hospital, is gradually being boycotted by clients frightened by Ken operating on their horses. After today’s disaster, that will accelerate. There isn’t much time left for putting things right.” Brose pursed his lips. “I take it back. Impossible is the right word.” “It would be really helpful,” I said,
safely inside with the door locked behind us that I began in any way to relax. They lived in a one-story house, most of the rooms flowing into each other without doors. No heating problems, of course, in South Florida. I went round checking that all the curtains were drawn, finding that the Wayfield taste in interior decorating ran to bright floral prints and mahogany. Returning to find them both sitting in the chairs nearest the front door, as if their legs could take them no farther—the life