Bleeding Heart Square by Andrew Taylor

By Andrew Taylor

1934, London. Into the decaying cul-de-sac of Bleeding middle sq. steps aristocratic Lydia Langstone fleeing an abusive marriage. even though, unknown to Lydia, a gloomy secret haunts Bleeding middle sq.. What occurred to overlook Penhow, the middle-aged spinster who owns the home and who vanished 4 years prior? Why is a seedy plain-clothes policeman obsessively looking at the sq.? what's making suffering journalist Rory Wentwood so wanting to touch leave out Penhow? And why are parcels of rotting hearts being despatched to Joseph Serridge, the final individual to work out omit Penhow alive?

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It would cost her half a crown, plus perhaps a tip. In the last forty-eight hours, she had become conscious about money in a way she had never been before. Soon she would have to sell some jewelry. While she was waiting for her cutlets, she returned to the crossword in The Times. Instead of attempting the clues, however, she jotted down items on a shopping list. Tea. Milk. Bread. As she was wondering whether she should economize and buy margarine rather than butter, somebody brushed her arm. “Excuse me,” a man said.

She found a place at a table laid for two. She was surprised to find herself much hungrier than usual and ordered cutlets and peas, with plum pie and custard to follow. It would cost her half a crown, plus perhaps a tip. In the last forty-eight hours, she had become conscious about money in a way she had never been before. Soon she would have to sell some jewelry. While she was waiting for her cutlets, she returned to the crossword in The Times. Instead of attempting the clues, however, she jotted down items on a shopping list.

She felt his hands on her legs. He gripped her knees and held them apart. She whimpered as he pushed up her skirt. “We have to look very carefully,” he said in a voice that was suddenly hoarse, and almost a whisper. “They like it especially here, you see, that’s where they really like to eat. ” It was sheer bad luck that Malcolm Fimberry chose that moment to open the door. Lydia was standing on the doorstep, a latchkey in her hand, and in another moment she might have escaped from Marcus. Her husband was standing there, bareheaded in the rain, and he looked all wrong in Bleeding Heart Square, like an elephant at the North Pole or a racehorse pulling a plough.

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