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John Malcolm

Crime & Mystery Books for Sale

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Information on descriptions and condition

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The Gwen John Sculpture - John Malcolm
1985 UK hardback book club edition, Guild, London
A near fine book in near fine unclipped dust jacket
No names, inscriptions or stamps etc
Tightly bound and square, clean and bright
The jacket has no loss or tears
Tim Simpson gets a letter delivered to his London office from Paris, a chance to buy an undiscovered Rodin, nothing is that simple though!

A very bright copy of an art based mystery and the same as the true 1st bar publisher logos
For Sale at £SOLD - SORRY, CURRENTLY OUT OF STOCK (approx $SOLD) - Delivery Information ~ Free & Subsidised ~ Please Check

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The Godwin Sideboard - John Malcolm
1984 UK hardback book club edition, Guild, London
A near fine book in near fine unclipped dust jacket
No names, inscriptions or stamps etc
Tightly bound and square, clean and bright
The jacket has no loss or tears
Tim Simpson discovers the body of his friend and art dealer, he was supposed to be looking at sideboard but who killed him and who was he telephoning

A lovely example and the second book in the series
For Sale at £SOLD - SORRY, CURRENTLY OUT OF STOCK (approx $SOLD) - Delivery Information ~ Free & Subsidised ~ Please Check

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If you like this author then you may also like the following

Jonathan Gash     Oliver Banks     Anthony Oliver     Ellery Queen    

Synopsis
Summer morning mist hung grey shrouds over the river as I rattled the car across the bridge at Branne. It gave the swirling waters of the Dordogne a leaden, whorled surface as it ran swiftly beneath me. The French get a lot of morning mist, which may account for their set attitude towards the English weather; they imagine that the further north you travel the more impenetrable it becomes. As I glanced down at the wide expanse of quick-running water, blurred at the edges by the mist, I wondered if the hacked bodies would have floated this far, borne by the current, or whether they would have silted the edges further upstream at Castillon itself and along to the bends at St Jean. The volume looked substantial enough, even now, in June; the idea of trying to ford across on foot seemed absurd, no matter how desperate the need. Not a nice memory, any of it; I shivered as the road turned off the river and I could accelerate away round the right-hand bend towards thejunction at St Pey. Over to my left, about five miles away, St Emilion and the rise in the land that provides the slopes for the better chateaux were hidden by the haze. Here along the river plain the flat land was intensely cultivated and striped with vines, but it could boast of no Chateau Cheval Blanc or Chateau Ausone of the distinguished cotes around the town.

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