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And Being Dead - SIGNED - Margaret Erskine
1938 UK hardback first edition, first impression published by Geoffrey Bles in London Signed and inscribed on the front free endpaper by the author A VG indeed book sadly no longer with dust jacket Still tight and square, light page tan but no foxing The authors first book and the first of the highly regarded Inspector Septimus Finch mysteries This is an extremely rare book but as a signed copy . . . A nice solid and clean copy of a book I have never seen before For Sale at £155 (approx $250) *S - free delivery worldwide ! |
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Margaret Erskine is actually a pseudonym used by Margaret Wetherby Williams. Her main series character was Inspector Septimus Finch. |
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Margaret Erskine enters upon detective writing very quietly, with a modest five-line blurb; but many recent newcomers, whose qualifications have screamed at us from their jackets, have not deserved half the welcome which is due to this master of atmosphere, and to her quite delightful Detective-Inspector Septimus Finch. "And Being Dead " introduces us to Coldhithe, which, for an English seaside town, is the very devil of a place, with its crooked houses, limping presences, and inherited malignancies. Kenneth Dean, a rather distressing young artist, congratulated himself that he would be leaving that haunted spot in five days; as a matter of fact, he left on the third day and was not seen again save as a corpse at the bottom of the sea rocks with fresh water in its stomach. Then Finch arrived at Coldhithe in Wadsworth, his temperamental car, and his arrival was signalised by a second murder. His groping through the eerie fog of .the case is expert and at the same time human; he is up against one of the oldest of motives; and we are up against a sure-fire plot mechanism which, is by no means new, but in this case singularly effective |
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THE Georgian house was the only one of its kind in a square of crooked houses. It was small and flat, like a child's toy. It gleamed white with much paint. The heavy silver door handle twinkled as if inviting the passerby to pause and turn it—as if promising much pleasure beyond its smooth circumference. Yet the door had closed with a sharp click. An unfriendly, decisive click. The young man who turned away was smiling. Had there been anyone to see, the smile might have been more pleasant. But there was no one. Kenneth Dean had the square to himself. In front was the churchyard. The church black against the sky, the old grave stones bright and crooked in the" moonlight, the wind-bent trees phantasmal in their setting. The houses, from which not a light gleamed, looked wan and remote as if palely repudiating any human allegiance they might own by day. They had an atmosphere both cloistered and self-sufficient. Kenneth Dean turned away. Yes, a quiet square and a quiet hour so that he might the more thoroughly recall the details of his past visit. My lovely Kay, he had called her and kissed her hand. Kissed it so lightly, so airily that her husband could make no objection. Make none— no. But he'd minded. Dean's smile broadened. No sight as ludicrous as that of a jealous man. A nuisance, though, about the portrait. Said it made her look like a strumpet, had he? What had he expected her to look like ? A Sunday school teacher? A strumpet. |
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