Peter Motte

	The Village Called Death - Peter Motte 1955 English hardcover first edition, first impression published by Cassell in London A VG++ book in VG+ unclipped dust jacket The book has no owner names etc, clean and bright The dust cover has only light wear to extremities, clean and bright The village was called Death. Not from its sinister reputation, for it was named after a Norman knight. But the village had a secret—the secret of "Granite" Grant's murder. The police had accused Mary, his young wife. She was put on trial, acquitted for lack of convincing evidence—but not by public opinion. To the village of Death came Peter Holt, a young scientist seeking escape from the temptations of a commercial career and a commercial-minded fiancee. He came by chance, lost in the dangerous mists that envelop the fens, but he stayed. After his coming, many things happened in that tiny fenland hamlet of silent, sullen men, and eventually he discovered the truth of the murder which plagued them all —and in doing so, found his own salvation. The author, who is already known lo the public, under another name, tor his novels and works on criminology, first wrote as Peter Motte when he became associated with the late Reginald Campbell in the production of Murder She Says. When Mr. Campbell died, Peter Motte based A Dog's Death on notes of a projected novel found among his coauthor's papers. His new story lays us much emphasis on character as on crime. It is a worthy successor to the works of both authors. A lovely example with superb artwork by Mudge Marriott For Sale at £20 (approx $32) *s - free delivery worldwide !	Buy Secure - Enquire or Add to Cart
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Sample of the Author Peter Motte's Work Fingers of mist curling and writhing round his feet from the ditches and dykes that lay below the road. They had warned him about the mist. It could be dangerous at this time of year. The lanes were unfenced and some of the dykes were deep. He had reckoned to make the main road for Cambridge and catch a bus long before the October twilight fell, but misunderstood directions and a confusion of intersecting ways had taken him off his course. Already the sun was a red ball sinking in a light grey haze. Like a Japanese print, Peter Holt thought. Overhead the sky was clear. A bad sign, that; no wind or rain to clear the mists away. At the spot where he stopped to fill his pipe the road dipped a few feet so that it was nearly level with the dyke on his left. When he looked up there was a bank of mist in front of him. He had lost all sense of bearings. The temperature was dropping with the sun: in a few minutes it would be both cold and dark. On his right was a verge of grass. Coarse grass, with clumps of sedge which probably concealed a ditch. A foot of mud, if nothing worse, should he stray from the road. He was tired. Already he'd walked some eighteen miles since he left Ely, and his pack was growing heavy. The road must lead somewhere eventually, but he had no map, and beyond the fact that the sun was setting—no, had already set—on his right, he had nothing to guide him. The only sounds were from wildfowl in the fens. With gathering darkness came a feeling of menace.

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