Discover the real-life mystery centered on the queen of crime herself: Agatha Christie. In this tantalizing new novel, Christie’s mysterious ten-day disappearance serves as the starting point for a gripping novel, in which Christie herself is pulled into a case of blackmail and murder. “I wouldn’t scream if I were you. Unless you want the whole world to learn about your husband and his mistress.” Agatha Christie, in London to visit her literary agent, is boarding a train, preoccupied with the devastating knowledge that her husband is having an affair. She feels a light touch on her back, causing her to lose her balance, then a sense of someone pulling her to safety from the rush of the incoming train. So begins a terrifying sequence of events—for her rescuer is no guardian angel, rather he is a blackmailer of the most insidious, manipulative kind. “You, Mrs. Christie, are going to commit a murder. But, before then, you are going to disappear.” Writing about murder is a far cry from committing a crime, and Agatha must use every ounce of her cleverness and resourcefulness to thwart an adversary determined to exploit her expertise and knowledge about the act of murder to kill on his behalf. In A Talent for Murder , Andrew Wilson ingeniously explores Agatha Christie’s odd ten-day disappearance in 1926 and weaves an utterly compelling and convincing story around this still unsolved mystery involving the world’s bestselling novelist. “[A] twisty thriller…Wilson fully realizes the potential of this ominous setup.” ― Publishers Weekly "The queen of crime is the central character in this audacious mystery, which reinvents the story of her mysterious disappearance with thrilling results." ― The Guardian "Equal parts psychological thriller, detective fiction, and mystery. Readers will become emotionally involved with the protagonist, whom Wilson portrays as both sympathetic and quick witted." ― Library Journal "A fast-paced, pleasingly twisted and creepy thriller...reads like an amalgamation of a clever Agatha Christie puzzler with the darker characters and psychological insights found in Patricia Highsmith's thrillers...With Strong characters, shrewd plotting and a skillful blending of fact and fiction, A Talent for Murder is a compelling period mystery that will keep whodunit fans captivated." ― Shelf Awareness Andrew Wilson is an award-winning journalist and author. His work has appeared in a wide variety of publications including the Guardian , the Washington Post , the Sunday Times , and the Smithsonian Magazine. He is the author of four acclaimed biographies, a book about the survivors of the Titanic, and the novels, The Lying Tongue, A Talent for Murder, A Different Kind of Evil , Death in a Desert Land. A Talent for Murder 1 Wherever I turned my head, I thought I saw her: a woman people described as striking, beautiful even. That would never have been my choice of words. Of course, when I looked again across the glove counter or perfume display, it was never her, just another dark-haired woman trying to make the best of herself. But each of these imagined glimpses left a piece of scar tissue across my heart. I told myself to stop thinking of her—I would simply pretend the situation did not exist—but then I caught sight of another pale-faced brunette and the dull ache in my chest would flare up again and leave me feeling nauseous. When I had first fallen in love with Archie, I had likened the feeling to a white dove trying to escape from my chest. Now that Archie’s head had been turned by this creature, I imagined the dove being strangled with a necklace of barbed wire and slowly rotting away inside me. The distant sound of a brass band playing carols lightened my mood for a moment. I had always adored Christmas and I was determined that this year was going to seem just as festive and jolly as normal, at least for Rosalind’s sake. I walked over to the doll counter and a bank of china-white faces with blank blue eyes stared back at me. I picked up a doll with straw-yellow hair and ran my fingers down its smooth pale cheek. How funny that I had named my own daughter after my childhood doll, a toy that I had admired but rarely played with. Even then I had preferred to make up my own stories. Rosalind had not inherited my imagination, which was probably for the best, as sometimes my fancy, although it had its benefits, left me feeling wrung out and close to wretched. As I put the doll back down on the counter and was about to pick up its black-haired twin with eyes like plump blackberries, I felt a pricking at the base of my skull. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled and a shiver went through me. I turned round, certain that someone was studying me, but met only the kindly eyes of elderly ladies dressed in their smart tweeds. I comforted myself with the knowledge that the Army & Navy Stores in Victoria was the kind of place where nothing dreadful could ever