Mystery crime fiction written in the Golden Age of Murder "The intricacies of the characters' relationships and the trove of secrets Scotland Yard Inspector Macdonald uncovers make for riveting reading." ― Booklist Bruce Attleton dazzled London's literary scene with his first two novels―but his early promise did not bear fruit. His wife Sybilla is a glittering actress, unforgiving of Bruce's failure, and the couple lead separate lives in their house at Regent's Park. When Bruce is called away on a sudden trip to Paris, he vanishes completely―until his suitcase and passport are found in a sinister artist's studio, the Belfry, in a crumbling house in Notting Hill. Inspector Macdonald must uncover Bruce's secrets, and find out the identity of his mysterious blackmailer. This intricate mystery from a classic writer is set in a superbly evoked London of the 1930s. Bats in the Belfry is an uncovered gem from the 1930s, a complex puzzler, presenting a less-than-cozy view of London at the time.-- " Popular Culture Association " The intricacies of the characters' relationships and the trove of secrets Scotland Yard Inspector Macdonald uncovers make for riveting reading.--Connie Fletcher " Booklist " The mystery is so complex, in fact, that Lorac, the pseudonym of Edith Caroline Rivett (1894-1958), requires the services of some aggressively facetious suspects, a low-key lead detective who's a welcome change of pace, and an army of nondescript and interchangeable satellite police officers. Ah, those were the days.-- " Kirkus Reviews " E.C.R. LORAC was a pen name of Edith Caroline Rivett (1894-1958) who was a prolific writer of crime fiction from the 1930s to the 1950s, and a member of the prestigious Detection Club. Her books have been almost entirely neglected since her death, but deserve rediscovery as fine examples of classic British crime fiction in its golden age. Bats in the Belfry A London Mystery By E.C.R. Lorac Poisoned Pen Press Copyright © 2018 Estate of E.C.R. Lorac All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4642-0965-9 CHAPTER 1 "As funerals go, it was quite a snappy effort. No dawdling, well up to time and all that, but, my godfathers! What a farce to have to go to it at all. Didn't make a ha'porth of difference to the party concerned." Bruce Attleton mixed himself a whisky and soda calculated to reduce funereal impressions to a minimum, and swallowed it rather more quickly than was customary in such a gathering. Neil Rockingham holding in his own hand a glass containing a milder version of the same drink, raised an angular eyebrow as he replied: "Well, funerals never worry me. One good point about them — and weddings too, for that matter — is that they do get on with the doings — preamble, main theme, and blessing for curtain, and there you are. Snappy, as you say. Not like some of these infernal parties where you stand on one leg and wonder when you can decently depart. I do like a focus-point to an entertainment." Bruce grinned, and his dark, sardonic face lighted up as he threw himself into a comfortable chair by the log fire. It was March, and the evenings were cold, so that the warm, slightly scented air of Sybilla Attleton's drawing-room struck a man as cosy after the raw air outside. A nice room, this of Sybilla's, meditated Rockingham. Peaceful, well-designed, chairs large enough to sit in, and plenty of them, not too many fallals for a man to trip over, and yet definitely a woman's room, with its colour scheme of faint grey and silver, lilac and deep blue. A sociable room, but not the right spot to swill down whisky like that nervy blighter, Bruce, was doing. Sybilla, an exquisite figure in silver lamé with a short ermine cloak round her shoulders, lighted a Balkan Sobranje, and made a little face at her husband. "I gather the funeral did make you shed a tear after all, Bruce — not for sorrow about our dear departed brother, but a tear of self-indulgent sympathy, that you should have been called upon to make the frightful effort of standing by a graveside." "Caustic, what?" Robert Grenville, a little embarrassed by the tone of Sybilla's voice, decided that jocularity was the vein to follow. "If it's not being unreasonably inquisitive, who was the party concerned, so to speak? The bury-ee, or interee, or what you call him." "The 'dear departed' or the 'late lamented' is the accepted term," replied Bruce amiably enough. "On this occasion, it was a young chap named Anthony Fell — a cousin of sorts, though I can't tell you the exact degree. Family ramifications always beat me. However, this one turned up from Australia a few months ago — architect, hearty sort of chap. Doing quite nicely in the interim, building large-scale blocks on the modern housing principle, complete with the best in plumbing. Unfortunately he didn't manage the plumbing of his own car as well as he did that of his working-class flats. Came blinding down Porlock Hill in a fog, in a last year's racing model — a yellow