After a grisly death ruins a couple’s vacation, Detective Inspector Thomas Lynley must determine whether this small-town tragedy was an accident or the beginning of a sinister plot—a “totally satisfying mystery” ( Denver Post ) in the #1 New York Times bestselling Inspector Lynley series. Don’t miss the upcoming BritBox streaming series Lynley ! “This rich, intricate novel is a perfect choice for anyone in the market for first-rate summer fiction.”— The Baltimore Sun Deborah and Simon St. James have taken a holiday in the winter landscape of Lancastershire, hoping to heal the growing rift in their marriage. But in the barren countryside awaits bleak news: The vicar of Wimslough, the man they had come to see, is dead—a victim of accidental poisoning. Unsatisfied with the inquest ruling and unsettled by the close association between the investigating constable and the woman who served the deadly meal, Simon calls in his old friend Detective Inspector Thomas Lynley. Together they uncover dark, complex relationships in this rural village—relationships that bring men and women together with a passion, with grief, or with the intention to kill. “A totally satisfying mystery experience.” — Denver Post “[George] proves that the classiest crime writers are true novelists.” — The New York Times “Layered, intricate . . . deftly plotted, highly atmospheric.” — Publishers Weekly “Perhaps Ms. George’s most satisfying puzzle yet . . . this rich, intricate novel is a perfect choice for anyone in the market for first-rate summer fiction.” — The Baltimore Sun Elizabeth George’s first novel, A Great Deliverance , was honored with the Anthony and Agatha Best First Novel Awards and received the Grand Prix de Littérature Policière. Her third novel, Well-Schooled in Murder , was awarded the prestigious German prize for suspense fiction, the MIMI. A Suitable Vengeance, For the Sake of Elena, Missing Joseph, Playing for the Ashes, In the Presence of the Enemy, Deception on His Mind, In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner, A Traitor to Memory , and I, Richard were international bestsellers. Elizabeth George divides her time between Huntington Beach, California, and London. Her novels are currently being dramatized by the BBC. CAPPUCCINO. THAT NEW AGE ANSWER to driving one's blues momentarily away. A few tablespoons of espresso, a froth of steamed milk, an accompanying and generally tasteless dash of powdered chocolate and suddenly life was supposed to be all in order again. What drivel. Deborah St. James sighed. She picked up the bill that a passing waitress had slid surreptitiously onto the table. "Good Lord," she said and she stared, both dismayed and disgusted, at the amount she was going to have to pay. A block away, she could have ducked into a pub and acknowledged that importunate inner voice saying, "What's this chi-chi rot, Deb, let's just have a Guinness somewhere." But instead, she'd made her way to Upstairs, the stylish marble-glass-and-chrome coffee shop of the Savoy Hotel where those who imbibed in anything beyond water paid heavily for the privilege. As she was discovering. She'd come to the Savoy to show her portfolio to Richie Rica, an up-and-coming producer employed by a newly formed entertainment conglomerate called L.A.SoundMachine. He had travelled to London for a brief seven days to select the photographer who would capture for posterity the likenesses of Dead Meat, a five-member band from Leeds whose most recent album Rica was shepherding all the way from creation to completion. She was, he told her, the "ninth frigging photog" whose work he'd seen. His patience, apparently, was wearing thin. Unfortunately, it gained no girth from their interview. Straddling a delicate gilded chair, Rica went through her portfolio with all the interest and the approximate speed of a man dealing cards in a gambling casino. One after another, Deborah's pictures sailed to the floor. She watched them fall: her husband, her father, her sister-in-law, her friends, the myriad relations she'd gained through her marriage. There was no Sting or Bowie or George Michael among them. She'd only got the interview in the first place through the recommendation of a fellow photographer whose work had also failed to please the American. And from the expression on Rica's face, she could tell she was getting no further than anyone else. This didn't actually disturb her as much as seeing the black-and-white tarpaulin of her pictures grow on the floor beneath Rica's chair. Among them was her husband's sombre face, and his eyes–so grey-blue light, so much at odds with his jet-coloured hair–seemed to be gazing directly into hers. This isn't the way to escape, he was saying. She never wanted to believe Simon's words at any moment when he was most right. That was the primary difficulty in their marriage: her refusal to see reason in the face of emotion, warring with his cool evaluation of the facts at hand. She would say, God da