A country house weekend in rural Cornwall ends in murder and mayhem for crime-writer sleuth Donald Langham and his wife Maria. “It’s time to let bygones be bygones. Water under the bridge, right? What happened … happened a long time ago.” When Langham’s literary agent receives a cryptic letter inviting him to spend the weekend at the grand Cornish home of successful novelist Denbigh Connaught, Charles Elder seems reluctant to attend. What really happened between Elder and Connaught during the summer of 1917, nearly forty years before – and why has it had such a devastating effect on Charles? Accompanying his agent to Connaught House, Langham and his wife Maria discover that Charles is not the only one to have received a letter. But why has Denbigh Connaught gathered together a group of people who each bear him a grudge? When a body is discovered in Connaught’s study, the ensuing investigation uncovers dark secrets that haunt the past of each and every guest – including Charles Elder himself … "Readers are presented not only with a whodunit but also a howdunit. Some delightfully old-fashioned slang enlivens the dialogue. Fans of traditional country house mysteries will be gratified" ― Publishers Weekly "Well realized characters and a beautifully evoked setting will keep readers engaged" ― Booklist "An entertaining locked-room mystery with an ingenious murder device that will appeal to fans of Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot and other Golden Age fiction" ― Library Journal Twice winner of the British Science Fiction Award, Eric Brown is the author of more than twenty SF novels and several short story collections. His debut crime novel, Murder by the Book, was published in 2013. Born in Hawarth, West Yorkshire, he now lives in Scotland. Murder Takes A Turn A Langham and Dupré mystery By Eric Brown Severn House Publishers Limited Copyright © 2018 Eric Brown All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-7278-8781-8 CHAPTER 1 In his pied-à-terre above the Elder and Dupré literary agency, Charles Elder was tucking into his favourite breakfast: devilled kidneys with toast and coffee. It was a meal fit for a king and set him up nicely for the day; sometimes, after such a breakfast, he had been known to forego lunch ... though not often. Meals, for Charles Elder, were one of the delights of life, together with the very best novels and poetry. Fine meals and good books, and friends with whom to share these, were the necessities of life – which, all things considered, had been kind to him of late. In Albert he had a faithful and considerate companion, and in Maria Dupré not only a brilliant colleague but a trusted friend. The agency was ticking over very nicely, with fifty authors whose books, both novels and non-fiction, ameliorated the cultural climate of the land. At fifty-six he was in tolerable health, though his doctor had recently suggested that he shed a few pounds. He was, he admitted, rather on the large side. Over lunch last week, one of his authors had commented that the size of his girth made his feet appear so tiny that he resembled a spinning top. A spinning top, indeed! His housemaid bustled into the room. 'That's me, Mr Elder. I'll be back at six. Sirloin with potato dauphinoise and honey-glazed carrots for dinner.' 'And dessert?' 'Sherry trifle suit you?' 'That sounds a delight, Mrs F.' 'Ta-ta for now, then.' ' Au revoir. ' Not that life was all blissful contentment at the moment. There was always a fly in the ointment, and this particular fly was sorely vexing him. Last week, he'd received an unwelcome letter from an old school friend, the novelist Denbigh Connaught. The writer had sacked his agent and wished to appoint Charles to look after his literary affairs. Moreover – and this was what pained Charles – Connaught wished to apologize for something that had occurred during their schooldays almost forty years ago. Charles had not deigned to reply. The missive had brought back a slew of painful memories. Almost as bad as those memories, however, was the niggling voice in the back of his head which insisted that he ought to accept the novelist's apology and agree to represent him. He finished his coffee and gazed through the window overlooking the lawn at the rear of the premises. It was a fortnight until his annual garden party, and he must really draw up a guest list. His mind whirring over whom to invite, and whom not to, he moved to the bathroom, attended to his toilette, then descended to the agency. It was ten thirty, and his working day was under way. Molly was tapping away at her typewriter in the reception area and smiled as he appeared. 'Morning, Mr Elder.' 'Good morning to you, my dear – and a fine one it is, too. The sun shines and all is well with the world. Post?' She indicated two piles on the desk beside her, a tottering tower of manuscripts and a smaller stack of letters. 'Would you be a darling and go through the manuscripts? Unsolicited in one pile, age