A lawyer’s lucrative case has deadly consequences in the third installment of the Hilary Tamar mysteries that began with Thus Was Adonis Murdered “Sarah Caudwell is one of my very favorite mystery writers.”—A. J. Finn, New York Times bestselling author of The Woman in the Window New York Times Book Review Editors’ Choice Young barrister Michael Cantrip has skipped off to the Channel Islands to take on a tax-law case that’s worth a fortune—if Cantrip’s tax-planning cronies can locate the missing heir. But Cantrip has waded in way over his head. Strange things are happening on these mysterious, isolated isles. Something is going bump in the night—and bumping off members of the legal team, one by one. Soon Cantrip is messaging the gang at the home office for help. And it’s up to amateur investigator Hilary Tamar, Oxford don turned supersleuth, to get Cantrip back to the safety of his chambers—alive! Don’t miss any of Sarah Caudwell’s riveting Hilary Tamar mysteries: THUS WAS ADONIS MURDERED • THE SHORTEST WAY TO HADES • THE SIRENS SANG OF MURDER • THE SIBYL IN HER GRAVE Young barrsiter Michael Cantrip has skipped of to the Channel Islands to take on a tax-law case that's worth a fortune -- if Cantrip's tax-planning cronies can locate the missing heir. But Cantrip has waded in way over his head. Strange things are happening on these mysterious, isolated isles. Something is going bump in the night -- and bumping off members of the legal team, one by one. Soon Cantrip is telexing the gang at the home office for help. And it's up to amateur investigator Hilaray Tamar (Oxford don turned supersleuth) to get Cantrip back to safety of his chambers -- alive! Sarah Caudwell , the pipe-smoking author of  Thus Was Adonis Murdered  and three other novels featuring Oxford Don Hilary Tamar, died in 2000. “Hilary’s voice was in my head before any of the plots,” Caudwell told writer Martin Edwards in an interview for  Mystery Scene . “I knew from the outset Hilary must be an Oxford don—but of equivocal sex and even equivocal age, resembling that precise, donnish kind of individual who starts being elderly at the age of twenty-two.” Chapter 1 “No, no, let me go or I’ll scream,” cried the lovely Eliane, her beautiful eyes filling with tears and her bosom heaving under the delicate silk of her blouse as she struggled to free herself from the vile embrace of the brutal Barristers’ Clerk. “Scream all you like, you little fool,” snarled the Clerk, his hideous features twisted in a vicious leer. “There’s no one left in Chambers to hear you.” But at that very moment there appeared in the doorway of the Clerks’ Room the suave and aristocratic figure of the brilliant young barrister Martin Carruthers. “That’s where you’re wrong, Toadsbreath,” he drawled with suave contempt. “Take your vile hands off Eliane this minute. She may be only a temporary typist, but she is too rare and fine a creature to be touched by the likes of you.” “Mr. Carruthers, sir, I thought you’d gone home, sir,” stammered Toadsbreath, cringing like a whipped cur before the young barrister’s contemptuous suavity. Eliane gazed at Carruthers with adoration in her lovely eyes. ... Cantrip and Julia were collaborating in the composition of a novel, based on their experiences of life at the Bar and to be entitled Chancery!, which they confidently expected to earn them wealth beyond the dreams of avarice and so free them from the tyranny of their respective Clerks. It had fallen to Cantrip to write the first instalment. Offered the signal privilege of glancing through the opening paragraphs, I was reading them by candlelight in the Corkscrew, the wine bar on the north side of High Holborn which is the customary resort of my friends in Lincoln’s Inn when the long day’s work is done. Cantrip sat watching me with the anxiety characteristic of the aspiring author. It occurred to me that at least in appearance he was a not unsuitable model for the hero of a novel—­the blackness of his hair and eyes combined with the pallor of his complexion to suggest a certain romantic quality which I supposed might appeal to the more susceptible portion of the reading public. “What do you think of it, Hilary? Pretty hot stuff, wouldn’t you say?” I answered, well knowing the sensitivity of the creative temperament, that I could scarcely contain my impatience to read further. “May I infer,” I continued, “since you tell me that your narrative is based on real life, that you have a new temporary typist in Chambers?” “That’s right,” said Cantrip. “Lilian’s her real name. Pale and blonde and sort of wistful-­looking. Makes you feel she’s probably an orphan, going out to work to support her aged parents.” “So touching and unusual a predicament,” I said, “cannot fail to engage the sympathy of your readers. And is it indeed the case that you have discovered your Clerk making unwelcome advances to her?” “Oh, absolutely. Not exactly like I’ve put it in th