By Josephine Tey
A woman's physique is located at the English seacoast, and twisted in her hair is a piece of writing screaming homicide. For Inspector Alan furnish, the case turns into a nightmare, as too many clues and too many explanations come up.
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Extra info for A Shilling for Candles
All over the world things happened because one woman had lost her life. In California a man telephoned a summons to a girl in Greenwich Village. A Texas airplane pilot did an extra night flight carrying Clay films for rush showing. A New York firm canceled an order. An Italian nobleman went bankrupt: he had hoped to sell her his yacht. A man in Philadelphia ate his first square meal in months, thanks to an "I knew her when" story. A woman in Le Touquet sang because now her chance had come. And in an English cathedral town a man thanked God on his knees.
And around the neck, close to the button, was twined a thin strand of bright hair. Tisdall was on his feet, both hands on the table edge, staring down at the object. "You think someone drowned her? I mean—like that! But that isn't mine. There are thousands of buttons like that. " "I don't think anything, Mr. Tisdall. I am only eliminating possibilities. All I wanted you to do was to account for any garment owned by you which had buttons like that. " Tisdall stared at the Inspector, his mouth opening and shutting helplessly.
Of course, what with wireless, the edge was off the morning paper, as you might say. But it was an objective. War or peace, a man had to have an objective. You couldn't go into Westover just to look at the front. And going back to breakfast with the paper under your arm made you feel fine, somehow. Yes, perhaps he would walk into the town. The pace of his black, square-toed boots quickened slightly, their shining surface winking in the sunlight. Proper service, these boots were. One might have thought that Potticary, having spent his best years in brushing his boots to order, would have asserted his individuality, or expressed his personality, or otherwise shaken the dust of a meaningless discipline off his feet by leaving the dust on his boots.