By Alan Bradley
Within the hamlet of Bishop's Lacey, the insidiously smart and unflappable eleven-year-old sleuth Flavia de Luce had requested a Gypsy lady to inform her fortune--never anticipating to later stumble around the bad soul, bludgeoned nearly to demise within the wee hours in her personal caravan. was once this an act of retribution by way of these confident that the soothsayer kidnapped a neighborhood baby years in the past? definitely Flavia is familiar with the bliss of settling rankings; revenge is a pleasant hobby whilst one has odious older sisters. yet how may possibly this crime be hooked up to the lacking child? because the purple herrings pile up, Flavia needs to variety via clues fishy and foul to untangle darkish deeds and unsafe secrets.
BONUS: This variation comprises an excerpt from Alan Bradley's I Am Half-Sick of Shadows.
Read Online or Download A Red Herring Without Mustard (Flavia de Luce Mysteries, Book 3) PDF
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Extra resources for A Red Herring Without Mustard (Flavia de Luce Mysteries, Book 3)
He asked. "Or was it murder? Duket, " he continued, not waiting for an answer, "Duket was a goldsmith and vintner. A man of good family and influential friends. He was also a loyal subject of the King and supported His Highness during the recent troubles. " He stopped and looked at Corbett, who knew too well what the "recent troubles" were. In 1258 almost thirty years ago, civil war had broken out between Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, and Henry III, the present King's father. Indeed, the Lord Edward had first joined the rebels against his father before seeing the wisdom of fighting for a cause which threatened his own future livelihood, namely the crown of England.
Hugh grinned at the fat, generous face. He had always liked de Guisars, who made little attempt to hide his acquisitiveness. "No, Master Goldsmith, " he replied. "I have come to check your stewardship and draw monies from you. " The goldsmith's disappointment was almost laughable. He regarded Corbett as a good customer who always deposited money and rarely drew on his stock. A mysterious man really, the goldsmith thought, looking at the clerk's dark, gaunt face and hooded eyes. The clerk was quite wealthy but lived sparsely in some garret in Thames Street.
It was already dark. The last desperate tradesmen, eel-sellers and water carriers, were trying to squeeze as much trade as possible out of the day. The streets were emptying. Children pulled indoors, apprentices putting up the boards and setting out the horn lanterns, as ordered by the City Fathers to give some poor light to the streets at night. Corbett felt a gloom over the city and recalled Burnell's words about old quarrels festering like pus in the streets and alleyways of the city. He bought a penny loaf from a baker's last batch and snatched mouthfuls of it as he walked up Fish Street, picking his way around the puddles and heaps of rubbish, trying to block out the rank smell from the fish stalls.
A Red Herring Without Mustard (Flavia de Luce Mysteries, Book 3) by Alan Bradley