Lord Peter Wimsey bent down over General Fentiman and drew the Morning Post gently away from the gnarled old hands. Then, with a quick jerk, he lifted the quiet figure. It came up all of a piece, stiff as a wooden doll . . .

But how did the general die? Who was the mysterious Mr X who fled when he was wanted for questioning? And which of the general s heirs, both members of the Bellona Club, is lying?

She brought to the detective novel originality, intelligence, energy and wit. P. D. James