Here's enormous fun. Sir Oliver Fairleigh-Stubbs is Britain's most successful thriller writer, even though it's generally agreed his books are bloody awful. And so is he: he's vile to his family (except his gold-digging, ghastly daughter) and everyone else around him. So it's not much of a surprise when someone spikes his favorite after-dinner liqueur with nicotinic acid, bumping the old bastard off. Enter sleuth Inspector Meredith, not an especially literary man, who must trawl among the bitchy inhabitants of an English village out of Miss Marple's nightmares as well as the London offices of Sir Oliver's publishers, deep though they are in mourning for the loss of revenue the author's death implies. Could the answer to the mystery lie in the book Sir Oliver wrote years ago but never published, the manuscript that supposedly none but the writer and an ancient ex-secretary have ever seen? It could indeed . . .The sideswipes at the pretensions of the publishing world are obviously a part of what I found so entertaining about this romp, but the real glory is in its wry evisceration, through understated parody, of the conventions of the "cozy" murder mystery — and yet Barnard's triumph is that the novel functions extremely well as a "cozy" murder mystery itself.
Do You like book Death Of A Mystery Writer (2002)?
