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 causes come up.

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The sergeant was thoughtful. "I still wonder how she came here, and what—" His eyes had lifted to the cliff face, and he paused. "So! " he said. They turned to see a man's figure on the cliff-top at the Gap. He was standing in an attitude of intense eagerness, watching them. As they turned towards him he did a swift right-about and disappeared. "A bit early for strollers," the sergeant said. "And what's he running away for? " But before he and the constable had moved more than a pace or two it became evident that the man, far from running away, had been merely making for the entrance to the Gap.

Very," said the sergeant frankly. " He was peering into a paper bag which held two rather jaded buns. "Oh, I took these along for her to eat. They were all I could find. We always had a bun when we came out of the water when we were kids. " The car was slipping down the steep track to the main Westover-Stonegate road. They crossed the high road and entered a deep lane on the other side. " Tisdall said, as indignantly as if it made a difference. "It didn't even cross my mind till I came up the hill and saw the car waiting there.

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. But no, Potticary, poor fool, brushed his boots for love of it. He probably had a slave mentality, but had never read enough for it to worry him.

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