THE HANGING WOOD: A LAKE DISTRICT MYSTERY PDF, EPUB, EBOOK

Chief Scientist Martin Edwards | 266 pages | 04 Apr 2011 | Poisoned Pen Press | 9781590588543 | English | United States The Hanging Wood (Lake District Mystery #5) by Martin Edwards

She no longer felt self-conscious about her bald head. A red sign stapled to a fence post said Danger—electric shock. She heard a faint tick-tick- tick. Throughout summer, the strands of wire were live. As she levered herself over the fence, her leg brushed the wire. The impact from the current felt like a blow from a mallet. It was years since a farm fence had shocked her, and she landed on the ground in a heap. Swearing, she clambered to her feet, vaguely aware that the booze had deadened her senses. She stumbled away from the fence in the direction of the farm buildings. Sometimes she kept to the tractor tracks, sometimes she veered over the grass. A single cow, black with a white blotch on its belly, trudged towards her. As she passed, the cow made a crooning noise. Orla had never lacked imagination; she and her brother Callum shared that in common. Lane End Farm stood four hundred yards ahead. On this side of the old, higgledy-piggledy house was a long line of cattle sheds and outbuildings, along with a slurry tank and the grain silo. The back garden where she and Callum once played was overgrown. Most of the windows were at the front of the house, facing in the opposite direction. She remembered peering through each of them, gazing at the horizon, trying to make out the contours of Blencathra through the morning mist. Her mother had given birth to her in the kitchen—her waters broke suddenly, and there was no time to drive to the hospital. Her foot caught on a hook protruding from a lichen-smeared stone cheese press long ago abandoned in the grass, and she lost her balance for a second time. This time her ankle wrenched, and she sat down to massage the tender flesh. For an instant, she had an impression of a flash of light, as if the sun had glinted on a pair of field glasses. When she picked herself up, not a soul was to be seen. These days, farms needed fewer people to do all the work. An engine roared into life behind the stone-built shippons—a tractor must be heading out into the narrow lane. The grain silo loomed in front of her, linked to the farmyard by a dirt track rutted by huge tyres. The silo was forty feet high, a finger pointing to Heaven. She and Callum watched the crane lifting the sections into place as their father yelled instructions, waving his arms like a human windmill. Orla had dreamed of bathing in the harvest, letting the grain run down in rivulets over her face, breathing in the aroma she adored. When the conveyor pumps the grain in at full blast, it works so fast, it can overwhelm you. If you call, nobody would hear. Too much noise. Callum possessed curiosity by the wagonload. He loved finding things out just as he loved to parade his superior knowledge, drip-feeding titbits to his sister to keep her hanging on his every utterance. The back of her neck prickled. Was someone watching her? She glanced around, but if someone was hidden in the wych elms of the Hanging Wood, or lurking behind the buildings, she could not tell. Perhaps this sense of someone observing her every move was caused by feeling so alone. Loneliness was a cancer, eating up her confidence. After Callum vanished, she had nobody to turn to. Mum was wrapped up with her new husband, Kit Payne, who worked for the Madsens at the caravan park. By the time she was allowed to go back to the farm again, they had become strangers. Before the silo tower was built, she loved to join Callum in the grain piled high in the barn. The pair of them took turns to swing on the rope that hung from the rafters and jump into the heap, where they would roll about, laughing without control as they pretended to bury each other. More fun than a seaside holiday, and getting buried in sand. Sometimes they showered in the grain as the conveyor sprayed it down. As daylight faded, they emptied it from their wellies, squirming because it itched and had slipped down their shirts. The smell of dry grain fresh from the combine was the smell of summer. Not like when it was wet and fermented, and smelled like the beer her father drank. The building of the silo tower ended the game, as Callum forecast. The children had to find other places to go, new stories to dream up. But Callum was never at a loss. They were like Hansel and Gretel, he announced. She gazed at the silo. It might have been a religious monument, eerie yet inspiring awe. A shaft of light fell upon its walls as if a miracle were about to happen. It wanted to draw her into its clutches. Her boot crunched on something, and she came to a sudden halt. A scattering of tiny white bones lay beneath her feet. She peered at the skeleton for so long that her eyes began to water. The remains of a heron, chased to destruction by ravens or crows. Orla forced herself on. The closer she came to the farm, the more it resembled a surreal graveyard. Remnants of old farm machines were strewn around. Some must have lain here for years, dirty spikes and shards of metal like a parody of some weird work of art. A wail from a small shed chilled her spine. The cry of a calf, distressed by the absence of its mother. It sounded hoarse, and she supposed it had been wailing for hours. She remembered teaching the calves to drink from buckets so the cows were not distracted from producing milk for market. The smell of stale milk from the calf- pen lingered in her sinuses. She limped up to the half-door at the base of the silo. Another memory slithered into her head. The first harvest after the silo was built, the weather was wet for weeks on end, and the grain became stuck. One afternoon, Dad took his shotgun out of the cupboard, and Callum and Orla followed him to the silo. He shouted at them to stand back when he opened the grain door. Moist grain bridges, and it needs to be loose. He relished the sense of power. It felt like a drug coursing through his veins. Shooting turned him on, Callum said. A bolt was fixed to the grain door, a nod to safety regulations, but it was rusty from lack of use. Orla wondered about crawling into the bottom of the silo. No, she had a better idea. The ladder up the side of the silo was covered by a safety ring, a tube made of fibreglass. Once you were inside the ring, nobody could see you mounting the ladder, until you reached the top of the silo. Orla surveyed the fields. Her only witnesses were the cows, and even they were losing interest. She wriggled into the tube, and started to lever herself up the rungs of the ladder. Her head and ankle throbbed with pain. Those cans of lager had made her so woozy she found herself dreaming that someone had begun to shin up after her. What did it matter if she took a tumble? She managed to cling on to the cool metal all the way to the top. Orla hauled herself from the ladder ring into the sunshine. At the top of the silo was a metal platform, and she sidled behind the pipe-work through which the grain was blown. Until the last moment, she wanted to be concealed from anyone who might emerge from the buildings and stare up at the silo from the farmyard. A hatch on the platform led down to the inside of the silo. A rubber seal kept the grain free from moisture, and the hatch was closed by wing nuts. Orla fiddled with the wing nuts, and slid them across. Crouching by the side of the open hatch, she peered down into the silo. The grain was deep, a darkly golden mountain. Forty tons, minimum. After being involved in employment law as its head, he became chair in when the firm also merged with Weightmanns LLP. He now works as a consultant after three years partnering. Edwards finished his first legal article at age 25 and has had several books published on the subjects of law, equal opportunities, and other subjects in law. Edwards has also been routinely named to the U. His debut novel introduced readers to Harry Devlin, a Liverpool lawyer, for the first time. It was published in and was recommended for the best crime novel Memorial Dagger. The book was put out once more just five years later as part of a Crime Classics series by Arcturus. Martin Edwards was said by Mystery Magazine to have had earned every area of distinction in crime fiction. He is also the author of a variety of mysteries that took place in a district known for their lakes. A historical novel was later published in He has also written over sixty short stories and they have appeared in many magazines and anthologies. He has edited for the crime anthology by the CWA since Edwards belongs to the crime writers collective Murder Squad. He is also the chairman of the nominations sub-committee when it comes to the CWA Diamond Dagger, the most prestigious in the field. He also became the C. Edwards was the C. In he joined the Detection Club and became the first archivist. It made the short list for an Anthony. He has also reviewed crime novels, written introductions for new editions, written columns for magazines and print, contributed essays and became a series consultant in for the Classic Crime series put on by the British Library. His book on classic crime was published by the British Library in He also was given the Poirot Award in the same year for contributions to the mystery genre from Malice Domestic He has written quite a bit on true crime and has based many of his novels on his knowledge of the field and studies on crime investigation in real life. Urge to Kill was one of his more famous novels and explores real crime. He has other nonfiction novels that include Catching Killers and Truly Criminal, among others. Edwards is by now widely recognized to be an authority and accomplished author when it comes to crime fiction. Bill Knox and he worked together to author a book called The Lazarus Widow. He has contributed to multiple collections. Edwards has written one novella. He is also a contributor to the anthology series Perfectly Criminal, with three books in the series. He married his wife Helena in They have had two children together and they currently live in Lymm. It was published in It is the story that first introduces readers to Harry Devlin. As it starts out, he is still infatuated with the woman who left him— his wife Liz. When she finally turns up at his apartment, he is relieved and happy she is okay. He is over the moon to offer her shelter— but any chance they had of getting back together is going to have to wait when she is found dead. As Harry is devastated and reeling from the loss, he also knows he has to find out what happened. But will his search for the truth be enough to figure it all out and keep him from being a suspect? As he tries to get down to the real nature of what happened, he must journey further into the underground of Liverpool, which is not known for being clean, pleasant, or safe. Read this exciting book that starts off the Devlin series to find out whether Harry can ever emotionally recover. The Hanging Wood: A Lake District Mystery #5 - Poisoned Pen Press

The energy had drained out of her, like oil trickling from a leak in her car. She had no fight left. She tried to crush the mobile in her hand, but it was impossible, so she hurled it over the hedge. The phone struck a black tank squatting on top of a small trailer, and fell into a trough filled by the tank with water for the cattle to drink. Contacting the police was a stupid idea. She should never have listened to Daniel Kind. All he knew about murder came from books and dusty archives. Orla kicked the car door, wishing it was the head of the detective constable. Her boots had steel tips, and they dented the paintwork. The lane led to Mockbeggar Hall, and she saw its turrets poking up above the copper beeches. In one of her favourite fantasies, there had been some mix-up, and in the end she proved she was no farm kid, but an unacknowledged daughter of the Hopes family, who had owned the Mockbeggar estate for generations. But now the Hall belonged to the Madsens, who had made their money through selling caravans. Her father reckoned the Madsens always got what they wanted in the end, and he was right. She walked to a point where the hedge gave way to a fence. In the field, a trio of plump Friesians grazed, each with a yellow tag in its left ear, bearing a number inked in black. Their eyes were dark, with no discernible pupils. They looked mournful, as if someone they knew had died. Orla ripped off her headscarf and threw it into a clump of nettles. A splash of red and gold among the green. She no longer felt self-conscious about her bald head. A red sign stapled to a fence post said Danger— electric shock. She heard a faint tick-tick-tick. Throughout summer, the strands of wire were live. As she levered herself over the fence, her leg brushed the wire. The impact from the current felt like a blow from a mallet. It was years since a farm fence had shocked her, and she landed on the ground in a heap. Swearing, she clambered to her feet, vaguely aware that the booze had deadened her senses. She stumbled away from the fence in the direction of the farm buildings. Sometimes she kept to the tractor tracks, sometimes she veered over the grass. A single cow, black with a white blotch on its belly, trudged towards her. As she passed, the cow made a crooning noise. Orla had never lacked imagination; she and her brother Callum shared that in common. Lane End Farm stood four hundred yards ahead. On this side of the old, higgledy- piggledy house was a long line of cattle sheds and outbuildings, along with a slurry tank and the grain silo. The back garden where she and Callum once played was overgrown. Most of the windows were at the front of the house, facing in the opposite direction. She remembered peering through each of them, gazing at the horizon, trying to make out the contours of Blencathra through the morning mist. Her mother had given birth to her in the kitchen—her waters broke suddenly, and there was no time to drive to the hospital. Her foot caught on a hook protruding from a lichen-smeared stone cheese press long ago abandoned in the grass, and she lost her balance for a second time. This time her ankle wrenched, and she sat down to massage the tender flesh. For an instant, she had an impression of a flash of light, as if the sun had glinted on a pair of field glasses. When she picked herself up, not a soul was to be seen. These days, farms needed fewer people to do all the work. An engine roared into life behind the stone-built shippons—a tractor must be heading out into the narrow lane. The grain silo loomed in front of her, linked to the farmyard by a dirt track rutted by huge tyres. The silo was forty feet high, a finger pointing to Heaven. She and Callum watched the crane lifting the sections into place as their father yelled instructions, waving his arms like a human windmill. Orla had dreamed of bathing in the harvest, letting the grain run down in rivulets over her face, breathing in the aroma she adored. When the conveyor pumps the grain in at full blast, it works so fast, it can overwhelm you. If you call, nobody would hear. Too much noise. Callum possessed curiosity by the wagonload. He loved finding things out just as he loved to parade his superior knowledge, drip-feeding titbits to his sister to keep her hanging on his every utterance. The back of her neck prickled. Was someone watching her? She glanced around, but if someone was hidden in the wych elms of the Hanging Wood, or lurking behind the buildings, she could not tell. Perhaps this sense of someone observing her every move was caused by feeling so alone. Loneliness was a cancer, eating up her confidence. After Callum vanished, she had nobody to turn to. Mum was wrapped up with her new husband, Kit Payne, who worked for the Madsens at the caravan park. By the time she was allowed to go back to the farm again, they had become strangers. Before the silo tower was built, she loved to join Callum in the grain piled high in the barn. The pair of them took turns to swing on the rope that hung from the rafters and jump into the heap, where they would roll about, laughing without control as they pretended to bury each other. More fun than a seaside holiday, and getting buried in sand. Sometimes they showered in the grain as the conveyor sprayed it down. As daylight faded, they emptied it from their wellies, squirming because it itched and had slipped down their shirts. The smell of dry grain fresh from the combine was the smell of summer. Not like when it was wet and fermented, and smelled like the beer her father drank. The building of the silo tower ended the game, as Callum forecast. The children had to find other places to go, new stories to dream up. But Callum was never at a loss. They were like Hansel and Gretel, he announced. She gazed at the silo. It might have been a religious monument, eerie yet inspiring awe. A shaft of light fell upon its walls as if a miracle were about to happen. It wanted to draw her into its clutches. Her boot crunched on something, and she came to a sudden halt. A scattering of tiny white bones lay beneath her feet. She peered at the skeleton for so long that her eyes began to water. The remains of a heron, chased to destruction by ravens or crows. Orla forced herself on. The closer she came to the farm, the more it resembled a surreal graveyard. Remnants of old farm machines were strewn around. Some must have lain here for years, dirty spikes and shards of metal like a parody of some weird work of art. A wail from a small shed chilled her spine. The cry of a calf, distressed by the absence of its mother. It sounded hoarse, and she supposed it had been wailing for hours. She remembered teaching the calves to drink from buckets so the cows were not distracted from producing milk for market. The smell of stale milk from the calf-pen lingered in her sinuses. She limped up to the half-door at the base of the silo. Another memory slithered into her head. The first harvest after the silo was built, the weather was wet for weeks on end, and the grain became stuck. One afternoon, Dad took his shotgun out of the cupboard, and Callum and Orla followed him to the silo. He shouted at them to stand back when he opened the grain door. Moist grain bridges, and it needs to be loose. He relished the sense of power. It felt like a drug coursing through his veins. Shooting turned him on, Callum said. A bolt was fixed to the grain door, a nod to safety regulations, but it was rusty from lack of use. Orla wondered about crawling into the bottom of the silo. It is this. So it was yesterday afternoon. It was however a startling proof to me of the violent exertions which I had made. Here I found an imperfect Shelter from a Thunder-shower-accompanied with such Echoes! O God! They were a fine Family-and a Girl who did not look more than 12 years old, but was nearly 15, was very beautiful-with hair like vine-tendrils-. Tears has mended my pen. Inclosures made on the Screes partly for saving the Sheep from falling down, partly to reserve the Grass for the Hogs. This Beck from Harter Fell? Remember the large Scotch Fir in Ennerdale -. Thomas Robinson's Black Bull, Conistone -. I am sitting in the road, with the ivied House beneath me, and right opposite me, thro' an inverted arch in the Fells, a very singular pike looks in -N. I slept at Bratha on Sunday night-amp; did not go on to Grasmere , tho' I had time enough, and was not over-fatigued; but tho' I have no objection to sleep in a lonely House, I did not like to sleep in their lonely House. It was very kind of you, my Darlings! Thomas Ashburner's call was the occasion of my resolve not to go to St Bees ; but my own after reflections were the cause. In preparing this Manual, it was the Author's principal wish to furnish a Guide or Companion for the Minds of Persons of taste, and feeling for Landscape, who might be inclined to explore the District of the Lakes with that degree of attention to which its beauty may fairly lay claim. For the more sure attainment, however, of this primary object, he will begin by undertaking the humble and tedious task of supplying the Tourist with directions how to approach the several scenes in their best, or most convenient, order. But first, supposing the approach to be made from the south, and through Yorkshire , there are certain interesting spots which may be confidently recommended to his notice, if time can be spared before entering upon the Lake District ; and the route may be changed before returning. There are three approaches to the Lakes through Yorkshire ; the least adviseable is the great north road by Catterick and Greta Bridge , and onwards to Penrith. The Traveller, however, taking this route, might halt at Greta Bridge , and be well recompenced if he can afford to give an hour or two to the banks of the Greta , and of the Tees, at Rokeby. Barnard Castle also, about two miles up the Tees, is a striking object, and the main North Road might be rejoined at Bowes. Everyone has heard of the great fall of the Tees above Middleham , interesting for its grandeur, as the avenue of rocks that leads to it, is to the geologist. But this place lies so far out of the way as scarcely to be within the compass of our notice. It might, however, be visited by a Traveller on foot, or on horseback, who could rejoin the main road upon Stanemoor. The second road leads through a more interesting tract of the country, beginning at Ripon , from which place see Fountain's Abbey , and thence by Hackfall , and Masham , to Jervaux Abbey , and up the vale of Wensley ; turning aside before Askrigg is reached, to see Aysgarth-force , upon the Ure ; and again, near Hawes , to Hardraw Scar , of which, with its waterfall, Turner has a fine drawing. Thence over the fells to Sedbergh , and Kendal. The third approach from Yorkshire is through Leeds. Four miles beyond that town are the ruins of Kirkstall Abbey , should that road to Skipton be chosen; but the other by otley may be made much more interesting by turning off at Addington to Bolton Bridge , for the sake of visiting the Abbey and grounds. It would be well, however, for a party previously to secure beds, if wanted, at the inn, as there is but one, and it is much resorted to in the summer. The Traveller on foot, or on horseback, would do well to follow the banks of the Wharf upwards, to Burnsall , and thence cross over the hills to Gordale - a noble scene, beautifully described in Grey's Tour, and with which no one can be disappointed. Thence to Malham , where there is a respectable village inn, and so on, by Malham Cove , to Settle. Travellers in carriages must go from Bolton Bridge to Skipton , where they rejoin the main road; and should they be inclined to visit Gordale a tolerable road turns off beyond Skipton. Beyond Settle , under Giggleswick Scar , the road passes an ebbing and flowing well, worthy the notice of the Naturalist. Four miles to the right of Ingleton , is Weathercote Cave , a fine object, but whoever diverges for this, must return to Ingleton. Near Kirkby Lonsdale observe the view from the bridge over the Lune , and descend to the channel of the river, and by no means omit looking at the Vale of Lune from the Church-yard. The journey towards the lake country through Lancashire , is, with the exception of the Vale of the Ribble , at Preston , uninteresting; till you come near Lancaster , and obtain a view of the fells and mountains of Lancashire and Westmoreland ; with Lancaster Castle , and the Tower of the Church seeming to make part of the Castle, in the foreground. They who wish to see the celebrated ruins of Furness Abbey , and are not afraid of crossing the Sands, may go from Lancaster to Ulverston ; from which place take the direct road to Dalton ; but by all means return through Urswick , for the sake of the view from the top of the hill, before descending into the grounds of Conishead Priory. From this quarter the Lakes would be advantageously approached by Coniston ; thence to Hawkshead , and by the Ferry over Windermere , to Bowness : a much better introductio than by going direct from Coniston to Ambleside , which ought not to be done, as that would greatly take off from the effect of Windermere. Let us now go back to Lancaster. The direct road thence to Kendal is 22 miles, but by making a circuit of eight miles, the Vale of the Lune to Kirksby Lonsdale will be included. The whole tract is pleasing; there is one view mentioned by Gray and Mason especially so. In West's Guide it is thus pointed out:-"About a quarter of a mile beyond the third mile-stone, where the road makes a turn to the right, there is a gate on the left which leads into a field where the station meant, will be found. Travellers from the North would do well to go from Carlisle by Wigton , and proceed along the Lake of Bassenthwaite to Keswick ; or, if convenience should take them first to Penrith , it would still be better to cross the country to Keswick , and begin with that vale, rather than with Ulswater. It is worthwhile to mention, in this place, that the banks of the river Eden , about Corby , are well worthy of notice, both on account of their natural beauty, and the viaducts which have recently been carried over the bed of the river, and over a neighbouring ravine. In the Church of Wetheral , close by, is a fine piece of monumental sculpture by Nollekens. The scenes of Nunnery , upon the Eden , or rather than part of them which is upon Croglin , a mountain stream there falling into the Eden , are, in their way, unrivalled. But the nearest road thither, from Corby , is so bad, that no one can be advised to take it in a carriage. Nunnery may be reached by Corby by making a circuit and crossing the Eden at Armathwaite bridge. A portion of this road, however, is bad enough. As much the greatest number of Lake Tourists begin by passing from Kendal to Bowness , upon Windermere , our notices shall commence from that Lake. Bowness is situated upon its eastern side, and at equal distance from each extremity of the Lake of. The lower part of this Lake is rarely visited, but has many interesting points of view, especially at Storrs Hall and at Fell-Foot , where the Coniston Mountains peer nobly over the western barrier, which elsewhere, along the whole Lake, is comparatively tame. To one also who has ascended the hill from Graythwaite on the Western side, the Promontory called Rawlinson's Nabb , Storrs Hall , and the Troutbeck Mountains , about sun-set, make a splendid landscape. The view from the Pleasure-house of the Station near the Ferry has suffered much from Larch plantations; this mischief, however, is gradually disappearing, and the Larches, under the management of the proprietor, Mr. Curwen , are giving way to the native wood. Windermere ought to be seen both from its shores and from its surface. None of the other Lakes unfold so many fresh beauties to him who sails upon them. This is owing to its greater size, to the islands, and to its having two vales at the head, with their accompanying mountains of nearly equal dignity. Nor can the grandeur of these two terminations be seen at once from any point, except from the bosom of the Lake. The Islands may be explored at any time of the day; but one bright unruffled evening, must, if possible, be set apart for the splendour, the stillness, and solemnity of a three hour's voyage upon the higher division of the Lake, no omitting, towards the end of the excursion, to quit the expanse of water, and peep into the close and calm River at the head; which, in its quiet character, at such a time, appears rather like an overflow of the peaceful Lake itself, than to have any more immediate connection with the rough mountains whence it has descended, or the turbulent torrents by which it is supplied. Many persons content themselves with what they see of Windermere during their progress in a boat from Bowness to the head of the Lake, walking thence to Ambleside. But the whole road from Bowness is rich in diversity of pleasing or grand scenery; there is scarcely a field on the road side, which, if entered, would not give the landscape some additional charm. Low-wood Inn, a mile from the head of Windermere , is a most pleasant halting-place; no inn in the whole district is so agreeably situated for water views and excursions; and the fields above it, and the lane that leads to Troutbeck , present beautiful views towards each extremity of the Lake. From this place, and from. Rides may be taken in numerous directions, and the interesting walks are inexhaustible;a few out of the main road may be particularized;- the lane that leads from Ambleside to Skelgill ; the ride, or walk by Rothay Bridge , and up the stream under Loughrigg Fell , continued on the western side of Rydal Lake , and along the fell to the foot of Grasmere Lake , and thence round by the church of Grasmere ; or, turning round by Loughrigg Fell by Loughrigg Tarn and the River Brathay back to Ambleside. From Ambleside is another charming excursion by Clappersgate , where cross the Brathay , and proceed with the river on the right to the hamlet of Skelwith-fold ; when the houses are passed, turn, before you descend the hill, through a gate on the right, and from a rocky point is a fien view of the Brathay River , Langdale Pikes , etc. The scene in which this small piece of water lies, suggested to the Author the following description, given in his Poem of the Excursion supposing the spectator to look down upon it, not from the road, but from one of its elevated sides. From this little Vale return towards Ambleside by Great Langdale , stopping, if there be time, to see the Dungeon-ghyll waterfall. May be conveniently visited from Ambleside , but is seen to most advantage by entering the country over the Sands from Lancaster. The Stranger, from the moment he sets his foot on those Sands, seems to leave the turmoil and traffic of the world behind him; and, crossing the majestic plain whence the sea has retired, he beholds, rising apparently from its base, the cluster of mountains among which he is going to wander, and towards whose recesses, by the Vale of Coniston , he is gradually and peacefully led. From the Inn at the head of Coniston Lake , a leisurely Traveller might have much pleasure in looking into Yewdale and Tilberthwaite , returning to his Inn from the head of Yewdale by a mountain track which has the farm of Tarn Hows , a little on the right: by this road is seen much the best view of Coniston Lake from the south. At the head of Coniston Water there is an agreeable Inn, from which an enterprising Tourist might go to the Vale of the Duddon , over walna Scar , down to Seathwaite , Newfield , and to the rocks where the river issues from a narrow pass into the broad Vale. The stream is very interesting for the space of a mile above this point, and below, by Ulpha Kirk , till it enters the Sands, where it is overlooked by the solitary Mountain Black Comb , the summit of which, as that experienced surveyor, Colonel Mudge , declared, commands a more extensive view than any other point in Britain. Ireland he saw more than once, but not when the sun was above the horizen. The Tourist may either return to the Inn at Coniston by Broughton , or, by turning to the left before he comes to that town, or, which would be much better, he may cross from. Over Birker moor , to Birker-force , at the head of the finest ravine in the country; and thence up the Vale of the Esk , by Hardknot and Wrynose , back to Ambleside. Near the road, ascending from Eskdale , are conspicuous remains of a Roman fortress. Details of the Duddon and Donnerdale are given in the Author's series of Sonnets upon the Duddon and in the accompanying Notes. In addition to its two Vales at its head, Windermere communicates with two lateral vallies; that of Troutbeck , distinguished by the mountains at its head- by the picturesque remains of cottage architecture; and, towards the lower part, by bold foregrounds formed by the steep and winding banks of the river. This Vale, as before mentioned, may be most conveniently seen from Low Wood. The other lateral Valley, that of Hawkshead , is visited to most advantage, and most conveniently, from Bowness ; crossing the Lake by the Ferry- then pass the two villages of Sawrey , and on quitting the latter, you have a fine view of the Lake of Esthwaite , and the cone of one of the Langdale Pikes in the distance. Before you leave Ambleside give three minutes to looking at a passage of the brook which runs through the town; it is seen from a garden on the right bank of the stream, a few steps above the bridge- the garden at present is rented by Mrs. And by a Tourist halting a few days in Ambleside , the Nook also might be visited; a spot where there is a bridge over Scandale-beck , which makes a pretty subject for the pencil. Lastly, for residents of a week or so at Ambleside , there are delightful rambles over every part of Loughrigg Fell and among the enclosures on its sides; particularly about Loughrigg Tarn , and on its eastern side about Fox How and the properties adjoining to the northwards. The Waterfalls of Rydal are pointed out to every one. But it ought to be observed here, that Rydal-mere is no where seen to advantage from the main road. Fine views of it may be had from Rydal Park ; but these grounds, as well as those of Rydal Mount and Ivy Cottage , from which it is viewed to advantage, are private. A foot road passing behind Rydal Mount and under Nab Scar to Grasmere , is very favourable to views of the Lake and the Vale, looking back towards Ambleside. The horse road also, along the western side of the Lake, under Loughrigg fell , as before mentioned, does justice to the beauties of this small mere, of which the Traveller who keeps to the high road is not at all aware. There are two small Inns in the Vale of Grasmere , one near the Church, from which it may be conveniently explored in every direction, and a mountain walk taken up Easedale to Easedale Tarn , one of the finest tarns in the country, thence to Stickle Tarn , and to the top of Langdale Pikes. See also the Vale of Grasmere from Butterlip How. A boat is kept by the innkeeper, and this circular Vale, in the solemnity of a fine evening, will make, from the bosom of the Lake, an impression that will scarcely ever effaced. The direct road from Grasmere to Keswick does not as has been obseerved of Rydal Mere shew to advantage Thirlmere , or Wythburn Lake , with its surrounding mountains. By a Traveller proceeding at leisure, a little deviation ought to be made from the main road, when he has advanced a little beyond the sixth mile- stone short of Keswick , from which point there is a noble view of the Vale of Legberthwaite , with Blencathra commonly called Saddle-back in front. Having previously enquired, at the Inn near Wythburn Chapel , the best way from this mile-stone to the bridge that divides the Lake, he must cross it, and proceed with the Lake on the right, to the hamlet a little beyond its termination, and rejoin the main road upon Shoulthwaite Moss , about four miles from Keswick ; or, if on foot, the Tourist may follow the stream that issues from Thirlmere down the romantic Vale of St. John's , and so enquiring the way at some cottage to Keswick , by a circuit of little more than a mile. A more interesting tract of country is scarcely any where to be seen, than the road between Ambleside and Keswick , with the deviations that have been pointed out. Helvellyn may be conveniently ascended from the Inn at Wythburn. It communicates with Borrowdale on the South; with the river Greta , and Thirlmere , on the East, with which the Traveller has become acquainted on his way from Ambleside ; and with the Vale of Newlands on the West- which last Vale he may pass through, in going to, or returning from, Buttermere. More distant views, and perhaps full as interesting, are from the side of Latrigg , from Ormathwaite , and Applethwaite ; and thence along the road at the foot of Skiddaw towards Bassenthwaite , for about a quarter of a mile. There are fine bird's eye views from the Castle-hill; from Ashness , on the road to Watenlath , and by following the Watenlath stream downwards to the Cataract of Lodore. This Lake also, if the weather be fine, ought to be circumnavigated. There are good views along the western side of Bassenthwaite Lake , and from Armathwaite at its foot; but the eastern side from the high road has little to recommend it. The Traveller from Carlisle , approaching by way of Ireby , has, from the old road on the top of bassenthwaite-hawse , much the most striking view of the Plain and Lake of Bassenthwaite , flanked by Skiddaw , and terminated by Wallowcrag on the south-east of Derwent Lake ; the same point commands an extensive view of Solway Firth and the Scotch Mountains. Borrowdale is also conveniently seen on the way to Wastdale over Styhead ; or, to Buttermere , by Seatoller and Honister Crag ; or, going over the Stake, through Langdale , to Ambleside. Buttermere may be visited by a shorter way through Newlands , but though the descent upon the Vale of Buttermere , by this approach, is very striking, as it also is to one entering by the head of the Vale, under Honister Crag , yet, after all, the best entrance from Keswick is from the lower part of the Vale, having gone over Whinlater to Scale Hill , where there is a roomy Inn, with very good accommodation. The Mountains of the Vale of. Are no where so impressive as from the bosom of Crummock Water. Scale-force , near it, is a fine chasm, with a lofty, though but slender fall of water. From Scale Hill a pleasant walk may be taken to an eminence in Mr. Marshall's woods, and another by crossing the bridge at the foot of the hill, upon which the Inn stands, and turning to the right, after the opposite hill has been ascended a little way, then follow the road for half a mile or so that leads to Lorton , looking back upon Crummock Water , etc. Turn back and may your way to. But this small Lake is only approached to advantage from the other end; therefore any Traveller going by this road to Wastdale , must look back upon it. This road to Wastdale , after passing the village of Lamplugh Cross , presents suddenly a fine view of the Lake of Ennerdale , with its Mountains; and, six or seven miles beyond, leads down upon Calder Abbey. Little of this ruin is left, but that little is well worthy of notice. At Calder Bridge are two comfortable Inns, and, a few miles beyond, accomodations may be had at the Strands , at the foot of Wastdale. Are three horse-roads, viz. This last is much the best approach. Wastdale is well worth the notice of a Traveller who is not afraid of fatigue; no part of the country is more distinguished by sublimity. Wastwater may also be visited from Ambleside ; by going up Langdale , over Hardknot and Wrynose -down Eskdale and by Irton Hall to the Strands ; but this road can only be taken on foot, or on horseback, or in a cart. As being, perhaps, upon the whole, the happiest combination of beauty and grandeur, which any of the Lakes afford. It lies not more than ten miles from Ambleside , and the Pass of Kirkstone and the descent from it are very impressive; but, notwithstanding, this Vale, like the others, loses much of its effect by being entered from the head: so that it is better to go from Keswick through Matterdale , and descend upon Gowbarrow Park ; you are thus brought at once upon a magnificent view of the two higher reaches of the Lake. Ara-force thunders down the Ghyll on the left, at a small distance from the road. If Ullswater be approached from Penrith , a mile and a half brings you to the winding vale of Eamont , and the prospects increase in interest till you reach Patterdale ; but the first four miles along Ullswater by this road are comparatively tame; and in order to see the lower part of the Lake to advantage, it is necessary to go round by Pooley Bridge , and to ride at least three miles along the Westmorland side of the water, towards Martindale. H.R.F. Keating: Putting the Reader First

Keating reading list. Photo: Simon Keating. Along with two legendary figures of a previous generation, Julian Symons and Michael Gilbert, Harry Keating was undoubtedly one of the towering male writers of British crime fiction in the second half of the 20th Century and, now that we are in the 21st Century, he is heading serenely towards the 50th anniversary in of the publication of his very first crime novel. Keating is, and perhaps will remain, best known as the creator of Indian detective Inspector Ganesh Ghote, but his achievements have been diverse. For fifteen years, he reviewed crime for The Times and, in addition to editing and introducing books, he has written countless articles—not least for Mystery Scene. Early books like Zen There Was Murder and A Rush On The Ultimate gave readers the pleasure of seeing a writer kick up his heels in defiance of any critical perception of what a crime story ought to be like. Henry Reymond Fitzwalter Keating no wonder he is universally known as Harry! At that point, Keating had not thought of writing a followup, but he found a more sympathetic agent who made it clear to the young writer that he ought to have the manuscript of his second book with the agency at the moment when the first was published. Although, at the time, he had never travelled to India, the thought of writing about the sub-continent appealed to him and he thought it might well appeal to American readers too. Keating offers a fascinating insight into his work in the introduction to his short story collection Inspector Ghote, His Life And Crimes :. Good symbolic stuff. My speciality in was detective novels without a running hero, but within each a different, more or less exotic background…. I saw India as just one more in that series. Ghote was granted an indefinite extension of life. He has written a number of books and edited, introduced or contributed to a great many more. If Julian Symons is the pre-eminent British crime fiction critic, then Keating whose judgements tend to be rather gentler is not too far behind. Much of his writing about the genre has sprung from his experience of reviewing and publishers have regularly beaten a path to his door with commissions for nonfiction projects. Four years later, he came up with Sherlock Holmes, The Man And His World , which he regards as one of his most successful studies. Ripley and The Tremor Of Forgery. Keating joined the list of those who have sought to pass on their professional expertise when he published Writing Crime Fiction ; second edition This is one of the shorter guides of its kind, but in my opinion and I confess that I have read most of the others it is one of the best. It can make a temporary map for its readers out of the chaos of their surroundings—only it should never let them know. Yet it is there. It holds out a challenge. Few crime writers can resist it forever. Does it come too late? DCI Hannah Scarlett plays a much larger role in this seventh series entry after Frozen Shroud than historian Daniel Kind, and this results in a plot that is more procedural and less historical than previous titles. Hannah, who heads up a cold-case team, is investigating a missing-persons case from three years ago, when two more women disappear. Ties to a decades-old love-triangle murder surface, seeming to bind the three investigations and encouraging Hannah to revisit the earlier murder. Her relationship with Daniel simmers in the background as she decides whether to move into her own home and out of Daniel's. Set against the atmospheric backdrop of the remote Cumbrian coast, Edwards's twisted story of greed and obsession is peopled with a wide variety of damaged characters, furthering interest. Much of the plot is revealed through interviews and conversations, giving a slightly subdued tone to even the most harrowing events depicted. Twenty years ago, Malcolm Whiteley, who ran a highly questionable waste management firm, had questions of his own about Lysette, the first love he'd married. So convinced was Malcolm that Lysette was betraying him with someone--maybe Gray Elstone, Malcolm's accountant; maybe Robbie Dean, the former football player who'd killed his girlfriend, Carrie North, in a careless car accident; maybe Scott Durham, the neighbor who was giving her painting lessons; maybe Nigel Whiteley, the son of Malcolm's estranged, cancer-stricken brother Ted, a boy reputed to fancy older women--that it was practically certain he'd kill one of them sooner or later. Instead, according to the evidence, he shot Lysette, then chased after their beloved daughter, Amber, and threw her off a cliff, and finally stuck the gun in his own mouth. Finis--until DCI Hannah Scarlett, of Cumbria's Cold Case Review Team, is asked to look once more into the case at the very moment that Joanna Footit, a former girlfriend of Nigel's who was seriously traumatized in the same accident that killed Carrie North and crippled Robbie Dean, decides that it would be a perfect time to return to Dungeon House, Malcolm's home, which Nigel has inherited and christened Ravenglass Knoll, and look up her old friends and neighbors. Let's just say that Hannah's labors are crowned with greater success than Joanna's. Despite the gap of all those years, Edwards works exceptionally close to his characters. So every complication he piles on so generously comes with a fresh sting, even if many readers will be left more bemused than challenged by this intricate puzzler. Following the annual barbecue for family and friends, a drunken Whiteley realizes that he can use his Winchester rifle to resolve these issues. Flash forward 20 years to the present. Chief Insp. Hannah Scarlett's Cumbria police team is working on the case of Lily Wellstone, a teenage girl who disappeared three years earlier. Lily's father was Whiteley's accountant. Coincidence strikes again when the daughter of Nigel Whiteley, Malcolm's nephew and the Dungeon House's current occupant, goes missing. Edwards has a way of tangling lives and spinning a cloud of suspicion over several characters, sending readers up and down wonderfully entertaining blind alleys that keep interest high until the unexpected, though slightly anticlimactic, end. Twenty years ago, in a drunken fit of jealous rage, Malcolm Whiteley shot his wife and killed his daughter before turning the gun on himself. Or did he? DCI Hannah Scarlett's old boss was never convinced, but could never find evidence to put anyone else in the frame. Now Hannah and her cold case team are re-investigating the disappearance of a teenage girl three years earlier when another girl goes missing the daughter of Nigel Whiteley, who is now living in his uncle Malcolm's old house, the Dungeon House, where the tragedy took place. Hannah begins to wonder if the three cases might be linked in some way The first section of the book, almost a lengthy prologue, tells of the lead-up to the killings. Malcolm is convinced his wife is having an affair but doesn't know with whom. He suspects each of their friends in turn and obsessively watches their behaviour to see if he can pick up any signs. The characterisation of this successful and egotistical bully is very well done, and the reader is also introduced to some of the characters, young at the time of the killing, who will re-appear in the present day section At this stage, I couldn't get up much empathy for any of the characters and didn't really feel invested in their fate. However, when the book jumps to the present, it becomes a very enjoyable read. Hannah is a great character - normal, intelligent, functional. Her interactions with her team are convincing, and I particularly enjoyed the glimpses we got of her relationship with Patrick, the man she is living with. Their dialogue comes over as natural and they are gloriously angst free, both being interested in each other's work and mutually supportive. This section, the bulk of the book, is split between Hannah's perspective and that of Joanne Footit. All are murdered on Halloween and the author exploits other similarities in the cases. For DCI Hannah Scarlett the coincidences are just too great, and she wonders whether the same person is responsible for at least the two most recent murders. Daniel Kind though is interested in the historic cold case of the death of Gertrude. Martin Edwards is an accomplished storyteller and keeps the readers on their toes with coincidences and red herrings. It is a book that makes you think as you weigh up the evidence for yourself. Running through the background is the on-again off-again relationship between the detective Hannah and the historian Daniel. And almost a character is a sensitive portrayal of the Lake District. Many thanks too to Martin for his acknowledgment at the end of the book of the small amount of information I was able to contribute about Sheenagh's possible Australian background. Martin Edwards' rock solid Lake District mystery series has one of those will-he-won't-she relationships that are practically irresistible when the characters involved are as winning as historian Daniel Kind and Detective Inspector Hannah Scarlett. The two of them have been dealing with inappropriate partners, misread cues, and conflicting workloads for six books now. I'm happy-- but hesitant-- to report that there may be a light at the end of their tunnel. It's not going to be easy. Daniel is very nervous about not wanting too much too soon from Hannah, and Hannah is still trying to drill it into her former partner's head that the party is over while simultaneously dealing with crippling staff reductions on the police force. Both Daniel and Hannah are complex, interesting characters, but I have to admit that I think The Frozen Shroud's story let them down a bit. For one thing, too many personal problems were settled with happy coincidences, and for another, it was too easy for me to deduce whodunit. Be that as it may, I still enjoyed reading the book as the next chapter in the lives of two characters I've grown to care for very much, as well as for its creepy atmospheric setting. I'm looking forward to book number seven. I have been a fan of Martin Edwards' Lake District mystery series since I picked up a copy of the first several years ago. They hit all the right spots with me -- rich in character detail, enough suspense but not a constant and improbable lurching from one excessive bit of violence and drama to the next, historical backgrounds play a role, and there's a great sense of place. In this outing, the murders are set in a remote Cumbrian valley on the banks of Ullswater. An Edwardian murder left rumors of a ghost of the murdered girl walking the byroads; then, in the 21st century, there is a copycat killing that appears to have been solved when the presumed perpetrator is found dead. But then, five years after that, a third murder shakes everything up again The two protagonists here are historian Daniel Kind, who have moved to the Cumbrian neighborhood where his late father, a police inspector, once lived; and Hannah Scarlett, a protegee of Daniel's father who has developed a still-platonic-but-who-knows-what-might-happen kind of relationship with Daniel himself. There is work for both to do here, as Daniel's historical research knowledge may help finally put to rest the question of who killed Gertrude a century ago, while Hannah is heading up a Cold Case squad under siege by budget cuts. If you're deeply into ultra-dark Scandicrime, or rollercoaster Steve Berry-style thrillers, this won't do much for you. On the other hand, if you're happy occupying the middle ground between "cozy" mysteries and the police procedural, this will delight you. The last book in the series somewhat underwhelmed me, but Edwards is back on track with this book -- just start back at the beginning if you're interested, as you'll be able to follow the evolution of the characters' relationships, which is a big part of the fun for me. Definitely recommended, and I did a happy dance when NetGalley enabled me to read this as an e-galley. The month or so that is left before publication will give you enough time to read up on its predecessors! I've rated this 4. The Frozen Shroud is a book I could not put down. Set in the Lake District of England in a small town called Ravenbank and people whose families have lived there for many generations. The three people who were could not have been done by the same person because the first one happened 50 years ago and the other two were within the last five years. The main cast of characters are all from different walks of life and different ways that they live.

Martin Edwards – In Search of the Classic Mystery Novel

He is also the chairman of the nominations sub-committee when it comes to the CWA Diamond Dagger, the most prestigious in the field. He also became the C. Edwards was the C. In he joined the Detection Club and became the first archivist. It made the short list for an Anthony. He has also reviewed crime novels, written introductions for new editions, written columns for magazines and print, contributed essays and became a series consultant in for the Classic Crime series put on by the British Library. His book on classic crime was published by the British Library in He also was given the Poirot Award in the same year for contributions to the mystery genre from Malice Domestic He has written quite a bit on true crime and has based many of his novels on his knowledge of the field and studies on crime investigation in real life. Urge to Kill was one of his more famous novels and explores real crime. He has other nonfiction novels that include Catching Killers and Truly Criminal, among others. Edwards is by now widely recognized to be an authority and accomplished author when it comes to crime fiction. Bill Knox and he worked together to author a book called The Lazarus Widow. He has contributed to multiple collections. Edwards has written one novella. He is also a contributor to the anthology series Perfectly Criminal, with three books in the series. He married his wife Helena in They have had two children together and they currently live in Lymm. It was published in It is the story that first introduces readers to Harry Devlin. As it starts out, he is still infatuated with the woman who left him— his wife Liz. When she finally turns up at his apartment, he is relieved and happy she is okay. He is over the moon to offer her shelter— but any chance they had of getting back together is going to have to wait when she is found dead. As Harry is devastated and reeling from the loss, he also knows he has to find out what happened. But will his search for the truth be enough to figure it all out and keep him from being a suspect? As he tries to get down to the real nature of what happened, he must journey further into the underground of Liverpool, which is not known for being clean, pleasant, or safe. Read this exciting book that starts off the Devlin series to find out whether Harry can ever emotionally recover. Suspicious Minds is the second novel in the Harry Devlin series. In this book, Harry Devlin returns once more. One of his best clients is Jack Stirrup. Maybe Jack has something to hide, for all he knows. But will Harry be able to track them down in time? Pick up this engrossing thriller from Martin Edwards to find out! The links beside each book title will take you to Amazon, who I feel are the best online retailer for books where you can read more about the book, or purchase it. Please note that as an Amazon Associate, I earn money from qualifying purchases. He is preparing to hand the Reacher series over to his brother and the two are writing this novel together to ease the transition. Will Reacher jump the shark? Or will he beat up the shark and its 6 friends, all while saying nothing? The answer is no. Each month I pick a charity and ask that you support them instead. Martin Edwards' rock solid Lake District mystery series has one of those will-he-won't-she relationships that are practically irresistible when the characters involved are as winning as historian Daniel Kind and Detective Inspector Hannah Scarlett. The two of them have been dealing with inappropriate partners, misread cues, and conflicting workloads for six books now. I'm happy-- but hesitant-- to report that there may be a light at the end of their tunnel. It's not going to be easy. Daniel is very nervous about not wanting too much too soon from Hannah, and Hannah is still trying to drill it into her former partner's head that the party is over while simultaneously dealing with crippling staff reductions on the police force. Both Daniel and Hannah are complex, interesting characters, but I have to admit that I think The Frozen Shroud's story let them down a bit. For one thing, too many personal problems were settled with happy coincidences, and for another, it was too easy for me to deduce whodunit. Be that as it may, I still enjoyed reading the book as the next chapter in the lives of two characters I've grown to care for very much, as well as for its creepy atmospheric setting. I'm looking forward to book number seven. I have been a fan of Martin Edwards' Lake District mystery series since I picked up a copy of the first several years ago. They hit all the right spots with me -- rich in character detail, enough suspense but not a constant and improbable lurching from one excessive bit of violence and drama to the next, historical backgrounds play a role, and there's a great sense of place. In this outing, the murders are set in a remote Cumbrian valley on the banks of Ullswater. An Edwardian murder left rumors of a ghost of the murdered girl walking the byroads; then, in the 21st century, there is a copycat killing that appears to have been solved when the presumed perpetrator is found dead. But then, five years after that, a third murder shakes everything up again The two protagonists here are historian Daniel Kind, who have moved to the Cumbrian neighborhood where his late father, a police inspector, once lived; and Hannah Scarlett, a protegee of Daniel's father who has developed a still-platonic-but-who-knows-what-might-happen kind of relationship with Daniel himself. There is work for both to do here, as Daniel's historical research knowledge may help finally put to rest the question of who killed Gertrude a century ago, while Hannah is heading up a Cold Case squad under siege by budget cuts. If you're deeply into ultra-dark Scandicrime, or rollercoaster Steve Berry-style thrillers, this won't do much for you. On the other hand, if you're happy occupying the middle ground between "cozy" mysteries and the police procedural, this will delight you. The last book in the series somewhat underwhelmed me, but Edwards is back on track with this book -- just start back at the beginning if you're interested, as you'll be able to follow the evolution of the characters' relationships, which is a big part of the fun for me. Definitely recommended, and I did a happy dance when NetGalley enabled me to read this as an e-galley. The month or so that is left before publication will give you enough time to read up on its predecessors! I've rated this 4. The Frozen Shroud is a book I could not put down. Set in the Lake District of England in a small town called Ravenbank and people whose families have lived there for many generations. The three people who were could not have been done by the same person because the first one happened 50 years ago and the other two were within the last five years. The main cast of characters are all from different walks of life and different ways that they live. The story-line is well- written and I can't wait to read more by Mr. Here at Walmart. Your email address will never be sold or distributed to a third party for any reason. Sorry, but we can't respond to individual comments. If you need immediate assistance, please contact Customer Care. Your feedback helps us make Walmart shopping better for millions of customers. Recent searches Clear All. Enter Location. Update location. Learn more. Report incorrect product information. Martin Edwards. Out of stock. Delivery not available. Pickup not available. Add to list. Add to registry. Death has already come twice to Ravenbank, a remote Lake District community. Before the First World War a young woman's corpse was found, a makeshift shroud frozen to her battered face. Then five years ago, another woman was murdered in the same grisly manner. When a third death is visited on Ravenbank at Hallowe'en, Daniel Kind, a specialist in the history of murder, becomes fascinated by the old cases. Surely this new incident is linked to the earlier killings? About This Item. We aim to show you accurate product information. Manufacturers, suppliers and others provide what you see here, and we have not verified it.

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