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Patricia Wentworth


Hodder & Stoughton 1949
Jacket design unknown

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WHEN Dorinda Brown came into the Heather Club at four o'clock on January 8th she hadn't the slightest idea that she had just made the first step upon a road which was going to take her into some curious places. If anyone had told her so, she would have laughed. She laughed easily, to be sure, with a backward tilt of the head, eyes crinkling at the corners, and a generous display of excellent white teeth. Anyone less good-tempered than Dorinda might have been annoyed with Justin Leigh's remark that when she was really amused he could count them. Dorinda had only laughed again and said, "Well, they're all there." The Heather Club wasn't really a club. Penny plain it was a boarding-house, and twopence coloured it was a private hotel. Miss Donaldson who presided over it felt that she was combining patriotism and refinement by calling it a club and displaying a large bowl of Scottish heather in the little dark hall.

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