Bøker av Anne Cleeland

"This seemed like a cut-and-dried case of suicide to Detective Sergeant Kathleen Doyle; the decedent--a wealthy theatre patron--must have decided that life without her famous husband was too hard to bear, and so she'd ended it. Indeed, nothing about the tranquil scene would indicate foul play, save for the housekeeper's insistence that something was amiss. The girl was certain that her mistress would never take her own life, and equally certain that she would never hold a peacock feather while doing so. After all, everyone in the theatre trade knew that peacock feathers were bad luck..."--Provided by publisher.

It seemed as though Doyle was slated to have a busman's holiday, here in Dublin, and wasn't it just her luck to stumble across a corpse in the St. Brigid's School orchard. Stranger still, it looked to be a ritualistic revenge-murder, which--come to think of it--was exactly what they'd stumbled across the last time they'd visited Doyle's home town. Who would have guessed that nasty revenge-murders were thick on the ground, here--save Acton, of course, since such a thing was usually his specialty. . .

For years, Lisabetta had been under the protection of the Empress Josephine due to her status as a stray-relation-the illegitimate child of Josephine's first husband. But now, Josephine was dead and all the various spymasters that Lisabetta had double-crossed were circling like vultures to see what she knew about the rumored St. Alban's treasure. She needed a gambit, and needed it fast; it was fortunate, indeed, that love was the greatest gambit of all.

This homicide case featured aristocrats as far as the eye could see, between the Russians and the Spaniards-and Acton, of course, who was supposedly investigating the others but seemed a little too deferential, for Doyle's taste. Why wasn't her husband moving in on the killer? And why did she have the sense that she was standing on the outside, peering into a world where there were no laws and no explanations-only birthrights, forged in ancient blood.

This case was a strange one; Detective Sergeant Kathleen Doyle was investigating what appeared to be an "admonishment" murder-a lower-level player in a turf war had been murdered to serve as a warning by a rival gang.But the whole point of an admonishment-murder was to send a message, and in this case, it was unclear who was sending it, or even to whom it was being sent. And they'd another problem, in that Scotland Yard couldn't even seem to come up with a cause of death. . .

Detective Sergeant Doyle realizes that several apparently unrelated murders are actually "containment" murders--murders to contain an ominous scandal that could reach into the highest levels of Scotland Yard's CID. In the process of tracking down the killers, however, she comes to the unsettling conclusion that Chief Inspector Acton has committed a containment murder or two of his own.

"Detective Sergeant Kathleen Doyle has been called-in to assist with a few unsound-mind murders, lately--murders committed by a person who appears to be mentally unhinged. This type of murder is always a concern for Scotland Yard, since it raises the possibility that there's a serial killer on the loose. And it doesn't help matters that the weather is so very cold and miserable--small wonder, that these killers have gone off the deep end; Doyle was half-way there herself, what with Christmas coming far too quickly, and a husband who was showing some troubling signs of his own."--

After a shipwreck, Nonie Rafferty washes up on the shore of Algiers, where the slave traders look to sell the pretty Irishwoman--or worse. She must come up with a tale to save herself--and fast--before anyone discovers the true reason she sailed to this misbegotten corner of the world, or the true reason she was wearing a priceless strand of pearls, when she was rescued. Fortunately, the Dey's mysterious necromancer appears willing to come to her aid, and what follows is a cat-and-mouse game of deception, attraction, and above all, redemption.

"A member of the French âemigrâe community in London, Epione is forced to hide her true identity, and instead works as a milliner's assistant in a Bond Street shop. Cautiously optimistic, she believes she's managed to avoid public scrutiny--until she notices that a handsome man is watching her movements from across the way. As she is swept up in the plots and counter-plots surrounding the restoration of the French monarchy, Epione must call upon reserves of courage she wasn't aware she possessed, and re-learn long-forgotten lessons about loyalty, and love"--Back cover.

"Doyle was back at Scotland Yard after taking maternity leave, and the powers-that-be had decided they'd ease her way by assigning her to assist DS Isabella Munoz, which was a fate only slightly worse than death ... [T]he first assignment out of the box was a possible suicide at the housing projects, something that happened with such regularity that it was a wonder the responding officer had even thought it worthy of a detective's notice"--

"This holiday trip to Dublin had been very hard on detective Kathleen Doyle's husband--although he was making a monumental effort to disguise this fact--an unless she very much missed her guess, it was all somehow connected to the grisly murder on the station-house steps. That, and an African cab-driver who wore a jaunty tam o'shanter"--Back cover.

"Things are a bit grim at Scotland Yard, this Christmas. On the heels of a nasty corruption scandal, the CID must now contend with a killer who is murdering pregnant women, so as to steal their babies. Chief Inspector Acton doesn't want Doyle anywhere near this case, of course, but she can't shake the feeling that there is more to his concern than his usual over-protectiveness--and more to this case than the usual psycho-killer."--]cProvided by publisher.

It was a bit puzzling, that Chief Inspector Acton hadn't mentioned the body they'd discovered in the burnt-out church, even though he must have known that Doyle would find it of great interest. Was the arsonist caught up in her own fire, or was there a deeper, more sinister tale told by the blackened rubble? Although she was sidelined on maternity leave, Detective Sergeant Kathleen Doyle was fast coming to the realization that her husband hadn't told her, because he was masterminding some scheme-a scheme that may-or-may-not involve arson, blood money, and the ducks of St. Petersburg.

It seemed a little strange, that Detective Sergeant Kathleen Doyle wound up being the ranking officer on this particular homicide scene. It was true that DCI Acton was off somewhere, testifying, and DI Williams was chasing down witnesses on the latest Santeria murder, but Doyle couldn't shake the feeling that she was being manipulated, by one or both of them. But to what end? The unidentified victim was a wealthy man, who shouldn't have been mucking about in a Lambeth alley, in the first place. Who was he? And why were Acton and Williams staying well-away, with only Doyle left to sort it out? It was almost as though they didn't want the case to be resolved too quickly. . .

"The detectives called it "graveyard love," and it happened more than you'd think; a spurned lover would rather murder his beloved, than allow her to walk away. This case seemed no different than the usual--a murder-suicide, by someone who'd decided he couldn't bear such a rejection. Doyle thought it was a bit odd, though, that the perpetrator worked for an armed transport company; you'd think he'd have been thoroughly vetted. And it was an interesting coincidence that the female victim had a connection to the Public Accounts investigation--the one that was giving Chief Inspector Acton such fits. Who would have guessed, that the cornered bureaucrats would put up such a fight? Certainly not Doyle, who was fast coming to the conclusion that there was much more to all this than met the eye, and plenty of graveyard-love to go around."--Back cover.

The holidays had come and gone, and Doyle was chafing to get back home to London, so as to start being productive, again. Acton's hereditary estate was grand indeed, but there was something a bit off-putting about the grandeur, and all that tiresome peacefulness. After all, Trestles hadn't always been a peaceful sort of place; for hundreds of years, it had housed generation after generation who were consumed with ruthless ambition, and who were willing to sail very close to the wind, in their quest for material gain. Best to whisk Acton away, before this troublesome atmosphere seeped into his very bones . . . .