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“I was a strong lad and survived; but the poison was in the wound, and the wound remained forever open.” —Vladimir Nabokov
He didn’t put much stock in ghost stories and he didn’t bother much with the church, either. Once you’re dead, you’re dead.
fascinators. He could only presume these magical items of headwear were designed to fascinate those who looked upon them, otherwise he would be sorely disappointed.
the handwriting expert—” “Graphologist.”
The forecast for Easter Sunday was ‘scattered showers’, which for the north of England was an almost certain indicator of monsoon rainfall.
until they reached the top of Grey Street, which was an architectural dream with its Georgian terraces curving gently downhill towards the Quayside. The Theatre Royal stood proudly to their left, with its classic columns and large boards touting performances
“Graphology is hardly an exact science,
Our killer was organised and focused when it came to planning the act itself, if his handwriting is any indication of his mindset.”
it. As a woman in her forties, it was no small source of anxiety to find that she had fallen in love and, worse still, that the prospect of creating miniature versions of herself wasn’t nearly as terrifying as it should have been. Was she too late?
