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"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 . . . .
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