Meistverkauft in Kindersachbücher
Hier sparen: Kindersachbücher
- EUR 49,90Preistendenz: EUR 51,92
- EUR 24,95Preistendenz: EUR 25,49
- EUR 19,99Preistendenz: EUR 20,78
- EUR 19,80Preistendenz: EUR 20,07
- EUR 19,95Preistendenz: EUR 20,76
- EUR 13,54Preistendenz: EUR 25,58
Über dieses Produkt
- KurzbeschreibungFather Tom Christmas moves to the picturesque English hamlet of Thornford Regis to become its new vicar and to seek a peaceful haven. But inside the empty village hall, the huge Japanese o-daiko drum that's featured in the May Fayre festivities has been viciously sliced open-and curled up inside is the bludgeoned body of Sybella Parry, the daughter of the choir director. Realizing this village is not the refuge he'd hoped for, Father Tom comes to a disturbing conclusion: Sybella's killer must be one of his parishioners. No one is above suspicion-not Sebastian John, the deeply reserved verger, nor Mitsuko Drewe, a local artist, nor Colonel Northmore, survivor of a World War II prison camp. And over all hangs the long-unsolved mystery of a sudden disappearance, one that brought Father Tom to this picture-perfect place to live-or die.
- AutorC. C. Benison
- VerlagBantam Dell
- Seiten400 Seiten
- Gewicht292 g
- Leseprobechapter one
"Thinking of stealing that book, Father?"
The voice at his shoulder startled Tom Christmas. He looked down to see Fred Pike, the village's elfin handyman, smiling at him with a kind of manic glee.
"Stealing that book?"
Tom blinked at Fred, then snatched his hand from the book. Steal This Book was the title. Someone named Abbie Hoffman was apparently the writer. The cover said as much.
"Despite the title's invitation, I don't think so," Tom said, running his finger between his neck and his dog collar. He put the book down next to a copy of The Anarchist Cookbook, which was being offered for thirty pence. In the middle distance, between two rows of stalls, a hefty lad he recognised as Colm Parry's son Declan, all got up like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, was struggling to push a large drum on a trolley across the lawn towards the stage. Another lad, similarly dressed, was pulling at the other end.
"Thou shalt not steal," warned Fred.
"Yes." Tom nodded agreeably. "I've heard that."
Grinning, Fred passed on towards the display of cider-making machinery, near the stage where the two boys were still struggling with the drum. Tom scratched his head, then turned to look at the other titles, all of them political in nature. He picked up a small volume with a red plastic slipcover. Quotations from Mao Tse-Tung. Well-thumbed, it opened at a page that proclaimed, "Political power comes from the barrel of a gun." Gently, Tom replaced the book. The other bookstalls were a sea of used Jeffrey Archer and Barbara Cartland, but this was a stall of another colour. He thought he knew whose books these once were. But who in a village nestled in the South Devon hills could be enticed to buy them? Even at prices many pence shy of a pound?
"This is quite the collection," he said to Belinda Swan, the publican's wife, who was minding the stall. She reminded him of the Willendorf Venus, fleshy and voluptuous in a way that would have stirred a skinny hunter-gatherer, only attired in the modern way: sealed in stretch trousers and miraculously buttressed beneath a deeply scooped blouse.
"Not very Christian, are they?" she responded, picking up Confessions of a Revolutionary and regarding it askance. "We did wonder, but as it's for the church, we thought you wouldn't mind, Father."
"I wish you wouldn't-"
"Vicar, I mean."
"Tom is fine."
"Right. Tom it is. I'll remember this time. But with your family name, you know, sometimes we can't-"
"Help it," he said, finishing her thought. It was a bane of his existence
Dieser Artikel gehört nicht auf diese Seite.
Vielen Dank. Wir kümmern uns darum.