THE TRUTH ABOUT CONSTANCE WEAVER
It may begin with a bloodied corpse in the library of an old country house, and end with a twist you'll never forget, but this is not a genre mystery novel.
Love letters dated 1732. A painting that may not be what it seems. A dying woman who loathes her "old friend" (who happens to be a mystery novelist). Who did what to whom, and why, is just the first layer of the onion in this gripping story about obsession, forgery, and madness.
"[A]s far away from Hercule Poirot as it is possible to be. It's an erudite celebration of culture with a philosophical twist that leaves you gasping for more ... I loved it." (Five star amazon.co.uk review)
“The gentleman portraied on that canvass is my husband, Sir Jacob Hart. Tho' he was a man without parallel among his sex in character, wits and vertue; tho' he made a rare husband and a loving father; tho' I have known no person who was his equal, and tho' in truth he was the very ideal of a man, yet to say all this is to omit from the account one grave irregularity …”
Who are these people, really? Who painted the portrait? And when you do discover the truth, on the very last page - have you discovered it? (Is it, after all, one of those neat, tidy Angus McAllister endings that Connie so despised?)
Or has life outpaced art one more time?