Clifford Flush had not murdered anybody for years. When, horrified, he felt the urge to kill his bridge partner—the man’s bidding was really quite unforgivable—he was blackmailed into leaving London. He and his fellow Asterisk Club members, all of whom had been wrongfully acquitted of at least one murder, established themselves as professional homicide consultants in the ugliest manor house in Dorset. After all, if they could commit the perfect murder why not share that knowledge with the world—for a handsome fee? Flush conducts classes on Grips, Knots, Electricity, Court Etiquette and Alibis. Mrs. Barratt teaches Anatomy and Forensic Medicine. Colonel Quincey specializes in Automobiles and Firearms. The Creaker—well, perhaps it’s best not to describe what the Creaker teaches. There was even a scantily clad blonde on the staff whom no one—save her late fiancé—believed capable of murder. Everything was going just fine until a member of the twenty-sixth class has the effrontery to get himself murdered on the premises. Original plots like this are why Carolyn Hart called Branch’s humor “incomparable” and why Dean James of Houston’s Murder by the Book described Branch’s books as “British farce at its best.” Published in England in 1954, Murder Every Monday makes its first American appearance in this edition.
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