The Sibyl in Her Grave

( 10 )

Overview

Julia Larwood's Aunt Regina needs help. She and two friends pooled their modest resources and invested in equities. Now the tax man demands his due, but they've already spent the money. How can they dig themselves out of the tax hole? Even more to the point: Can the sin of capital gains trigger corporeal loss?

That's one for the sibyl, psychic counselor Isabella del Comino, who has offended Aunt Regina and her friends by moving into the rectory, plowing under a cherished garden,...

See more details below
Paperback (Mass Market Paperback - Reprint)
$7.99
BN.com price
Other sellers (Paperback)
  • All (74) from $1.99   
  • New (8) from $4.33   
  • Used (66) from $1.99   
The Sibyl in Her Grave

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • NOOK HD/HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK Study
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook)
$7.99
BN.com price

Overview

Julia Larwood's Aunt Regina needs help. She and two friends pooled their modest resources and invested in equities. Now the tax man demands his due, but they've already spent the money. How can they dig themselves out of the tax hole? Even more to the point: Can the sin of capital gains trigger corporeal loss?

That's one for the sibyl, psychic counselor Isabella del Comino, who has offended Aunt Regina and her friends by moving into the rectory, plowing under a cherished garden, and establishing an aviary of ravens. When Isabella is found dead, all clues point to death by fiscal misadventure.

So Julia calls in an old friend and Oxford fellow, Professor Hilary Tamar, to follow a money trail that connects Aunt Regina to what appears to be capital fraud — and capital crime. The two women couldn't have a better champion than the erudite Hilary, as once again Sarah Caudwell sweeps us into the scene of the crime, leaving us to ponder the greatest mystery of all: Hilary, him — or her — self.

Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble
Julia Larwood's Aunt Regina gets caught up in fiscal fraud and capital crime when an investing experiment leads to a deep tax hole with no way out.
From the Publisher
"Anyone who enjoys an ingenious mystery plot will enjoy Caudwell's."
Newsday

A New York Times Notable Book of the Year

"Marvelous ... Combines wit and forbearance, intellect and passion, above all, humor and perfection of language. Sarah set out to write a classic English village crime story, complete with vicar and mad virgin, and here it is, together with Hilary Tamar and the brilliant, sexy, young lawyers at the Chancery Bar."
— Amanda Cross

"Brilliant."
Chicago Sun-Times

"The humor is wicked, but the intelligence behind it is smart and sweet."
The New York Times Book Review

"Clean, elegant, observant and witty."
The Washington Post

Also by Sarah Caudwell:

The Sirens Sang of Murder
"An absolute joy."
— Elizabeth Peters

The Shortest Way to Hades
"An utterly delightful book ... it will be irresistible to all who enjoy polished, civilized prose."
The New York Times Book Review

Thus Was Adonis Murdered
"A tour de force ... a hilarious comedy of manners."
St. Louis Post-Dispatch

Available from Dell

Barnes & Noble Guide to New Fiction
In her newest "upper-crusty" mystery, Sarah Caudwell returns to London with her redoubtable team of young barristers. A "delightful" mystery. "Kinky Friedman meets Mrs. Pollifax!" "Witty and charming, with Christie-like plotting and a clever delivery." A few reviewers found the language "stilted" and the characters unsympathetic.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Published posthumously, Caudwell's final Hilary Tamar mystery finds the androgynous Oxford professor and his (or her) coterie of junior barristers untangling a complicated case of insider trading and murder. While barrister Julia Larwood is mulling over a panicky letter from her aunt, Regina Sheldon, about taxes owed on certain recent investments, her colleague, Selena Jardine, is coincidentally advising Sir Robert Renfrews, chairman of Renfrews' Bank, on the mysterious leaking of top-secret business gossip that has somehow reached Aunt Regina and her two investment cronies. The conduit of information proves to be Aunt Regina's new neighbor, Isabella del Comino, a self-styled "psychic counselor," who may be blackmailing one of two rising directors at the bank. Isabella's sudden death and the emergence of her pathetic but creepy niece, Daphne, raise concerns: did one of the bank directors murder Isabella, and will Daphne, or possibly even Aunt Regina, be next? Mining Barbara Pym country for tipsy vicars and high-strung spinsters, Caudwell has produced a droll, rather retro whodunit, updated only by the barest hint of same-sex dalliance. In addition, the young barristers have time to deconstruct wordy epistles from a suburban aunt and to natter on in stiff-upper-lip British diction about bookshelves and vacations as if they were back in the junior common room. It's all highly artificial, but Caudwell's crafty plotting and knowing wit will keep readers happily diverted. (July) Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.|
Library Journal
Enigmatic sleuth Hilary Tamar is back for the first time since 1989 in this fourth and final mystery by British author Caudwell (The Shortest Way to Hades), who died of cancer last January at the age of 60. In London to visit a circle of young lawyer friends, Hilary, an Oxford law professor of unspecified gender, grows entangled in a case involving friend Julia Larwood's aunt, Regina Sheldon. Regina had received stock tips that, while lucrative, appear to have been obtained through insider trading. When Regina's neighbor, fortuneteller Isabella del Comino, is found dead in her home, Hilary and friends set out to discover the connection between her death and the stock scheme. Witty characters, a carefully constructed plot, polished prose, and knowing glimpses into the worlds of British law and academic life make this a delightful read. Recommended for all mystery collections. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 3/15/00].--Jane la Plante, Minot State Univ. Lib., ND Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.\
School Library Journal
Published posthumously, Caudwell's final Hilary Tamar mystery finds the androgynous Oxford professor and his (or her) coterie of junior barristers untangling a complicated case of insider trading and murder. While barrister Julia Larwood is mulling over a panicky letter from her aunt, Regina Sheldon, about taxes owed on certain recent investments, her colleague, Selena Jardine, is coincidentally advising Sir Robert Renfrews, chairman of Renfrews' Bank, on the mysterious leaking of top-secret business gossip that has somehow reached Aunt Regina and her two investment cronies. The conduit of information proves to be Aunt Regina's new neighbor, Isabella del Comino, a self-styled "psychic counselor," who may be blackmailing one of two rising directors at the bank. Isabella's sudden death and the emergence of her pathetic but creepy niece, Daphne, raise concerns: did one of the bank directors murder Isabella, and will Daphne, or possibly even Aunt Regina, be next? Mining Barbara Pym country for tipsy vicars and high-strung spinsters, Caudwell has produced a droll, rather retro whodunit, updated only by the barest hint of same-sex dalliance. In addition, the young barristers have time to deconstruct wordy epistles from a suburban aunt and to natter on in stiff-upper-lip British diction about bookshelves and vacations as if they were back in the junior common room. It's all highly artificial, but Caudwell's crafty plotting and knowing wit will keep readers happily diverted. (July) Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.|
Kirkus Reviews
Caudwell, who died this past January, managed in just three books (The Sirens Sang of Murder, 1989, etc.) to achieve cult status for her gleefully barbed wit and erudition. Nobody, however, raved about her plotting, and her long-awaited fourth mixes her best and worst. Narrated once again by the gender-unspecific Hilary Tamar, legal historian at St. George's College, Oxford, the tale asks whether one of businessman Sir Robert Renfrew's possible successors, Geoffrey Bolton or Edgar Albany, is leaking takeover information. Hilary's London lawyer pals get involved when Julia Larwood's Aunt Reg, down in the country, and her own pals—St. Ethel's vicar Maurice and gardener Griselda—make a tidy bundle off these stock tips. Hilary wonders if the tips are tied to the mysterious gent in the black Mercedes that's been visiting local clairvoyant Isabella del Comino, whose idea of home decor is swooping ravens, a hungry vulture, and a locked cabinet containing (ahem) The Book. When Isabella dies, her needy charge, the hapless Daphne, latches on to Maurice and appoints herself Custodian of The Book. Soon after, a mysterious young man appears and goes off to Italy with Maurice. Meantime, Sir Robert, who's been having his estimable secretary tail his CEO wannabes, comes down with food poisoning. Maurice dies; Daphne too. And Hilary comes up with three separate solutions to the infuriatingly overstuffed mystery. Despite a superb barrage of letters from Aunt Reg to Julia, a hilarious send-up of refurbishing pitfalls, and a clever use of mothballs, there are too many coincidences and jaunts to the pub en route to a most unlikely confession. An imperfect wrap-up to anall-too-shortcareer.
Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780440234821
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 7/3/2001
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 368
  • Sales rank: 866,301
  • Product dimensions: 4.20 (w) x 6.90 (h) x 1.00 (d)

Meet the Author

Sarah Caudwell is also the author of Thus Was Adonis Murdered, The Shortest Way to Hades, and The Sirens Sang of Murder. She studied law at St. Anne's College, Oxford, was called to the Chancery Bar, and practiced as a barrister for several years in Lincoln's Inn. She then became a member of the legal section of a major London bank, where she found herself specializing in international tax planning. Sarah Caudwell died in January 2000.
Read More Show Less

Read an Excerpt

The two men struggling on the floor of the Clerks' Room differed widely in appearance: one young, of slender build, dressed in cotton and denim, with honey-coloured hair worn rather long and a pleasing delicacy of feature; the other perhaps in his sixties, tending to plumpness, wearing a pinstriped suit, with the round, pink face of a bad-tempered baby and very little hair at all. They rolled this way and that, as it seemed inextricably entwined, uttering indistinguishable cries and groans, whether of pain or pleasure I could not easily determine. A ladder was also involved in the proceedings.

I concluded after a few moments that their entanglement was neither hostile nor amorous, but of an involuntary nature on both sides, the result, very possibly, of an accidental collision between the older man and the ladder at a moment when the younger was standing, perhaps imperfectly balanced, on one of its upper rungs.

“Sir Robert — Sir Robert, are you all right?”

Selena's voice, as she ran forward to assist the older man to his feet, conveyed a tactful mixture of deference, apology and concern — it seemed likely that he was one of her clients. If so, this was not the moment to lay claim to her attention: I withdrew, thinking that a pleasant half hour or so could be spent in visiting Julia Larwood in the Revenue chambers next door.

At 63 New Square I found Julia sitting at her desk, surrounded by papers, tax encyclopedias, half-empty coffee cups, and overflowing ashtrays, more than ever resembling in appearance some particularly dishevelled heroine of Greek tragedy. I concluded that she was working on a matter of some importance.

“Yes,” said Julia, waving hospitably towards an armchair. “Yes, I am. I'm writing a letter to my aunt Regina. She is in urgent need of my advice.” She spoke a trifle defensively, no doubt aware that I would find the claim improbable.

Julia's aunt Regina, having spent several periods of her life in more distant parts of the world, had now chosen, as I recalled, to settle in Parsons Haver in West Sussex — a charming village on the banks of the Arun or the Adur, I forget which, of the kind that Londoners are usually thinking of when they dream of the pleasures of rusticity. Having at one time in the Middle Ages flourished as a seaport, it has long since been deprived by the changing coastline of any commercial importance; but its cobbled streets, its knapped flint cottages and its fine Norman church continue to attract the discerning tourist and those in quest of an idyllic retirement.

Regina Sheldon herself, whom I had once or twice had the pleasure of meeting, had also struck me as having something about her appearance which savoured of the mediaeval. As a girl, I suppose, she would rather have put one in mind of a good-looking pageboy at the court of one of the Plantagenets; now, though her figure was no longer boyish and the dark auburn of her hair must have owed less to nature than to her hairdresser, one could still imagine her as the same pageboy, grown up to be an ambassador or a rather worldly cardinal. Having married four husbands and brought up two sons, she professed to have retired from matrimony: the chief outlet for her talents and formidable energies was a small antique shop, adjoining the discreetly modernised cottage in which she lived.

There were few areas in which I could imagine her requiring the benefit of Julia's wisdom and experience.

“She has a tax problem,” said Julia. “If you'd like to read about it, while I finish writing this—”

She offered for my perusal a letter running to several pages, written in distinctively elegant but perfectly legible manuscript.

24 High Street
Parsons Haver
West Sussex

Monday, 14th June

Dear Julia,

Now do please read this properly as soon as you open it, instead of putting it somewhere safe and forgetting about it. There's something I need your advice on — I think it's the kind of thing you're supposed to know about — and it's much too complicated to explain by telephone.

It all started in February last year, when Maurice and Griselda and I were sitting in the Newt and Ninepence. And don't be tiresome, Julia, you know perfectly well who Maurice and Griselda are, or if you don't it's quite disgraceful of you.

Maurice Dulcimer is the vicar at St. Ethel's. Well, in a manner of speaking — the Church Commissioners decided that St. Ethel's was too small to have a full-time vicar to itself, so he's been rationalised into an assistant curate — but they let him go on living at the Vicarage and everyone still calls him “Vicar.” I always invite him to dinner when you're down here and you usually seem to amuse each other.

And you certainly ought to remember Griselda — Griselda Carstairs, my neighbour, who does people's gardens and has cats. The first time you met her she was weeding my rose bed and you spent ten minutes flirting with her before you realised she was a woman, not a young man. And I do think, Julia, though of course I wouldn't like you to be the sort of girl who's obsessed with sex, that you ought to be able by now to tell the difference. Just because Griselda has short hair and was wearing trousers—

Well, as I say, there we were in the Newt, as we usually are on a Saturday morning, helping each other to finish our crosswords and talking of this and that. And it turned out that we were all a little bit richer than usual, to the tune of four or five hundred pounds each. Maurice had written an article on Virgil for one of the up-market papers, and been quite well paid for it. Griselda had been left a small legacy by someone whose garden she used to look after. And a charming American tourist had walked into my antique shop and bought some things I'd quite despaired of selling.

So we had an extra round of drinks to celebrate and talked about how to spend the money. By and by, though, we began to realise that it wasn't actually quite enough. Not enough, I mean, to do anything exciting with. When Maurice and I were your age, five hundred pounds was a very large sum of money — it could almost have changed one's life. And even when Griselda was your age, which isn't nearly so long ago, it would still have been pretty substantial. But nowadays — and yet it seemed a shame just to put it in the bank, and let it trickle away in everyday expenses.

“It would be awfully nice,” said Griselda, “if it were about twice as much.” Which summed up our feelings in a nutshell.

Maurice thought we might put it on deposit, and leave the interest to accumulate for a while. We were working out how long it would take for us to double our money in that way, and getting a bit depressed about the answer, when Ricky Farnham came in.

Do you remember Ricky? Square shouldered and brick coloured, with a handlebar moustache to show he was once in the RAF, and a rather lively taste in ties? He came to dinner once when you were down here, and took a great fancy to you — I think not reciprocated. Not your type at all, poor Ricky, even if he weren't thirty years too old — you like them willowy, don't you, and he definitely isn't that. (I dare say Maurice would have been your type when he was younger — he must have been very willowy.) Still, Ricky's not a bad chap, as long as one's firm with him. I'm quite fond of him really, though over the past few months—

But that's neither here nor there. The point is that until he retired he'd spent most of his life looking after pension funds and investment trusts and things like that, so he seemed like the very man to advise us about our problem. He wasn't at all keen on the deposit idea.

“Booze,” he said, “I can understand. Expensive restaurants I can understand. Fast women and slow horses, God knows I can understand. But throwing your money away on bankers — that's what I call sheer senseless waste.”

What we wanted, said Ricky, was equities, by which he seemed to mean shares in companies. And as what we were talking about wasn't our life savings, but a little windfall that wouldn't do us any good anyway unless we could make it grow a bit, not shares in the big companies that everyone's heard of, but in what he called “double or quits” companies. By which he seemed to mean that they either do very well very soon or go bust. And he happened to have just heard of one which might be the very thing for us.

It was pure chance that I was the one who actually bought the shares. Ricky had told us, you see, that one of the disadvantages of investing small sums was the high cost of dealing, so we'd decided to pool our resources and invest all the money as a lump sum. And as I had some banking business to deal with anyway on Monday morning, I said I'd arrange about the shares at the same time.

We looked in the paper every morning to see how they were doing, and for a week or two nothing happened at all. Then suddenly the price began to go up quite quickly — something to do with a takeover, I think. When they were worth nearly twice what we'd paid for them, Ricky said it was time to sell, but if we wanted to reinvest the proceeds he knew of another company which looked rather promising. So we did, and more or less the same thing happened — the second company didn't do quite as well as the first, but well enough to encourage us to go on investing.

After we'd reinvested three or four times, Maurice began to have scruples — I suppose it comes of being a clergyman. Giving all those sermons about not laying up treasure on earth is bound to have an effect on one, isn't it? He seemed to feel the whole thing was becoming too important to him, and distracting his mind from higher things.

“When I find I'm reading the financial page before I've even looked at the crossword,” he said, “I think it's time to stop.”

Griselda and I didn't feel quite the same about it. I paid Maurice his share of the money, and reinvested ours in a company called Giddly Gadgets, which was Ricky's latest tip. It didn't do nearly as well as the others, though, and we hardly made any profit at all. We began to wonder whether it might be some kind of warning that we were being too greedy, or a sign that Ricky was losing his touch, and we were still trying to make our minds up what to do when I found out that Ricky —

But that, as I say, is neither here nor there. The point is that we decided to stop. We just took the money and — well, spent it.

Maurice had already spent his. He has a weakness for old books and manuscripts, and he'd gone up to London for the day and fallen into temptation. An illuminated frontispiece for a copy of some poems of Virgil — Venetian, fifteenth or sixteenth century, illustrating a scene he says is from one of the Eclogues — it really is quite lovely. (He's longing to show it to you, by the way — he says it's just your sort of thing.) But then he had a bad conscience about spending so much on purely personal pleasure and made a large donation to the fund for maintaining St. Ethel's. And then he realised that St. Ethel's also gives him personal pleasure, so he gave the rest to a charity for the homeless — poor Maurice!

Griselda spent most of hers on a rather splendid greenhouse and new baskets for the cats, and I had new central heating put in. After that, and a few presents and celebrations, I had just enough left to go to Paris and stay with your aunt Ariadne for a week — which, as you know, is about as long as we can spend together before we quarrel about politics.

And if that were the end of the story it would be an extremely satisfactory one from everyone's point of view. But it isn't.

I had a wonderful time in Paris, eating and drinking too much and seeing old friends from art school, and came back feeling ready for anything. I thought that I ought to make the most of it, so I sat down straightaway and did my accounts, so that I could put in my tax return. (No, Julia, it would not be better if I had a professional accountant — the accounts of the antique shop are childishly simple, and I'm damned if I'm going to pay someone to do something I can do perfectly well myself.)

When I'd finished, I took the accounts along to the income tax people in Worthing — it's always better to do it in person, so that one can explain anything they don't quite understand — and just to be helpful I took my bank statements as well. I handed everything over to a young man in horn-rimmed glasses, who seemed at first to be perfectly sensible and obliging, and he noticed an entry in my statement arising from one of the share sales. And when I explained what it was, he asked me to send him a list of all the shares I'd bought and sold during the past year. Which I did, that same afternoon.

And now he wants three thousand pounds.

When I first got his letter I thought it was just a mistake. I rang up and explained to him that shares are capital, not income, and I shouldn't have to pay income tax on them. But he said it made no difference, and he was very sorry if it came as a shock to me.

It's all very well for him to say he's sorry — which I don't believe he is at all — where does he think I'm going to get three thousand pounds from?

Well, I know, of course, that when I tell Maurice and Griselda they'll raise their share of it somehow, and so shall I. But we're all going to find it a bit difficult — it's twice as much as we had in the first place, and, as I say, we've spent all the money, mostly on things we can't get it back for. I dare say Maurice could sell the Virgil frontispiece, but I think it would break his heart.

So before I spread alarm and despondency, I'd very much like to know whether you agree with me, or with the beastly young man in horn-rimmed glasses. I enclose a copy of the list I sent him and of his beastly letter. I'm almost bound to see Maurice and Griselda in the Newt on Saturday, so I'd be most grateful if you could let me know by then what you think.

Read More Show Less

Table of Contents

Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Average Rating 5
( 10 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(9)

4 Star

(1)

3 Star

(0)

2 Star

(0)

1 Star

(0)

Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation

Reminder:

  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

 
Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously
Sort by: Showing all of 10 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 18, 2012

    Amazing and clever

    Caudwell's books are the best mysteries I've ever read.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted September 10, 2011

    Fantatic

    A great mystery that keeps you guessing until the end.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 2, 2003

    a wickedly good read

    The mystery world lost a truly original talent with the death of Sarah Caudwell. Her Hilary Tamar series is delightful. THE SIBYL IN HER GRAVE is the first Caudwell book I read--imagine my dismay to learn that there would never be more than four! THE SIBYL IN HER GRAVE is light and engaging until the very last, when we read a letter written by the murderer to his victim. That letter is heartbreaking. It is the contrast between light, Wodehouse-like comedy and deep, heartfelt tragedy that enhances both and makes Sarah Caudwell's work something I will read over and over.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 3, 2013

    Sparrow's bio

    Gender: girl.. &hearts Looks: A tall,lithe,long black hair in a ponytail with a small btaid in front of her face, she is a girl of 14, Sparrow is very compassionate and very sweet,she also has many other talents. Meet her &hearts Distrist:12 &hearts

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 3, 2013

    Blue Jay

    Name: Blue Jay Winters • Age: 15 • Looks: dark hair, icey blue eyes • Personaity: stays out of the way, sly, and trickster, resourceful • Spcialties: archery, knives, healing, sound mimicking, and has a thing with animals • Crush/Bf: nope • District: 12 • Other: ask

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 3, 2013

    Thorn Fervent

    Ne: Thorn fervent<br>Age: 24<br>Appearance: He is big and muscular,but very agile due to extreme excercise and balanced muscle tempering. He wears a dark gren tank-top, army colored cargo pant and broen combat boots. His dirty blonde hair is buzzed short d he has hazel eyes.<br>Skills: trained extensively in karate and Ninjustu and close-combat and survival tactics. He is a master with making traps for both food and enemies.<br>History: he lived in district six where his name was drawn for the hunger games at age fifteen. After winning he became a mentor for new contestant.<br>Personality: He is very serious at times but has a sense of humor otherwise. Meet him....

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 2, 2013

    Desiree Bio

    Name-Desiree Aston Age-16 Looks-5"4' Skinny,brown hair,deep blue eyes Personality-Fun,hyper,determined,sweet,stubborn Wears-Silver shirt,deep blue skinny jean shorts and worn out shoes. District-4 Others-?... Weapons-Knives and swords

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    Excellent mystery

    It begins as a favor between friends. Ricky Farnsham of Parson Haver, West Sussex, England, provides some stock tips to the town vicar, Maurice Dulcimar and his friends Griselda Carstairs, and Regina Sheldon. The results are a handsome pay off to all of them. The results are so good that it raises questions about their legality. A friend of Regina¿s niece realizes that the tips were actually insider trading. A new resident, psychic Isabella del Comino lets it slip to Regina that she knows how the money was earned. <P>It turns out that Isabella was the source of the insider information. She had told Ricky whom, in turn, told his friends. Shortly afterward, Isabella dies, officially from a heart attack. Julia¿s friend Oxford fellow Professor Hilary Tamar believes foul play occurred. Soon Isabella¿s niece is attacked twice, leading Julia and Hilary to believe that Isabella¿s killer wants to eliminate Daphne. Other strange events occur, which forces Julia and Hilary and two other friends to begin an investigation. <P>Sarah Caudwell has the deft touch of a master magician. She pulls a sleight of the hand trick on the audience that sends everyone scrambling down the wrong direction so that no one can guess the truth behind the mysteries of THE SIBYL IN THE GRAVE. The narrator, Professor Tamar, has a sardonic sense of humor that hides a mind that is as sharp as a tack. The readers observe the mystery of Parson Haver through her witty eyes and perspective. She turns a clever melodrama into an entertaining, brain teasing reading experience. <P>Harriet Klausner

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 31, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted July 31, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

Sort by: Showing all of 10 Customer Reviews

If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
Why is this product inappropriate?
Comments (optional)