Night and Day (Paperback) (ISBN-13: 9781393815921)

Reviewers said: "Five stars! Delightfully entertaining, rich characters, suspenseful, charming all in one; anxiously awaiting the next one!"

"a fascinating tale set in England in the 1930s. This 'cozy crime' novel, with its measure of burgeoning romance, is a good read; something to entertain and satisfy in front of a burning log fire in the dark days of winter. The settings and period detail are excellent...The denouement is swift, tense and satisfying..."

"Dottie Manderson is a gorgeous character...A great read and I'm looking forward to catching up with more of Dottie."

London, November 1933. alone and on her way back from the theatre, Dottie Manderson stumbles upon the body of a dying man in a deserted night-time street. As she waits for help to arrive, she holds the man's hand and tries to get him to tell her what happened. But nothing can be done for the poor fellow, and Dottie is left shocked by the violence of the attack, especially when she realizes she knows the man's widow.

Dottie needs to know who could do such a terrible thing. Even though a particular, very annoying young policeman is investigating the case officially, she feels compelled to carry out her own investigation into the mysterious death. Who would want to kill a man in such a way? Could there be a clue in the words of the song he sang just before he died? And why is everyone so upset about her new cape?

Introducing a new 1930s female sleuth in a traditional, cozy mystery series set in Britain between the two World Wars, from Caron Allan, the writer of Criss Cross, Cross Check, and Check Mate, a murderous contemporary trilogy.

Buy Night and Day: a Dottie Manderson mysteryfor a romantic, suspenseful read in the traditional amateur detective sleuth genre.

Extract from Night and Day: a Dottie Manderson mystery

A sound came to Dottie's ears. A soft shushing sort of sound but almost melodic. Her eyes, growing accustomed to the darkness, made out a shape on the pavement not ten yards ahead. Her heart gave an odd lurch, as if a cold hand gripped it.

The sound came again. A little louder, a little more insistent. It sounded almost like...

There was someone--a man--lying on the pavement. She felt a little shimmer of fear. Could it be a drunk? Perhaps she ought to step into the road, walk round him very carefully, keeping her distance.

The head moved very slightly. His face was a pale oval in the dim lamplight. And she saw that the lips moved too. It was him making that odd noise. So it was a drunk, after all. He was singing to himself in a soft sibilant whisper. Her ear caught the rough melody of it, and even then, just as she saw the blood on his shirt-front, one part of her mind was saying, I know that song.

She forgot her fears and ran to his side.

'What happened? Are you all right?' But it was all too obvious he was not all right. She knelt beside him and put out a hand to take his groping one.

He was quite young, though older than her own nineteen years of age. But no more than perhaps his early thirties. Fairish hair, slightly receding, and dark from the rain. One of those moustaches that were all the rage at the moment. Blue eyes, very blue like a child's, wide and astonished-looking. From his smart evening dress, he was clearly well-to-do, although she didn't recognise him. But the blood--oh the blood. So much...