Intricate, fascinating and deeply satisfying to the last page -- another classic Robert Goddard mystery.
Actor Toby Flood, formerly of big and small screen but now seldom seen on either, arrives in Brighton with the other cast members of the Joe Orton play Lodger in the Throat. They have been on tour since September, but hopes of a West End transfer have been abandoned and they are all looking forward to the end of the run the following Saturday.
Flood is visited that night by his estranged wife, Jenny, now living with wealthy entrepreneur Roger Colborn. Jenny runs a shop in the Lanes and is worried about a strange man who is hanging around outside. Roger has dismissed her concerns but Jenny persuades Toby, for old times’ sake, to do something. The next day Flood trails the man and confronts him. Derek Oswin is an unemployed loner who blames Roger Colborn for his father’s death from cancer on account of dangerous practices at the now-closed plastics factory run by Roger and his late father, Sir Walter Colborn. However, Oswin is a fan of Flood’s and eventually he agrees to lay off. Then, Colborn gets wind of Flood’s contact with Jenny and tries to buy him off, but Flood sees only a longed-for opportunity to win Jenny back, and presses for answers to a host of questions surrounding the death of Sir Walter seven years earlier.
Before he fully understands the risks he is running, Flood finds himself entangled in the mysterious -- and dangerous -- relationship between the Oswins and the Colborns. The prospects of him surviving until the close of the play suddenly start to look far from good.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
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|Title of Romance eBook: Play to the End|
|Release Date: 04-25-2006|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Random House Publishing Group|
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|Parent title||Play to the End|
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Play to the End
What I felt as I got off the train this afternoon wasn’t what I’d expected to feel. The journey had been as grim and tardy as I suppose it was bound to be on a December Sunday. Most of the others have chosen to go via London and they won’t be coming down here until tomorrow. I could have joined them. Instead I volunteered for the slow South Central shuffle along the coast. I had plenty of opportunity to analyse my state of mind as a seamless succession of drab back gardens drifted past the grimy train window. I knew why I hadn’t gone up to London, of course. I knew exactly why bright lights and brash company weren’t what the doctor had ordered. The truth is that if I had fled to the big city, I might never have made it to Brighton at all. I might have opted out of the last week of this ever more desperate tour and let Gauntlett sue me if he could be bothered to. So, I came the only way I could be sure would get me here. Which it did. Late, cold and depressed. But here. And then, as I stepped out onto the platform . . .
That feeling is why I’m talking into this machine. I can’t quite describe it. Not foreboding, exactly. Not excitement. Not even anticipation. Something slipping between all three, I suppose. A thrill; a shiver; a prickling of the hairs on the back of the neck; a ghost tiptoeing across my grave. There wasn’t supposed to be anything but a protraction of a big disappointment waiting for me in Brighton. But already, before I’d even cleared the ticket barrier, I sensed strongly enough for certainty that there was more than that preparing a welcome for me. More that might be better or worse, but, either way, was