It was the body of a tall stout man. On his dead face, a handsome pair of gold pince-nez mocked death with grotesque elegance.

The body wore nothing else.

Lord Peter Wimsey knew immediately what the corpse was supposed to be. His problem was to find out whose body had found its way into Mr Alfred Thipps' Battersea bathroom.

'I admire her novels . . . she has great fertility of invention, ingenuity and a wonderful eye for detail.' Ruth Rendell