: Bryony Rheam
: All Come to Dust
: Parthian Books
: 9781913640033
: 1
: CHF 6.20
:
: Krimis, Thriller, Spionage
: English
: 500
: Wasserzeichen
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
Marcia Pullman has been found dead at home in the leafy suburbs of Bulawayo. Chief Inspector Edmund Dube is onto the case at once, but it becomes increasingly clear that there are those, including the dead woman's husband, who do not want him asking questions. The case drags Edmund back into his childhood to when his mother's employers disappeared one day and were never heard from again, an incident that has shadowed his life. As his investigation into the death progresses, Edmund realises the two mysteries are inextricably linked and that unravelling the past is a dangerous undertaking threatening his very sense of self.

Bryony Rheam was born in Kadoma, Zimbabwe. Her debut novel This September Sun won Best First Book Award in 2010 and reached Number 1 on Amazon Kindle. She has also published a range of short stories in anthologies. In 2014, she won an international competition to write a chapter of an Agatha Christie novel. She has attended the Ake Book and Arts festival in Abeokuta, Nigeria and Africa Utopia at the Southbank Centre in London. Rheam is a recipient of the 2018 Miles Morland Writing scholarship. She is an English teacher at Girls' College and lives in Bulawayo with her partner and their two children.

Chapter One

It was three o’clock in the afternoon, Bulawayo time. A cyclist ambled down the road, his bike tilting gently to one side as he peddled round the corner. The weak winter sun was already beginning to wane, leaving shadowed places cool and dark. The cat at 274 Clark Road moved idly two steps up onto the warmed verandah floor, lazily chasing the sun as best he could manage. Inside the house, Marcia Pullman put the finishing touches to the mushroom vol-au-vents and stood back with a strained look of critical pride. It would have to do, she thought, with a resigned shake of her head.

The fresh mushrooms had cost a great deal of money, and it was a pity no one really appreciated the amount of time she put into these events and all the expense. She couldn’t help but remember the meeting at Brenda’s the previous month. Janet and Brenda had shared the costs, but even then they couldn’t come up with anything good. Pizza. Of course, Janet had maintained it was homemade, but Marcia was quite certain she had seen the Pizza Inn boxes in the kitchen. Anyway, it showed the limits of both Janet’s and Brenda’s imagination and skill, even if it was homemade. People could say what they wanted about the modern world and how progress and change were necessary, but Marcia knew the way things were done – and should always be done – and it was a crying shame that more people didn’t. Nor had she ever accepted the argument that things had changed in Zimbabwe and one had to ‘make do’. Her blood would almost turn cold when she saw ladies trying to make something presentable out of Marie biscuits and Marmite. And they couldn’t even use proper butter, but margarine instead. Cheap brands, too. It just wasn’t acceptable, whatever people said about inflation and shortages and how they didn’t have the money any more.

‘Oh, Marcia,’ she could just imagine Janet saying in that silly schoolgirl voice of hers, ‘You do do everythingsowell. You put the rest of us to shame.’ And then the titters of agreement from the other women as they marvelled at her table settings: the way she arranged a plumage of purple voile to spill out from a crystal vase, just as though it were a waterfall, or the way she scattered rose petals over the tablecloth in such a way that it all lookedso natural. All the other women whispered to each other, ‘Isn’t she clever? It’s different every time we come here.’

Marcia blew through her nose as she arranged a little shredded lettuce on the sandwiches. Her hand trembled slightly and a few pieces fell onto the table. Her head thumped with the urgency of a migraine and she swayed a little and put out her hand to steady herself. She took two aspirin from a bottle and decided to go and have a lie down. Her legs were tired from all the standing she’d been doing. She hadn’t just done snacks for book club, she’d also made her famous scones with homemade strawberry jam for tea. Janet was coming round in an hour to do a quick stocktake of all the books. Stupid time, really, she had thought, but Janet said it was the only time that afternoon she could leave her elderly mother – and said she’d check the books more quickly as they were laid out on the table. Of course, Marcia had told her she’d be far too busy to help with the books, and it wa