I finished Where Memories Lie last night. It was as good as I’d expected it to be, which is always nice. One of the strengths of the series is the quality of Deborah Crombie’s writing. It’s low key yet vivid, and it allows me to sink into the story:
The day was utterly miserable for early May, even considering the expected vagaries of English weather. At a few minutes to four in the afternoon it was dark as twilight, and the rain came down in relentless, pounding sheets. The gusts of wind had repeatedly turned Henri Durrell’s umbrella wrong side out, so he had given up, and trudged down the Old Brompton Road with his head down and his shoulders hunched against the torrent, trying to avoid losing an eye to carelessly wielded umbrellas that had proved stronger than his own, and dodging the waves thrown up by passing automobiles.
I’m a serious fussock for clean, clear writing — I can’t endure clunky prose (which sometimes presents a problem when faced with badly written yet necessary research writing) — so that’s partly what I read Crombie for.
The other thing I read for is for the mystery. She continues to link present mysteries to past ones — in this particular case, the present-day murders are tied to a murder that took place in 1952. The whole thing comes together in a satisfying way at the end, and makes me wish there were another Kincaid/Jones mystery waiting for me.