Sedgwick
Martin Sedgwick is a shamus. A gumshoe. A card-carrying member of the Private Force.
He’s also an unbelievably grumpy old bit of business who would rather be doing something else. Anything else. Don’t ask him what. He couldn’t tell you. But he knows for certain that Fate played a cynical trick on him when it led him down the path he’s spent his whole adult existence pursuing ... to uncertain purpose.
He’s too philosophical for his own good.
His clients, on the other hand, are not.
When an elegant specimen straight out of Harrods arrives unannounced to recruit Martin’s services in the aftermath of the death of a famous ingénue, the cash proffered by way of retainer puts Sedgwick on his guard ... but not in a ready position to reject the assignment. How does one decline such an overture by someone with that kind of disposable currency?
By the time he arrives at an answer to that question, the trail of departed entities in his wake makes even the indomitable Martin Sedgwick ready for a good night’s sleep.
If only.
Please understand. This recount is not for the faint-of-heart. Or the conceptually-challenged. (Or those under the age of enlightenment.)
You are bound to take exception to Martin Sedgwick. You are certain to be unsettled by the exigencies of Life as he experiences them. If you are one of those half-full types (as opposed to half-empty) you won’t want to read this.
At the same time: if you did not get that last reference, you probably shouldn’t try. This is not light reading. It’s heavy slogging. You need to understand a host of arcane allusions only a true disciple of the idiom could possibly hope to identify (much less understand).
For those of you who manage to prevail to the end ... and actually grasp what’s happened ... wow! Go see Martin. He might even give you a job.
(Just kidding.)
By the way: the warning on the cover is not to be taken lightly.