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The Babes In The Wood

by Sophia Newnham


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About Book

From The New Yorker
In the matriarchy of British crime fiction, Rendell is the weird sister; her novels concern themselves with the more darkly enigmatic corners of motivation. Her tastes in this direction have sometimes outstripped her readers', and her most recondite tales now appear under the pen name Barbara Vine. Rendell's Chief Inspector Wexford mysteries are a somewhat friendlier affair, and in this, the nineteenth of the series, fans will be pleased to find the Wexfords staving off a flood in their garden and the Inspector's clueless elder daughter in trouble again. The plot—a series of puzzles surrounding the disappearance of two teen-agers in the care of a family friend—marches efficiently to its unguessable dénouement while demonstrating Rendell's grasp of the psychological dynamics of seduction and exploitation which lie at the heart of the case.
Copyright © 2005 The New Yorker

From AudioFile
Ruth Rendell's brand of psychological suspense is much imitated, but her master's touch is clearly evident. Nigel Anthony, also clearly a master of the narrative arts, takes listeners through Inspector Wexford's winding investigation of the disappearance of two teenaged children and their overnight sitter. Moody, introspective, and intellectual, Wexford is wonderfully played by Anthony, who amplifies, not just the Chief Inspector, but the other policemen, family members, and townsfolk. Anthony spins out the tale with ease and assurance. He's in touch with the story's pace, knowing exactly when to stretch it out and when to ratchet up the suspense. Listeners can savor Rendell's newest work and enjoy the listening hours. R.F.W. Winner of AudioFile Earphones Award © AudioFile 2004, Portland, Maine-- Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine

Review
"Spectacular. . . . Rendell writes with a chill poetic precision." --The Washington Post Book World

"Hard to put down. . . . Ruth Rendell is a master of the genre." --Los Angeles Times

“Subtle, mysterious. . . . Through flawless character work, Rendell transforms what could be a conventional suspense story into a close, and at times cruelly funny, psychological study of domestic disorder.” —The New York Times Book Review

“Wonderful. . . . Rendell, as usual, gives us more than a mere mystery here. Her novel is a multilayered construction in which a case acts itself out amid nature’s dark forces and the even darker forces that shape the psyches of the village inhabitants.” —Pittsburgh Post Gazette

“When it comes to the classic mystery . . . nobody does it better than Ruth Rendell. To her mastery of the traditional form, she adds a contemporary spin that places her above most of her peers and makes her Chief Inspector Wexford novels notable as much for their insights as for their puzzles. . . . [She is] a beguiling storyteller.” —San Diego Union-Tribune

"Fans will be pleased. . . . The plot . . . marches efficiently to its unguessable d?nouement while demonstrating Rendell's grasp of the psychological dynamics of seduction." --The New Yorker

"It is the merging of the personal, political, and procedural where Rendell shines. . . . [The Babes in the Wood is] a good yarn, which Rendell spins with her customary casual elegance." --The Boston Globe

“Rendell’s gift for intelligent, coolheaded storytelling remains undiminished.” —Entertainment Weekly

"This veteran writer does not disappoint with The Babes in the Wood. . . . Miss Rendell is a master of the psychological twist, and she throws in several before Wexford finds all the answers. . . . If you are not [already] a fan, read this and you will be." --The Washington Times

"Rendell grabs readers' attention in the first scene . . . [and] with a mix of the sinister and the mundane, she retains her hold throughout." --Boston Herald

“As usual, [Rendell] has a few genuine surprises on tap as the astute Wexford neatly sorts out myriad lies to find a clever killer.”–Orlando Sentinel

"The greatest charm of Ruth Rendell's The Babes in the Wood is in her characterizations. . . . [She paints] vivid pictures at every level with sharp dialogue and observation." --San Jose Mercury News

"The Babes in the Wood is more than just another mystery, count on it. To Rendell fans, it's a respite from waiting; to everybody else, it's an introduction to a vast, dark world and hours upon hours of reading well spent." --Dayton Daily News

“A heart-wrenching tale. . . . Leaves the reader wondering whodunit until the final pages.” —The Roanoke Times

Review
?The Wexford books clearly display Rendell?s great mastery of storytelling at its best.? -- Sunday Telegraph

?Ruth Rendell has quite simply transformed the genre of crime writing. She deploys her peerless skill in blending the mundane, commonplace aspects of life with the potent, murky impulses of desire and greed, obsession and fear.? -- Anthony Clare, Sunday Times

?Ruth Rendell is not only the finest crime novelist there is, but one of the finest novelists writing in the English language.? -- Gerald Kaufman, Scotsman


From the Hardcover edition.

Book Description
With floods threatening both the town of Kingsmarkham and his own home and no end to the rain in sight, Chief Inspector Wexford already has his hands full when he learns that two local teenagers have gone missing along with their sitter, Joanna Troy. Their hysterical mother is convinced that all three have drowned, and as the hours stretch into days Wexford suspects a case of kidnapping, perhaps connected with an unusual sect called the Church of the Good Gospel. But when the sitter’s smashed-up car is found at the bottom of a local quarry–occupied by a battered corpse–the investigation takes on a very different hue.

The Babes in the Wood is Ruth Rendell at her very best, a scintillating, precise and troubling story of seduction and religious fanaticism–and murder.

From the Inside Flap
With floods threatening both the town of Kingsmarkham and his own home and no end to the rain in sight, Chief Inspector Wexford already has his hands full when he learns that two local teenagers have gone missing along with their sitter, Joanna Troy. Their hysterical mother is convinced that all three have drowned, and as the hours stretch into days Wexford suspects a case of kidnapping, perhaps connected with an unusual sect called the Church of the Good Gospel. But when the sitter's smashed-up car is found at the bottom of a local quarry–occupied by a battered corpse–the investigation takes on a very different hue.

The Babes in the Wood is Ruth Rendell at her very best, a scintillating, precise and troubling story of seduction and religious fanaticism–and murder.

From the Back Cover
“The Wexford books clearly display Rendell’s great mastery of storytelling at its best.” -- Sunday Telegraph

“Ruth Rendell has quite simply transformed the genre of crime writing. She deploys her peerless skill in blending the mundane, commonplace aspects of life with the potent, murky impulses of desire and greed, obsession and fear.” -- Anthony Clare, Sunday Times

“Ruth Rendell is not only the finest crime novelist there is, but one of the finest novelists writing in the English language.” -- Gerald Kaufman, Scotsman


From the Hardcover edition.

About the Author
Ruth Rendell has won numerous awards, including three Edgars and the Grand Master Award from Mystery Writers of America, and four Gold Daggers, one Silver Dagger, and a Cartier Diamond Dagger for outstanding contribution to the genre from Britain’s prestigious Crime Writers’ Association. She lives in London where she is a Life Peer in the House of Lords.


From the Hardcover edition.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1

The Kingsbrook was not usually visible from his window. Not its course, nor its twisty meanders, nor the willows which made a double fringe along its banks. But he could see it now, or rather see what it had become, a river as wide as the Thames but flat and still, a broad lake that filled its own valley, submerging its water meadows in a smooth silver sheet. Of the few houses that stood in that valley, along a lane which had disappeared leading from a bridge which had disappeared, only their roofs and upper storeys showed above the waters. He thought of his own house, on the other side of that gently rising lake, as yet clear of the floods, only the end of his garden lapped by an encroaching tide.

It was raining. But as he had remarked to Burden some four hours before, rain was no longer news, it was tedious to remark on it. The exciting thing worthy of comment was when it wasn't raining. He picked up the phone and called his wife.

'Much the same as when you went out,' she said. 'The end of the garden's under water but it hasn't reached the mulberry tree. I don't think it's moved. That's what I'm measuring by, the mulberry tree.'

'Good thing we don't breed silkworms,' said Wexford, leaving his wife to decipher this cryptic remark.

There hadn't been anything like it in this part of Sussex in living memory -- not, at least, in his memory. In spite of a double wall of sandbags the Kingsbrook had inundated the road at the High Street bridge, flooded the Job Centre and Sainsbury's but miraculously -- so far -- spared the Olive and Dove Hotel. It was a hilly place and most of the dwellings on higher ground had escaped. Not so the High Street, Glebe Road, Queen and York Streets with their ancient shopfronts and overhanging eaves. Here the water lay a foot, two feet, in places three feet, deep. In St Peter's churchyard the tops of tombstones pierced a grey, rain-punctured lake like rocks showing above the surface of the sea. And still it rained.

According to the Environment Agency, the land in the flood plains of England and Wales was saturated, was waterlogged, so that none of this latest onslaught could drain away. There were houses in Kingsmarkham, and even more in flatter low-lying Pomfret, which had been flooded in October and were flooded again now at the end of November. Newspapers helpfully informed their readers that such 'properties' would be unsaleable, worth nothing. Their owners had left them weeks ago, gone to stay with relatives or in temporarily rented flats. The local authority had used up all the ten thousand sandbags it had ordered, scoffing at the possibility of half of them being used. Now they were all under the waters and more had been sent for but not arrived.

Wexford tried not to think about what would happen if another inch of rain fell before nightfall and the water reached and passed Dora's gauge, the mulberry. On the house side of the tree, from that point, the land sloped very gradually downwards until it came to a low wall, quite useless as a flood defence, that separated lawn from terrace and french windows. He tried not to think about it but still he pictured the water reaching and then pouring over that wall . . . Once more he reached for the phone but this time he only touched the receiver and withdrew his hand as the door opened and Burden came in.

'Still raining,' he said.

Wexford just looked at him, the kind of look you'd give something you'd found at the back of the fridge with a sell-by date of three months before.

'I've just heard a crazy thing, thought it might amuse you. You look as if you need cheering up.' He seated himself on the corner of the desk, a favourite perch. Wexford thought he was thinner than ever and looked rather as if he'd just had a facelift, total body massage and three weeks at a health farm. 'Woman phoned to say she and her husband went to Paris for the weekend, leaving their children with a - well, a teen-sitter, I suppose, got back late last night to find the lot gone and naturally she assumes they've all drowned.'

'That's amusing?'

'It's pretty bizarre, isn't it? The teenagers are fifteen and thirteen, the sitter's in her thirties, they can all swim and the house is miles above the floods.'

'Where is it?'

'Lyndhurst Drive.'

'Not far from me then. But miles above the floods. The water's slowly creeping up my garden.'

Burden put one leg across the other and swung his elegantly shod foot in negligent fashion. 'Cheer up. It's worse in the Brede Valley. Not a single house has escaped.' Wexford had a vision of buildings growing legs and running, pursued by an angry tide. 'Jim Pemberton has gone up there. Lyndhurst Drive, I mean. And he's alerted the Subaqua Task Force.'

'The what?'

'You must have heard of it.' Burden just avoided saying 'even you'. 'It's the joint enterprise of Kingsmarkham Council and the Fire Brigade. Mostly volunteers in wetsuits.'

'If it's amusing,' said Wexford, 'that is to say, if we aren't taking it seriously, why such extreme measures?'

'No harm in being on the safe side,' said Burden comfortably.

'All right, let me get this straight. These children -- what are they, by the way? Boy and girl? And what's their name?'

'Dade. They're called Giles and Sophie Dade. I don't know the sitter's name. They can both swim. In fact, the boy's got some sort of silver medal for life-saving and the girl just missed getting into the county junior swimming team. God knows why the mother thinks they've drowned. They'd no reason to go near the floods as far as I know. Jim'll get it sorted.'

Wexford said no more. The rain had begun beating against the glass. He got up and went to the window but by the time he got there it was raining so hard that there was nothing to see, just a white fog and, near at hand, raindrops exploding on the sill. 'Where are you going to eat?' he said to Burden.

'Canteen, I suppose. I'm not going out in this.'

Pemberton came back at three to say that a couple of volunteer frogmen had begun searching for Giles and Sophie Dade but it was more a formality, an allaying of Mrs Dade's fears, than a genuine anxiety. None of the water lying in the Kingsmarkham area had reached a depth of four feet. It was over in the Brede Valley that things were more serious. A woman who couldn't swim had been drowned there a month before when she fell from the temporary walkway that had been built from one of her upper windows to the higher ground. She had tried to cling to the walkway struts but the floods came over her head and the rain and wind swept her away. Nothing like that could have happened to the Dade children, competent swimmers to whom twice the present depth of water would have presented no problems.

More a cause for concern in everyone's view was the looting currently going on from shops in the flooded High Street. A good many shopkeepers had removed their goods, clothes, books, magazines and stationery, china and glass, kitchen equipment to an upper floor and then removed themselves. Looters waded through the water by night -- some of them carrying ladders -- smashed upper windows and helped themselves to what they fancied. One thief, arrested by Detective Sergeant Vine, protested that the iron and microwave oven he had stolen were his by right. In his view, the goods were compensation for his ground-floor flat being inundated, he was sure he would get no other. Vine suspected that a bunch of teenagers, still at school, were responsible for stealing the entire CD and cassette stock from the York Audio Centre.

Wexford would have liked to check with his wife every half-hour but he controlled himself and didn't phone again until half past four. By then the heavy rain had given place to a thin relentless drizzle. The phone rang and rang, and he had almost decided she must be out when she picked up the receiver.

'I was outside. I heard it ringing but I had to get my boots off and try not to make too much mess. Rain and mud make the simplest outdoor tasks take twice as long.'

'How's the mulberry tree?'

'The water's reached it, Reg. It's sort of lapping against the trunk. Well, it was bound to, the way it's been raining. I was wondering if there was anything we could do to stop it, the water coming up, I mean, not the rain. They haven't found a way to stop that yet. I was thinking about sandbags, only the council haven't any, I phoned them and this woman said they're waiting for them to come in. Like a shop assistant, I thought.'

He laughed, though not very cheerfully. 'We can't stop the water but we can start thinking about moving our furniture upstairs.' Get Neil over to help, he nearly said, and then he remembered his son-in-law was gone out of their lives since he and Sylvia split up. Instead he told Dora he'd be home by six.

That morning he hadn't brought the car. Lately he'd been walking a lot more. The almost endless downpours stimulated his need to walk -- there was human nature for you! -- because the chance to do so in comfort and in the dry came so seldom. At first light no rain had been falling and the sky was a wet pearly blue. It was still dry at eight thirty and he'd begun to walk. Huge heavy clouds were gathering, covering up the blue and the pale, milky sun. By the time he reached the station the first drops were falling. Now he thought he would have to make it home through this wet mist that intermittently became drizzle, but when he came out of the newly installed automatic doors the rain had lifted and for the first time for a long while he felt a marked chill in the air. It smelt drier. It smelt like a change in the weather. Better not be too optimistic, he told himself.

It was dark. Already dark as midnight. From this level, on foot, he could see nothing of the floods, only that the pavements and roadways were wet and puddles lay deep in the gutters. He crossed the High Street and began the slightly uphill walk to home. The Dades he had forgotten and wouldn't have recalled them even then but for ...

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