In the middle of the Second World War, Lady Carados found a dead woman in her son's bed, so she decided to move it somewhere else, which is why Albert Campion got involved because the body ended up in his bed instead. In Margery Allingham's Coroner's Pidgin, Campion is struggling with sleep deprivation, the blackout, familiar streets bombed out of recognition, and the bizarre dislocations of life in a Blitzed London. He feels his way through mental fog to work out who killed whom, and who is continuing to try to kill others. How big does a national war hero have to be before he is above suspicion? How aristocratic do you have to be before the law can't touch you? For readers who like to see more than one step ahead.