One of the oddities of Golden Age fiction was its fixation on the occult and the generally weird-ancient gypsy curses, haunted burial grounds, etc. It's therefore something of a relief to settle in with the refreshingly literal Ms. Moyes: When a title refers to a third dog, we are not talking about some metaphysical barking: There were three dogs and now one is missing. Up in arms about this is Emmy Tibbett's sister Jane, a stalwart of the animal-rights...

Mr. and Mrs. Tibbetts pop into a pub for lunch but get served a murder case in this novel with "all the proper ingredients for a cozy whodunit" (The New York Times). What could be more delightful than a long-forgotten relative who dies and leaves you a tidbit in his will? How about if that tidbit is in fact a charming country pub, and that pub is now yours-lock, stock, and barrels of beer? Susan Gardiner is delighted, even when it becomes...

Tibbett takes to the slopes. If I were Scotland Yard, I might be that put-out with Henry Tibbett: He seems never to stay in England for more than about ten minutes, and he's always taking vacations! This time around, he and the ever-pleasant Emmy are holidaying in the Alps when a popular ski instructor gets it in the neck. Everybody in town is eager to point a finger-typically at the victim's wife, who is widely assumed to have had enough of his...

Rich, aristocratic, and at the heart of swinging London, "Pudge" Coombe-Peters has everything except a decent nickname. And in fact, he has two special attributes: He owns the narration-the drawling, deliciously snobbish, all-but-impossibly irritating narration-of Falling Star, and he has a chum named Henry Tibbett, who comes in just awfully handy when people start dying on the set of the film that Pudge is producing. Tibbett is especially welcome...

In Dead Men Don't Ski, she introduces Inspector Henry Tibbett, a blissfully ordinary English copper with a pleasantly plump wife and a nose for the bad guys. Sadly for Henry (but happily for us) that nose has a knack of ruining his vacations. In Dead Men, he and Emmy are headed for the Italian Dolomites, ready for a spot of skiing and some first-class people-watching, all those athletic youngsters in their swanky late-1950s ski outfits. It's all very...

The renowned British author of Death on the Agenda delivers a "stunning finish with a return-from-the-dead trap. Very lively and zestful" (Observer). No question, one of the real delights of this series is all the early-1960s clotheshorses who go traipsing through the pages, and this time around, they're front and center. Moyes in fact worked as an editor at British Vogue, and her familiarity with the London fashion scene is put to good use in this...

Poor Inspector Tibbett! Once again, he is attempting to have a nice vacation. And once again, Crime has a different idea. This time, Tibbett and his cheerful wife, Emmy, are lazing on a friend's yacht, tacking from one little English sea-town to the next, and it should all be delicious indolence . . . except that Henry can't stop thinking about death. Well, one death in particular. The death of a local sailor. And he especially can't stop thinking...

Mavis Ironmonger is nobody's idea of a good diplomatic wife. She drinks too much, she's awfully friendly with the staff at the Washington embassy, and her music-hall roots have a way of bursting out at the most inappropriate moments. Indeed, it's at an embassy reception that Mavis manages to insult a visiting ambassador and get herself hauled off to sober up. With the party winding down, Mavis is due downstairs, to say the official goodbyes, but in...

A killer of a crossword draws Inspector Tibbett into a mystery. It's a slow day at Scotland Yard, so Inspector Henry Tibbett takes a busman's holiday, immersing himself in the world of puzzling puzzlers. The hijinks kick off with an amusing gift: Someone unnamed has sent Henry the beginnings of a crossword puzzle. Even more mysterious: The clues point to the group of mystery writers to whom Henry has pledged to give a presentation. Most mysterious...