Inspector John Madden—who debuted in the acclaimed River of Darkness —returns in a gripping post–World War II murder mystery On a quiet afternoon in 1947, retired bank manager Oswald Gibson is shot in the head while fishing. In Scotland, a respectable family doctor is killed in the same manner—and with the same gun. What is the connection? Scotland Yard’s Detective Inspector Billy Styles and local detective Vic Chivers are baffled until a letter from Gibson is discovered that might shed some light on the case—a letter concerning former Scotland Yard detective John Madden. Despite Madden’s legendary memory, he has no recollection of meeting Gibson or any idea of what their relationship might have been. Madden is happily retired from police work, but agrees to help his former protégé Styles and the clues they uncover only deepen the mystery. When a third man is killed in a similar fashion, Madden and Styles find themselves in a race against time to find the killer before another man ends up dead. Praise for The Reckoning : “I have been a huge fan of Rennie Airth’s novels featuring John Madden since first reading River of Darkness , and had been eagerly awaiting The Reckoning —it does not disappoint. Airth is at the top of his game, engaging the reader with dense plotting, page-turning narrative and expert characterization. I absolutely could not put it down!”— Jacqueline Winspear, author of Maisie Dobbs “The marvelous John Madden returns in a stunning new mystery—Rennie Airth’s The Reckoning will keep you pinned to the page to the very end!”— Charles Todd , New York Times bestselling author of the Inspector Ian Rutledge Mysteries and the Bess Crawford Mysteries Praise for Rennie Airth: “Move over, Inspectors Alleyn, Dalgliesh, and Morse, and make room for John Madden in the pantheon of great, civilized English sleuths. With THE DEAD OF WINTER, Rennie Airth now carries us through the third of Madden’s encounters with a killer sprung from a Europe at war with itself. It’s safe to say that once you’ve read it, you will start longing for Madden’s next case.” — Jane Kramer, The New Yorker “Enter John Madden, protagonist of three fine novels…Madden is seamlessly admirable…In an era when our real-life heroes tend to have feet of thick, grubby clay, it can be bracing to spend time with a man who is naturally but not implausibly noble.” — The Washington Post Book World “[Airth’s] meticulously detailed procedural mysteries are beautifully written…[he] has produced three novels that are well worth reading, and rereading, whenever we’re engaged in war.” — Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times “One of the best mysteries in years.” — The Boston Globe “Airth writes with arresting authority and compassion…a major talent.” — Chicago Tribune “It’s the tactics and the terrain, the morale and the characters that make the difference between an average thriller and one as good as this.” — Christopher Dickey, The New York Times Book Review “A mystery thick with atmosphere and even psychoanalysis….Pay close attention to detail—the author did.” — Susan Hall-Balduf, Detroit Free Press “Starts off as a genteel British whodunit but soon escalates into a suspense thriller…. However, Airth’s novel has an added psychological assurance and a tension-packed elegance. It’s up there with the works of P. D. James and Ruth Rendell. High praise indeed.” — Pauline Mayer, The Cleveland Plain Dealer Rennie Airth is the author of six novels, including the John Madden series. The first, River of Darkness , was nominated for Edgar, Anthony, and Macavity awards, and won the Grand Prix de Littérature Policière. ***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof*** Copyright © 2014 by Rennie Airth PROLOGUE     Lewes, Sussex, 1947   As he was fitting a new fly to his hook, Oswald Gibson looked up and saw two figures on the ridge above, both of them carrying what looked like fishing gear over their shoulders, long, cylindrical cases of the kind that you could fit two sections of a rod in. ‘Damn!’ They were coming over a saddle in the low green hills and, having spotted the grassy bank where Oswald was standing with his rod, were probably heading for that very spot. Upstream from a small pool where the trout paused, as though waiting for any tempting flies that might come their way, it was the best fishing site on the stream and one that Oswald had come to think of as his own. And he knew what was going to happen next, almost as though it were fated. The men would turn up, they’d exchange polite greetings and then, after looking around and seeing that this was the place to be, they’d say, ‘Mind if we join you?’ and take out their rods, probably not even waiting for a reply. And Oswald would say nothing. He’d make no complaint, not say that he did mind and would they kindly shove off and find somewhere else to do their angling. No, he’d stand there dumb and resentful, accepting – as he always had – his failure to stan