Nightjar

In the sleepy Yorkshire village of Little Mumbling, the dead have started talking. Not politely, either — through the beaks of robins, blackbirds, and one deeply unimpressed carrion crow, with grievances, agendas, and, worse, minutes. Coroner Vance Coldwell has seen it all — twice, if you count the parts he saw again on his way down. A man who once fainted at a threshing accident, he now finds himself investigating a talking robin, a stolen biscuit tin, and a rookery that has quietly reorganised itself into something calling itself the Avian Court of Vengeance. Standing between the birds and their next target is Rex Kettlethorpe, property developer, gilet enthusiast, and a man who believes ancient woodland is best described as an "underutilised green asset." Standing between Kettlethorpe and total ruin is a 1911 land covenant, a very determined ornithologist on a shopping bicycle, and one coroner's letter — the strongest-worded correspondence Yorkshire has produced since the Reformation. Cheesy. Ominous. Occasionally both at once. Nightjar is a tale of feathers, fear, and the surprising legal power of good stationery. "I have never fainted so much in one book, nor enjoyed it so thoroughly." — Vance Coldwell, on his own memoirs