Bøger af Anna Katharine Green

Anna Katharine Green was an American poet and novelist. She was one of the first writers of detective fiction in America and distinguished herself by writing well plotted, legally accurate stories.

In this elegant drama, Anna Katharine Green, one of the greatest mystery writers of all time, weaves a narrative with her usual consummate skill, and portrays her characters with exceptional sympathy. On the New England seacoast, not far from Boston, lies a staid, picturesque village called Sutherlandtown. In these tranquil surroundings, Agatha Webb and her servant are found murdered. The task of unraveling the mystery begins at once, and suspicion points to a number of persons. Agatha herself had a tragic and troubled past. She suffered the loss of six of her children who died in infancy; some of the people of the village suspected her of complicity in these deaths, while others looked upon her as a victim. Adding to the complexity of the situation, a wealthy local man is being blackmailed by someone who believes that he is guilty of Agatha's murder. The solution of the puzzle is uncovered in an intensely dramatic court scene. In addition to the attraction of the mystery, there is a great love story. One of the detectives in the case, Caleb Sweetwater, was first introduced in a minor role in A Strange Disappearance

A wind was blowing through the city. Not a gentle and balmy zephyr, stirring the locks on gentle ladies' foreheads and rustling the curtains in elegant boudoirs, but a chill and bitter gale that rushed with a swoop through narrow alleys and forsaken courtyards, biting the cheeks of the few solitary wanderers that still lingered abroad in the darkened streets. In front of a cathedral that reared its lofty steeple in the midst of the squalid houses and worse than squalid saloons of one of the dreariest portions of the East Side, stood the form of a woman. She had paused in her rush down the narrow street to listen to the music, perhaps, or to catch a glimpse of the light that now and then burst from the widely swinging doors as they opened and shut upon some tardy worshipper. She was tall and fearful looking; her face, when the light struck it, was seared and desperate; gloom and desolation were written on all the lines of her rigid but wasted form, and when she shuddered under the gale, it was with that force and abandon to which passion lends its aid, and in which the soul proclaims its doom.

Anna Katharine Green was an American poet and novelist. She was one of the first writers of detective fiction in America and distinguished herself by writing well plotted, legally accurate stories.

Anna Katharine Green was an American poet and novelist. She was one of the first writers of detective fiction in America and distinguished herself by writing well plotted, legally accurate stories.

Although her initial interest was in poetry, author Anna Katherine Green turned to fiction when her verse failed to make a mark with readers. This fateful move transformed the detective fiction genre, to which Green is regarded as an important early contributor. The Leavenworth Case is her best-known detective novel, and it highlights her unique skill in developing airtight plots and top-notch procedural accuracy.

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A posh clubhouse deserted for the winter is the scene of a chilling crime in The House of the Whispering Pines, a mystery masterpiece from early detective fiction pioneer Anna Katherine Green. When the local police department can't make any headway in the case, a crack detective from New York is called in-and his discoveries lead the investigation down a completely unexpected path.

Anna Katharine Green was an American poet and novelist. She was one of the first writers of detective fiction in America and distinguished herself by writing well plotted, legally accurate stories.Green had an early ambition to write romantic verse, and she corresponded with Ralph Waldo Emerson. When her poetry failed to gain recognition, she produced her first and best known novel, The Leavenworth Case (1878), praised by Wilkie Collins, and the hit of the year. She became a bestselling author, eventually publishing about 40 books. -Wikipedia

Anna Katharine Green was an American poet and novelist. She was one of the first writers of detective fiction in America and distinguished herself by writing well plotted, legally accurate stories.Green had an early ambition to write romantic verse, and she corresponded with Ralph Waldo Emerson. When her poetry failed to gain recognition, she produced her first and best known novel, The Leavenworth Case (1878), praised by Wilkie Collins, and the hit of the year. She became a bestselling author, eventually publishing about 40 books. -Wikipedia

WAS it a specter? For days I could not answer this question. I am no believer in spiritual manifestations, yet-But let me tell my story. I was lodging with my wife on the first floor of a house in Twenty-seventh street. I had taken the apartments for three months, and we had already lived in them two and found them sufficiently comfortable. The back room we used as a bedroom, and while it communicated with the hall, we invariably made use of the front parlor-door to go in and out of. Two great leaves of old mahogany connected the two rooms, and as we received but few friends, these doors usually stood half open.

Anna Katharine Green was an American poet and novelist. She was one of the first writers of detective fiction in America and distinguished herself by writing well plotted, legally accurate stories.

HER room was on the ground floor of the house we mutually inhabited, and mine directly above it, so that my opportunities for seeing her were limited to short glimpses of her auburn head as she leaned out of the window to close her shutters at night or open them in the morning. Yet our chance encounter in the hall or on the walk in front, had made so deep an impression upon my sensibilities that I was never without the vision of her pale face set off by the aureole of reddish brown hair, which, since my first meeting with her, had become for me the symbol of everything beautiful, incomprehensible and strange.

It was the night before the wedding. Though Sinclair, and not myself, was the happy man, I had my own causes for excitement, and, finding the heat of the billiard-room insupportable, I sought the veranda for a solitary smoke in sight of the ocean and a full moon. I was in a condition of rapturous, if unreasoning, delight. That afternoon a little hand had lingered in mine for just an instant longer than the circumstances of the moment strictly required, and small as the favor may seem to those who do not know Dorothy Camerden, to me, who realized fully both her delicacy and pride, it was a sign that my long, if secret, devotion was about to be rewarded and that at last I was free to cherish hopes whose alternative had once bid fair to wreck the happiness of my life. I was reveling in the felicity of these anticipations and contrasting this hour of ardent hope with others of whose dissatisfaction and gloom I was yet mindful, when a sudden shadow fell across the broad band of light issuing from the library window, and Sinclair stepped out.

I am not an inquisitive woman, but when, in the middle of a certain warm night in September, I heard a carriage draw up at the adjoining house and stop, I could not resist the temptation of leaving my bed and taking a peep through the curtains of my window. First: because the house was empty, or supposed to be so, the family still being, as I had every reason to believe, in Europe; and secondly: because, not being inquisitive, I often miss in my lonely and single life much that it would be both interesting and profitable for me to know. Luckily I made no such mistake this evening. I rose and looked out, and though I was far from realizing it at the time, took, by so doing, my first step in a course of inquiry which has ended--

'Room Number 3' is one of Green's novels of crime and mystery by Anna Katharine Green was born in Brooklyn, New York, USA in 1846.

I was, perhaps, the plainest girl in the room that night. I was also the happiest-up to one o'clock. Then my whole world crumbled, or, at least, suffered an eclipse. Why and how, I am about to relate. I was not made for love. This I had often said to myself; very often of late. In figure I am too diminutive, in face far too unbeautiful, for me to cherish expectations of this nature. Indeed, love had never entered into my plan of life, as was evinced by the nurse's diploma I had just gained after three years of hard study and severe training. I was not made for love. But if I had been; had I been gifted with height, regularity of feature, or even with that eloquence of expression which redeems all defects save those which savor of deformity, I knew well whose eye I should have chosen to please, whose heart I should have felt proud to win.

A daring debutante solves the crimes of upper-crust Manhattan in this groundbreaking story collection from the queen of American mystery Violet Strange has a secret. A vivacious socialite, she is one of the most sought-after women in New York-as a private investigator. Between well-heeled excursions to the opera and fabulous dinner parties, Violet uses her lively charms to investigate the dark side of Gilded Age society. From the daughter of an important businessman accused of theft on a grand scale, to the suspected murder-suicide of the husband and child of a society woman, to the lost will of a financier whose death greatly affected the money market, Violet expertly sleuths out hidden clues, all the while protecting her secret identity. But the greatest puzzle of all may be what compels Miss Strange to undertake this outlandish work in the first place, and what it may afford-or cost-her in the end. Originally published in 1915, The Golden Slipper is the debut entry in the Violet Strange series, often credited as first in the famed "girl detectives" mystery genre.

Anna Katharine Green was an American poet and novelist. She was one of the first writers of detective fiction in America and distinguished herself by writing well plotted, legally accurate stories.

It was the last house in Beauchamp Row, and it stood several rods away from its nearest neighbor. It was a pretty house in the daytime, but owing to its deep, sloping roof and small bediamonded windows it had a lonesome look at night, notwithstanding the crimson hall-light which shone through the leaves of its vine-covered doorway.

The small town of Shelby is shaken by a brutal murder. A man by the name of Etheridge was found beaten to death. A local inn-keeper, is convicted and executed for the crime. Many years later, "a woman in purple" shows up at the house of Ostrander, the respected judge who had sentenced the inn-keeper to be executed. This mysterious woman turns out to be the wife of the convicted man, but she does not believe he was guilty. She visits the Judge, to challenge him on his verdict. He listens to her plea, but reaffirms his belief in her husbands guilt. Having nowhere to go, Deborah is given the position of maid, which she secretly uses to obtain proof of her husband's innocence and the identity of the real killer. However, the initial evidence that Deborah collects points in troubling new directions.

In a small New York town, the local legal professionals are discussing the nature of crime. Breaking the law, they conclude, does not pay in modern society, as the criminal will undoubtedly be caught. A mysterious hunchbacked stranger approaches the group to interject. "The smart ones don't make tracks," he says before disappearing. Meanwhile, just out of earshot, a woman has been murdered. Mrs. Clemmens was attacked in her home and there is no sign of the killer. As the case unfolds, several plausible suspects present themselves. But who actually committed the crime? And what should be made of the mysterious stranger who had such confidence in the abilities of the seasoned outlaw?

A Strange Disappearance BY Anna Katharine Green [ZHINGOORA BOOKS] CONTENTS A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE CHAPTER I. A NOVEL CASE CHAPTER II. A FEW POINTS CHAPTER III. THE CONTENTS OF A BUREAU DRAWER CHAPTER IV. THOMPSON'S STORY CHAPTER V. A NEW YORK BELLE CHAPTER VI. A BIT OF CALICO CHAPTER VII. THE HOUSE AT THE GRANBY CROSS ROADS CHAPTER VIII. A WORD OVERHEARD CHAPTER IX. A FEW GOLDEN HAIRS CHAPTER X. THE SECRET OF MR. BLAKE'S STUDIO CHAPTER XI. LUTTRA CHAPTER XII. A WOMAN'S LOVE CHAPTER XIII. A MAN'S HEART CHAPTER XIV. MRS. DANIELS CHAPTER XV. A CONFAB CHAPTER XVI. THE MARK OF THE RED CROSS CHAPTER XVII. THE CAPTURE CHAPTER XVIII. LOVE AND DUTY CHAPTER XIX. EXPLANATIONS CHAPTER XX. THE BOND THAT UNITES

A high and narrow gate of carefully joined boards, standing ajar in a fence of the same construction! What is there in this to rouse a whole neighbourhood and collect before it a group of eager, anxious, hesitating people? I will tell you. This fence is no ordinary fence, and this gate no ordinary gate; nor is the fact of the latter standing a trifle open, one to be lightly regarded or taken an inconsiderate advantage of. For this is Judge Ostrander's place, and any one who knows Shelby or the gossip of its suburbs, knows that this house of his has not opened its doors to any outsider, man or woman, for over a dozen years; nor have his gates-in saying which, I include the great one in front-been seen in all that time to gape at any one's instance or to stand unclosed to public intrusion, no, not for a moment. The seclusion sought was absolute. The men and women who passed and repassed this corner many times a day were as ignorant as the townspeople in general of what lay behind the grey, monotonous exterior of the weather-beaten boards they so frequently brushed against. The house was there, of course, -they all knew the house, or did once-but there were rumours (no one ever knew how they originated) of another fence, a second barrier, standing a few feet inside the first and similar to it in all respects, even to the gates which corresponded exactly with these outer and visible ones and probably were just as fully provided with bolts and bars

WAS riding between Albany and Poughkeepsie. It was raining furiously, and my horse, already weary with long travel, gave unmistakable signs of discouragement. I was, therefore, greatly relieved when, in the most desolate part of the road, I espied rising before me the dim outlines of a house, and was correspondingly disappointed when, upon riding forward, I perceived that it was but a deserted ruin I was approaching, whose fallen chimneys and broken windows betrayed a dilapidation so great that I could scarcely hope to find so much as a temporary shelter therein. Nevertheless, I was so tired of the biting storm that I involuntarily stopped before the decayed and forbidding structure, and was, in truth, withdrawing my foot from the stirrup, when I heard an unexpected exclamation behind me, and turning, saw a chaise, from the open front of which leaned a gentleman of most attractive appearance. "What are you going to do?" he asked.