The Third Hypothesis

There is a house in the English countryside that appears on no map.
The house number is 37, on a lane where the numbers stop at 25.
The lane itself appears and disappears depending on who is doing the looking.

Eleven guests who don't know each other. Or perhaps they do - somehow, in some era.

Inspector Lawrence Brace of Scotland Yard, on enforced pre-retirement, arrives carrying more luggage than he holds in his hands. The others arrive after him. There is a woman who should have been dead for twenty years. There is the man convicted of killing her. And there is the Author, who has invited them all to reveal something unbearable.

Then the Author is found dead in the Red Study, locked from the inside. Perhaps he was murdered. Or perhaps he took his own life. Or perhaps nobody did anything and everything happened exactly as it was always going to.

A novel that plays with time, metaphysics and the classic thriller without betraying any of the three. Written with piercing aphorisms, black irony, a prose that can be baroque and surgical in the same breath - it tells a story in which the motive is neither hatred nor rage, but something considerably harder to stop.

And in which doing the right thing does not require that you remember it. It only requires the act.