Historical Mystery Quotes

“True love is like little roses,
sweet, fragrant in small doses.”
― Ana Claudia Antunes, Pierrot & Columbine

“It is amazing what a woman can do if only she ignores what men tell her she can't.”
― Carol K. Carr, India Black

“In the wee small hours, California Highway One north of Half Moon Bay is about as desolate as it gets. The narrow, twisting road was etched from sheer cliff faces that towered above me on the right and dropped away a hundred feet to the Pacific Ocean on my left.

A soggy wool blanket of San Francisco's famous fog hung a few feet above the roadway, obscuring the stars and dribbling tiny spots of mist on my windshield. My headlights bored through the gap between road and fog, drilling an endless tunnel through the darkness.

So far as I could tell, there were only two other cars on the entire planet that night—actually, one car and a produce truck. They'd flashed by, one after the other, heading south just past Moss Beach. Their headlights glared in my eyes and made the road seem even narrower, but half an hour later, I was wishing for more signs of life just to help keep my drooping eyelids from slamming shut altogether. It was the wrong thing to wish for.

She appeared suddenly out of the fog on the opposite side of the road. Only, she wasn't in a car. This gal was smack dab in the middle of the southbound lane and running for all she was worth. She wore a white dress and no coat, and that was about all I had time to take in before she was gone and I was alone in the endless tunnel again.”
― H.P. Oliver, Goodnight, San Francisco

“I have, at last, come to understand my role. It is not to discourage your exuberance or your audacity. How could I want to when those are the very qualities I admire most? If I have lectured or harangued in the past, it is because I am afraid. Every moment of every day I am afraid.

Afraid of losing that which I have come to realize I cannot live without. But I do not want a small and stifled version of you. I want you- in all your intrepid and audacious glory. I want you just as you are, the entirety of your chaos and your wildness. Your are the whirlwind I did not know I needed, but now that you are here, I will not be the one to ask you to be anything different than exactly as you are. More than anyone, I ought to understand that nature cannot be denied. And your nature is tumult.”
― Deanna Raybourn, A Grave Robbery

“Anna Blanc was the most beautiful woman ever to barrel down Long Beach Strand with the severed head of a Chinese man.”
― Jennifer Kincheloe, The Woman in the Camphor Trunk

“It had had a fragrant element, reminding him of a regular childhood experience, a memory that reverberated like the chimes of a prayer bell inside his head. For a few moments, he pictured the old Orthodox church that had dominated his remote Russian village. The bearded priest was swinging the elaborate incense-burner, suspended from gold-plated chains. It had been the same odour. Hadn’t it? He blinked, shook his head. He couldn’t make sense of that.
He decided, with an odd lack of enthusiasm, that he’d imagined it. The effects of the war played tricks of the mind, of the senses. Looking over his shoulder, he counted all seven of his men as they emerged from the remnants of the four-storey civic office building.
A few muddied documents were scattered on the ground, stamped with the official Nazi Party eagle, its head turned to the left, and an emblem he failed to recognize, but which looked to him like a decorative wheel, with a geometrical design of squares at its centre. Even a blackened flag had survived the bomb damage. Hanging beneath a crumbling windowsill, the swastika flapped against the bullet-ridden façade, the movement both panicky and defiant, Pavel thought.
His men were conscripts. A few still wore their padded khaki jackets and mustard-yellow blouses. Most, their green field tunics and forage caps. All the clothing was lice-ridden and smeared with soft ash. Months of exposure to frozen winds had darkened their skins and narrowed their eyes. They’d been engaged in hazardous reconnaissance missions. They’d slept rough and had existed on a diet of raw husks and dried horsemeat. Haggard and weary now, he reckoned they’d aged well beyond their years.”
― Gary Haynes, The Blameless Dead

“The old man walked over to his sandalwood bookshelves. He couldn’t decide whether to read Balzac or Voltaire. Clotilde de Lusignan or Micromégas. His forefinger hovered over both the hardback books before he plumped instead for the eroticism of Goethe’s Roman Elegies. The old man had amassed a lifetime of learning. The killings aside, he led an oddly monastic life.”
― Gary Haynes, The Blameless Dead

“He guessed the NKVD didn’t even know that Waffen-SS men could be identified by the blood-group tattoos on the underside of their left arms, usually near the armpit. Richter didn’t have one. He’d been classed as a non-combatant, as he’d said, at least for a portion of the war. He decided it could be weeks before they found out who he was.
But Volsky’s confidence appeared to have been restored too, now. He said, ‘And the vat of incense?’
‘I had the incense brought from the remnants of a Christmas smoker factory. Silly little hollow figurines invented by toymakers in the Ore Mountains. Cone incense burns down inside the figurines and the smoke emerges from the open mouths. There was a glut of them,’ Richter said, truthfully. ‘Berliners were shocked and saddened after Stalingrad. But they lost the will to celebrate after the Battle of Kursk. They knew the Red Army was coming. The puerile little incense smokers were redundant, together with the incense they were to hold. Except it didn’t go to waste. The vat was taken from a merchant’s house. It’s from Hong Kong, I think.’
Volsky leaned back in his chair. He said, ‘Why go to all the trouble?’
That’s a good question, Richter thought.
He stifled a smile. ‘To mask the smell.”
― Gary Haynes, The Blameless Dead

“A place without secrets hardly seems the proper venue for a spymaster... Orlovsky chose to hold court in the demimonde, a milieu in which he seemed to proclaim his presence with characteristic audacity. However, M. Orlovsky was one of those camouflaged insects that blends into its surroundings and thus remains hidden in plain sight.”
― Gary Inbinder, The Man Upon the Stair: A Mystery in Fin de Siecle Paris

“Well, that's no secret, you ought to know that pretty much everybody in Bound Brook is related to everybody else. My father used to say that you couldn't throw a stone without hitting a relative, and sometimes that's just what you felt like doing.”
― Rick Cochran, Murder at Bound Brook: Cape Cod Mystery

“Men, Cat thought, were such fools that they believed anything.”
― Andrew Taylor

“Why do they all have such unfortunate names? First Parthenope Fleet. Now Undine Trevelyan. Why do we never meet a Mary Smith I should like, just once, to meet a Mary Smith."

"What sort of interesting things would ever befall a Mary Smith?" I demanded. "Who would stab or poison or garotte a Mary Smith? It is unthinkable."

"Not everyone of our acquaintance needs be murdered, Veronica. In fact, some people find it preferable to make friends with normal folk."

"How very depressing." I said, sipping again. "I pity them their small lives.”
― Deanna Raybourn, A Grave Robbery

“Do you mean to dissuade me? Point out the flaws in my plan? Express your objections with vehemence and eloquence?"

He tipped his head. "Actually, no."

"Are you entirely well? Have you a fever? Should I palpate something?”
― Deanna Raybourn, A Grave Robbery

“If I could have created a perfect woman, I could never have imagined you. But that is my failure. Not yours.”
― Deanna Raybourn, A Grave Robbery

“Anna lifted her chin, “Forgive my interruption, Mr. President, but I am Assistant Matron Anna Blanc, and I’ve come about the singsong girls.” She remembered herself and bowed. No one bowed back. They simply stared at her. After a moment, Tom Foo Yuen said, in his tar-thick accent, “You are a brave, strange woman, Matron Blanc.” Anna had heard that before.”
― Jennifer Kincheloe, The Woman in the Camphor Trunk

“Elspeth? Arrested? I’ve never heard anything so preposterous in my life."
- J. New, The Riviera Affair”
― J. New

“Quizá la tarea del que ama a los hombres consista en lograr que éstos se rían de la verdad, lograr que la verdad ría, porque la única verdad consiste en aprender a liberarnos de la insana pasión por la verdad.”
― Umberto Eco, The Name of the Rose

“He reached for another cigarette and headed toward the Old Colony Tap. Maybe his answers were in a bottle of beer. He had never found them there before, but there was always a first time.”
― Rick Cochran, BOUND BROOK POND: Cape Cod Mystery II

“The President held up a Bible, an assassin aimed a gun. What happened next?”
― Jeffrey Rasley

“Cromwell, a king in all but name...”
― Andrew Taylor

“She sometimes wondered where her youth had vanished to. Inside she didn't feel like the aged lady that looked back at her from the cracked mirror.”
― Mary Kendall

“Get ready, old chap. Marriage is less about love and more about who is right.

There are men in this world, who can’t stand the regular Joe having a good life. These men have always gotta be stepping on someone. Makes them feel important, and they are usually standing behind a flag or a Bible to knock the other guy down. Don’t let these people take your dreams away.

It was a gut feeling she couldn’t explain except that it felt right— like thread going through a needle.

Envy is a horrible taskmaster. It turns the nicest people into snakes.”
― Abigail Keam , Murder Under A Bridal Moon

“She gulped, "Mother, I’m serious." Mabel pleaded with her eyes, "she doesn’t look well."
"Your sister is a fantasist and a brat," Clara responded.
"What?" Mabel was surprised at her cold-hearted response. She knew her mother wasn’t one to mince words, but the harshness of these was even worse than she expected.

"She always fills her head with nonsense, and when it doesn’t come to fruition, she implodes. She’s been like that since she was a child. You should know it as well as I do." Clara said sternly. "But mother!" Mabel argued, desperate for her mother to see how her daughter needed help.
"Don’t mother me!" Clara spat, "you’re just as bad!" Mabel recoiled as her mother spoke. "You pander to her. You spoil her. You make such a fuss over her when she tantrums. This is what happens when you raise a child like that." Clara pointed her finger like a dagger of blame. "When in reality, you’re doing it because you want to feel needed. She would have been better off if you’d just left her to herself."
"Get your own life," she said firmly, leaving a millisecond gap between each word before dismissing her daughter from the table. Mabel was furious. She lifted herself out of her seat and started to storm out of the kitchen before turning back, "Just so you know," she got her mother’s attention, "neither of us asked to be here." Mabel spat.
Clara shrugged, "no one does.”
― Ida O'Flynn

“Mabel raced down the stairs, tugging Della's warm pink hand to spur her along. Della trailed behind her sister unsteadily, with just enough enthusiasm for Mabel to believe she was excited about starting the day. Like always, she traced her palm along the thick wooden bannister that lined the stairway as she followed Mabel towards the kitchen. The two sisters then took their usual places at the kitchen table, and Della reached towards a pan full of scrambled eggs. Unfortunately, she was interrupted by the quick strike of her mother's hand before the pan was snatched away from her. Della watched on in resentment as her mother served up two meagre portions for the sisters and a rather monstrous amount for herself.”
― Ida O'Flynn

“On this particular day, the family had planned to take a walk along Lord Street, which was the main shopping boulevard in the centre of town. Della loved the buzz of the town centre and watched in awe as the horse-drawn carriages flew by with men hanging off all sides. The smell of sweet pastries and freshly baked bread from the boulangerie mixed with the stench of oil, hot dirt and horses from the street, and Della was intoxicated. She tilted her chin up towards the sun and felt its warm kisses glaze over her cheeks. After a deep breath, she overheard her mother complaining.
"Where is that girl?" Della heard a few sharp footsteps heading in her direction before a firm grip took hold of her arm.
"Off in fantasy land again, I see!" her mother huffed as she dragged her into Mr Lacey's shoe store. Della day-dreamed as she was forced to try on basically every pair of shoes in the shop, even ones that weren't in her size. It seemed her mother was aware of how painfully insufferable she found shoe shopping and wanted to drag it out as long as possible.

After leaving the store, each with a pair of shoes they didn't like, Della and Mabel were instructed by their mother to collect everything else on the shopping list. She had bumped into a friend and made it clear that she favoured spending the day gossiping and tittle-tattling, over trudging her unruly daughters through town. She handed them a small leather purse that jingled with coins and sent them on their way. Della perked up with this request since, like her mother, she much preferred their time apart. Spending time with Mabel, on the other hand, was at the top of her list of favourite things to do. Together, the two sisters flew out of their mother's sight and headed towards the most central point in town.”
― Ida O'Flynn, The Distressing Case of a Young Married Woman

“George chortled alongside her before trying to move her hair away from her face. He picked up a golden strand that ran over her eyes and pushed it gently behind her ear, the way a father might do with a child. The pair paused for a moment, both of them getting that uncomfortable feeling someone was watching them. George looked over his shoulder and noticed two well-dressed ladies walking by and whispering to one another. He pulled away from Mabel immediately. Red-faced and windswept, the pair moved slightly further apart from one another, and their smiles faded.
"I do wish they wouldn't stare," Mabel said sulkily.
"Don’t mind them, you can’t change what they do." George reminded her of the words that helped her through her sister's marriage.
"I just don't know what will get them to stop!" she wailed.
"You could never talk to me ever again?" George joked. He stared at Mabel as the words left his mouth, waiting on her reaction to be sure she knew he was kidding. For so long now, she had been the most stable part of his existence. She would be there for him after every shift, the person he hoped he could always rely on. He was relieved when she laughed in response.
"Yes, either that or marry you!" she sneered, turning to him and expecting him to turn pink with embarrassment and tell her she was mad. But he didn't.”
― Ida O'Flynn, The Distressing Case of a Young Married Woman

“Mabel kept hold of George’s hand as the pair looked out across the beach. They could just about see a murky teal line of water where the sky met the sea. The wind blew sand into their hair and clothes, and tiny speckles latched themselves onto their eyelashes. They stood in silence for a moment, processing the conversation they’d just had. George fought hard to hold back tears. Half of his mind told him to tug his hand away from hers, though fear she might let go of her own accord. Mabel didn’t let go. In fact, with every second she stood and thought, her grip tightened until she unclenched her fist and released all the tension that had been building between them.”
― Ida O'Flynn, The Distressing Case of a Young Married Woman

“Meanwhile, Mabel waited outside the Prince of Wales Hotel on Lord Street. She'd perched her bony bottom on the pointed-top wall that ran alongside it, opposite the barbershop. She could smell the sweet, crisp freshness that came with springtime as the sun had finally managed to fight its way through the cloud cover. Unfortunately, though, it seemed that no matter where in this town she went, memories of her father haunted her. As she sat on the wall, her feet turned inwards and, with a dull numbness growing in her tailbone, she closed her eyes. In her mind, she opened them again to find that she was at least ten years younger. Her feet dangled off the edge of the wall in scuffed indigo leather shoes, with a shiny brass buckle glinting in the light from the oil street lamps. The sky was a moody blue, signalling the end of the day and the start of the night. Her father stood beside her, a thick cigarette held between his chapped lips and his hands in his pockets. His friends from work surrounded her, all laughing and chatting. She could see her father speaking, though all she could hear was a muted grumble. Even in her imagination, she couldn't quite picture how he spoke. The only sounds she could place were the short groans he'd make as he stood up from his chair or the wheeze that followed his laughter. With the sad realisation that she had lost all memory of her father's voice, she opened her eyes once more.”
― Ida O'Flynn, The Distressing Case of a Young Married Woman

“A man cannot choose to die when he has not yet learnt to live." Stoker”
― Deanna Raybourn, A Grave Robbery

“Reminiscent of Dan Brown's work but with a tone and momentum all its own, Kelly's yarn will delight thriller fans looking for an exciting read.”
― Kirkus Reviews (Starred)