A fashionable spa town in the green folds of Somerset, Wexcombe is all elegant terraces, healing waters, and impeccable manners, with rather more murder beneath the surface than its visitors' book would care to admit.
People come to Wexcombe to take the waters, mend a fortune, or marry one. They promenade in the Spa Gardens, gossip in the Pump Room, and dance until dawn in the Upper Rooms. It is a town built on appearances, which makes it the perfect place for secrets to fester, and the worst possible place to be a young woman who can see exactly who is lying, living or dead.
The Sleuth
Wexcombe's most sought-after matchmaker, of good name and reduced means. She can read a room in a heartbeat and broker a love-match before supper, and she can see the dead, a gift she would very much prefer to keep to herself.
The Romantic Foil
A gentleman-magistrate: by-the-book, quietly decent, and thoroughly maddened that this matchmaker is forever three steps ahead of him, and that he can never, ever work out how.
The Resident Ghost
A Restoration-era rake, dead some 140 years and bound to Hetty's front parlor. Appalled by Regency primness, gleefully unhelpful, secretly lonely, and the keeper of a mystery all his own.
The Confidante
The one living soul who knows Hetty's secret: warm, loyal, and good for both an alibi and a cup of tea. The beating heart of Hetty's growing found family.
The Social Arbiter
Wexcombe's formidable gatekeeper, whose favor can make or break a reputation, and a matchmaker's livelihood. A recurring obstacle slowly, grudgingly, becoming an ally.
The Rival
A rival matchmaker with a genius for turning up where she is least wanted, a fund of self-serving gossip, and an unerring instinct for the wrong end of the stick. Comic thorn in Hetty's side.
The beating heart of Wexcombe's social life. Here, the fashionable gather to drink the warm, mineral-rich waters, exchange the latest gossip, and arrange their morning walks. Beneath the high ceilings and elegant chandeliers, secrets are traded as easily as pleasantries.
Hetty Crewe's genteel but faded townhouse. Behind its respectable Georgian facade lies a quiet front parlor where Sir Crispin Fanshawe has spent the last 140 years grumbling about the decline of English manners and the absolute lack of decent wine.
A beautifully landscaped park with gravel walks, shaded arbours, and ornamental lawns. By day, it is a peaceful retreat for reflection and quiet conversation; by night, it plays host to grand illuminations and the occasional late-night meeting that is best kept out of sight.
Hetty's gift points and pressures, but it never solves the case for her. Every murder is fair play: the clues that catch the killer are on the page for you, too.