by Ruth Ware
Praise for Ruth Ware’s instant New York Times bestseller
THE DEATH OF MRS. WESTAWAY
* Starred reviews from Kirkus Reviews, Library Journal, and Booklist * Named one of the best books of the year by CrimeReads and the New York Public Library * Included in summer reading lists by USA Today, People, the New York Post, PopSugar, Good Housekeeping, Medium, AARP The Magazine, Bustle, B&N Reads, CrimeReads, Harper’s Bazaar, Goodreads, BookBub, Literary Hub, Insider, Today.com, DC Refined, and BuzzFeed * Among “The 10 Best Thrillers and Mysteries of 2018” according to the Washington Post * One of BuzzFeed’s “20 Thrillers That Will Mess With Your Sleep Schedule” *
“Fans of The Woman in Cabin 10, rejoice. Ruth Ware is bringing you another page-turning tale of suspense. . . . Thrilling and clever, The Death of Mrs. Westaway will be hard to put down.”
—PopSugar
“A delightfully chilly mystery.”
—People
“This British writer knows how to hook crime-novel/psychological suspense fans.”
—USA Today
“[A] captivating and eerie page-turner.”
—The Wall Street Journal
“Ruth Ware returns with another chilling page-turner.”
—Us Weekly
“A classic never goes out of style. Consider the confident simplicity of the dry martini, the Edison lightbulb, and Meghan Markle’s wedding dress. Now, add to that list Ruth Ware’s new novel, The Death of Mrs. Westaway . . . a perfectly executed suspense tale very much in the mode of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca.”
—The Washington Post
“Nobody writes psychological thrillers like Ruth Ware. Nobody. And her latest atmospheric novel, about a woman who is the accidental recipient of a mysterious letter offering her a large sum of money, is no exception. You’ll thoroughly enjoy playing detective along the way.”
—Hello Giggles
“Ware’s fourth novel is her best yet, with steadily increasing tension, a complicated twisty mystery, and a sharp, sympathetic heroine who’s up to the challenge of solving it . . . well-crafted, gothic-tinged suspense.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Ware’s novels continue to evoke comparison to Agatha Christie; they certainly have that classic flavor despite the contemporary settings. Expertly paced, expertly crafted.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Ware, who, with a run of acclaimed thrillers, including The Lying Game (2017), has established herself as one of today’s most popular suspense writers, twists the knife quite expertly here. . . . The labyrinth Ware has devised here is much more winding than expected, with reveals even on the final pages . . . a clever heroine and an atmospheric setting, accented by wisps of meaning that drift from the tarot cards.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Evocative prose, artfully shaded characters, and a creepy, claustrophobic atmosphere keep the pages of this explosive family drama turning.”
—Publishers Weekly
“I’ve adored Ruth Ware’s work for some time, ever since I picked up her first playful puzzler of a mystery, In a Dark, Dark Wood. She’s been making her way through classic mystery settings, making each her own, and her new volume promises to continue the trend, in a tale of a con artist headed to a family funeral that promises to be the most entertaining fictional British burial since the film Death at a Funeral first graced our screens.”
—Literary Hub
“The bestselling writer of psychological thrillers (In a Dark, Dark Wood and The Woman in Cabin 10) has a new winner . . . the situation grows increasingly complicated and creepy, Agatha Christie–style.”
—AARP The Magazine
“Ruth Ware’s master storytelling again sets readers on edge.”
—RT Book Reviews
“If you’ve been pining away for a first-rate gothic murder mystery for the past forty-odd years since Agatha Christie’s passing, hie yourself to your local (or online) book vendor for Ruth Ware’s The Death of Mrs. Westaway. It has everything you’re looking for. . . . Atmospheric and twisting in a very Christie-like manner (manor?), The Death of Mrs. Westaway is guaranteed to keep you flipping pages well past your bedtime.”
—BookPage
“Ruth Ware continues to revitalize the traditional mystery for millennial audiences in The Death of Mrs. Westaway, for another mystery that functions both as tribute to the genre’s tropes and a playful revisioning of the drawing room mystery.”
—CrimeReads
“Ruth Ware has written another gripping thriller . . . Creepy and atmospheric, The Death of Mrs. Westaway will keep readers on the edge of their seats. Ware spins a convincing web of intrigue and tension.”
—Shelf Awareness
“If you, like me, have a weakness for British haunted-house novels, this one, by the author of The Woman in Cabin 10 and The Lying Game, might keep you flipping pages late on a summer’s night.”
—Seattle Times
“Just as the cards disclose meanings deeper and more complicated than their superficial ones, the novel hints at haunting emotional truths under its playful tribute to traditional crime novels.”
—Columbus Dispatch
“[Ruth Ware’s] newest novel, The Death of Mrs. Westaway may be her best novel yet, and it’s most definitely my favorite Ware novel thus far.”
—The Nerd Daily
“With lots of clever twists and surprises, this creepy and entertaining thriller will keep you in suspense right up until the last few pages. If you’re a fan of Ware’s The Woman in Cabin 10, you’ll also enjoy this chilling and gripping thriller.”
—TripSavvy
“The Death of Mrs. Westaway is a tautly atmospheric novel that is perfect to curl up with on a stormy night. . . . There are a lot of psychological thrillers being published these days, but The Death of Mrs. Westaway is one of the best I’ve read this year.”
—All About Romance
“In true Agatha Christie style, this book will make a fantastic summer read.”
—Medium
“Though set in the present day, the novel feels timeless—further cementing Ware’s reputation as a skilled mystery author writing in a classic vein.”
—Bookreporter
“Ruth Ware, with her modern melding of traditional mystery and domestic suspense, never fails to impress, and her latest, The Death of Mrs. Westaway, continues her winning streak in the mystery department.”
—CrimeReads
“The Death of Mrs. Westaway by Ruth Ware is the standard by which other suspense novels must be judged, and frankly it’s doubtful any forthcoming books can approach, much less exceed, that standard.”
—New York Journal of Books
“This is the mystery I’ve been raving about to everyone, but particularly to fans of Daphne du Maurier’s masterpiece, Rebecca. . . . A gloomy ancestral mansion, never-ending rainstorms, a maniacal killer, and plot twists aplenty grace this standout suspense novel.”
—Maureen Corrigan, book critic, Fresh Air
“Ruth Ware is a magician. Her novels—suspenseful, sophisticated, relentlessly compelling—blow the dust off half a dozen crime genres, from Golden Age whodunits to psychological suspense. And The Death of Mrs. Westaway, her latest, is also her best: a dark and dramatic thriller, part murder mystery, part family drama, altogether riveting. More, please, and soon.”
—A. J. Finn, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Woman in the Window
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For Ian, with more love than I know how to put into words
3rd September 2017
Dear Mr. Wrexham,
I know you don’t know me but please, please, please you have to help me
3rd September 2017
HMP Charnworth
Dear Mr. Wrexham,
You don’t know me, but you may have seen coverage of my case in the newspapers. The reason I am writing to you is to ask you please
4th September 2017
HMP Charnworth
Dear Mr. Wrexham,
I hope that’s the right way to address you. I have never written to a barrister before.
The first thing I have to say is that I know this is unconventional. I know I should have gone via my solicitor, but he’s
5th September 2017
Dear Mr. Wrexham,
Are you a father? An uncle? If so, let me appeal
Dear Mr. Wrexham,
Please help me. I didn’t kill anyone.
7th September 2017
HMP Charnworth
Dear Mr. Wrexham,
You have no idea how many times I’ve started this letter and screwed up the resulting mess, but I’ve realized there is no magic formula here. There is no way I can make you listen to my case. So I’m just going to have to do my best to set things out. However long it takes, however much I mess this up, I’m just going to keep going and tell the truth.
My name is . . . And here I stop, wanting to tear up the page again.
Because if I tell you my name, you will know why I am writing to you. My case has been all over the papers, my name in every headline, my agonized face staring out of every front page—and every single article insinuating my guilt in a way that falls only just short of contempt of court. If I tell you my name, I have a horrible feeling you might write me off as a lost cause and throw my letter away. I wouldn’t entirely blame you, but please—before you do that, hear me out.
I am a young woman, twenty-seven years old, and as you’ll have seen from the return address above, I am currently at the Scottish women’s prison HMP Charnworth. I’ve never received a letter from anyone in prison, so I don’t know what they look like when they come through the door, but I imagine my current living arrangements were pretty obvious even before you opened the envelope.
What you probably don’t know is that I’m on remand.
And what you cannot know is that I’m innocent.
I know, I know. They all say that. Every single person I’ve met here is innocent—according to them, anyway. But in my case it’s true.
You may have guessed what’s coming next. I’m writing to ask you to represent me as my solicitor advocate at my trial.
I realize that this is unconventional and not how defendants are supposed to approach advocates. (I accidentally called you a barrister in an earlier draft of this letter—I know nothing about the law, and even less about the Scottish system. Everything I do know I have picked up from the women I’m in prison with, including your name.)
I have a solicitor already—Mr. Gates—and from what I understand, he is the person who should be appointing an advocate for the actual trial. But he is also the person who landed me here in the first place. I didn’t choose him—the police picked him for me when I began to get scared and finally had the sense to shut up and refuse to answer questions until they found me a lawyer.
I thought that he would straighten everything out—help me to make my case. But when he arrived—I don’t know, I can’t explain it. He just made everything worse. He didn’t let me speak. Everything I tried to say he was cutting in with “My client has no comment at this time,” and it just made me look so much more guilty. I feel like if only I could have explained properly, it would never have got this far. But somehow the facts kept twisting in my mouth, and the police, they made everything sound so bad, so incriminating.
It’s not that Mr. Gates hasn’t heard my side of the story exactly. He has, of course—but somehow— Oh God, this is so hard to explain in writing. He’s sat down and talked to me, but he doesn’t listen. Or if he does, he doesn’t believe me. Every time I try to tell him what happened, starting from the beginning, he cuts in with these questions that muddle me up and my story gets all tangled and I want to scream at him to just shut the fuck up.
And he keeps talking to me about what I said in the transcripts from that awful first night at the police station, when they grilled me and grilled me and I said— God, I don’t know what I said. I’m sorry, I’m crying now. I’m sorry—I’m so sorry for the stains on the paper. I hope you can read my writing through the blotches.
What I said, what I said then, there’s no undoing that. I know that. They have all that on tape. And it’s bad—it’s really bad. But it came out wrong; I feel like if only I could be given a chance to get my case across, to someone who would really listen . . . do you see what I’m saying?
Oh God, maybe you don’t. You’ve never been here, after all. You’ve never sat across a desk feeling so exhausted you want to drop and so scared you want to vomit, with the police asking and asking and asking until you don’t know what you’re saying anymore.
I guess it comes down to this in the end.
I am the nanny in the Elincourt case, Mr. Wrexham.
And I didn’t kill that child.
I started writing to you last night, Mr. Wrexham, and when I woke up this morning and looked at the crumpled pages covered with my pleading scrawl, my first instinct was to rip them up and start again, just like I had a dozen times before. I had meant to be so cool, so calm and collected—I had meant to set everything out so clearly and make you see. And instead I ended up crying onto the page in a mess of recrimination.
But then I reread what I’d written and I thought, No. I can’t start again. I just have to keep going.
All this time I have been telling myself that if only someone would let me clear my head and get my side of the story straight, without interrupting, maybe this whole awful mess would get sorted out.
And here I am. This is my chance, right?
140 days, they can hold you in Scotland before a trial. Though there’s a woman here who has been waiting almost ten months. Ten months! Do you know how long that is, Mr. Wrexham? You probably think you do, but let me tell you. In her case that’s 297 days. She’s missed Christmas with her kids. She’s missed all their birthdays. She’s missed Mother’s Day and Easter and first days at school.
297 days. And they still keep pushing back the date of her trial.
Mr. Gates says he doesn’t think mine will take that long because of all the publicity, but I don’t see how he can be sure.
Either way, 100 days, 140 days, 297 days . . . that’s a lot of writing time, Mr. Wrexham. A lot of time to think, and remember, and try to work out what really happened. Because there’s so much I don’t understand, but there’s one thing I know. I did not kill that little girl. I didn’t. However hard the police try to twist the facts and trip me up, they can’t change that.
I didn’t kill her. Which means someone else did. And they are out there.
While I am in here, rotting.
I will finish now, because I know I can’t make this letter too long—you’re a busy man; you’ll just stop reading.
But please, you have to believe me. You’re the only person who can help.
Please, come and see me, Mr. Wrexham. Let me explain the situation to you and how I got tangled into this nightmare. If anyone can make the jury understand, it’s you.
I have put your name down for a visitor’s pass—or you can write to me here if you have more questions. It’s not like I’m going anywhere. Ha.
Sorry, I didn’t mean to end on a joke. It’s not a laughing matter, I know that. If I’m convicted,
I’m facing—
But no. I can’t think about that. Not right now. I won’t be. I won’t be convicted, because I’m innocent. I just have to make everyone understand that. Starting with you.
Please, Mr. Wrexham, please say you’ll help. Please write back. I don’t want to be melodramatic about this, but I feel like you’re my only hope.
Mr. Gates doesn’t believe me; I see it in his eyes.
But I think that you might.
12th September 2017
HMP Charnworth
Dear Mr. Wrexham,
It’s been three days since I wrote to you, and I’m not going to lie, I’ve been waiting for a reply with my heart in my mouth. Every day the post comes round and I feel my pulse speed up, with a kind of painful hope, and every day (so far) you’ve let me down.
I’m sorry. That sounds like emotional blackmail. I don’t mean it like that. I get it. You’re a busy man, and it’s been only three days since I sent my letter but . . . I guess I half hoped that if the publicity surrounding the case had done nothing else, it would have given me a certain twisted celebrity—made you pick out my letter from among all the others you presumably get from clients and would-be clients and nutters.
Don’t you want to know what happened, Mr. Wrexham? I would.
Anyway, it’s three days now (did I mention that already?) and . . . well, I’m beginning to worry. There’s not much to do in here, and there’s a lot of time to think and fret and start to build up catastrophes inside your head.
I’ve spent the last few days and nights doing that. Worrying that you didn’t get the letter. Worrying that the prison authorities didn’t pass it on (can they do that without telling me? I honestly don’t know). Worrying that I didn’t explain right.
It’s the last one that has been keeping me awake. Because if it’s that, then it’s my fault.
I was trying to keep it short and snappy, but now I’m thinking, I shouldn’t have stopped so quickly. I should have put in more of the facts, tried to show you why I’m innocent. Because you can’t just take my word for it—I get that.
