It's a glorious spring morning in the village of Ashthorpe. Birds are singing, and sunlight is dancing on the river, where Mry Gedge's dress drifts lazily in the shallows and flowers mingle in her hair. The scene is so altogether lovely that some locals think dreamily of Ophelia, drowned for love of noble Hamlet. Chief Inspector Quantrill, though, has little patience for that kind of self-indulgence; he's got a murder to solve. And with a passionless marriage, a job that centers mostly on recovering stolen pigs, and the certain knowledge that he's missed his best chance for romance, he's something of a prisoner of pragmatism. Mary Gedge may indeed have died for love of the wrong man, but in his muddy English market town, that man is unlikely to be a prince of Denmark.